Kelley Girod
The question posed by the artists collected in the series of short plays entitled “The Fire This Time” currently playing at the Red Room asks “is there post-black black theater? If so, what are the stories?” The answer is a diverse collection of seven short pieces that cover race, nationality, gender, and fantasy.
Joey Nova's Sextacular! Sextacular! Photo ©2010 Melody Mudd.
Joey Nova surrounded by gorgeous performers, as usual, at the top of the Sextacular! Sextacular! premiere at Hiro Ballroom, January 30, 2010. Clockwise from Joey, who is the hot guy in the photo: Marcee Beaucoup, Sizzle Dizzle, Bird of Paradise, Vikki Likkerish and Stella Bordella. This is the teaser shot, folks. Please tune in shortly for the full photo essay by yours truly.
For lots and lots of burlesque photos, See Melody’s flickr photostream here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/43399907@N03/
By Bonnie Prince Billy
I called up JD on Saturday, and asked if his sabbatical was over. He’d been back stateside for just over 24 hours, and it seemed like forever since the last time we had hit the town, the whole crew, to dip into NYC’s sexy, seamy underbelly. I offered my colleague two choices: either we could catch the floating kabarette at Galapagos, or we could check out Joey Nova’s Sextacular! Sextacular! at Hiro Ballroom. He screamed something incomprehensible that sounded like a yodeling six-legged steel wool goat from Alpha Centauri, and hung up the phone. Or so it seemed. Although JD has quite a temper, I have an iPhone and AT&T, so I couldn’t be sure.
The cast of The Three Sisters by Anton Chekhov barely fits in the Red Room on West 4th St. There are fourteen actors (14), who represent over a third of the living creatures in the tiny space on top of KGB bar. The play is also crammed full of personalities: the sisters of the title, their brother, his wife, the alcoholic doctor, the Baron, his ill-mannered friend, the school teacher, two soldiers, the elderly female servant, the elderly male servant, and the artilery commander. It’s a lot of emotion to pack into a space the size of a one bedroom apartment.
Like a silvery, slippery sardine is kind of how you feel when you sit down, elbow to elbow with other viewers, and with your knees poking into the actors. (The seats are set in the round, so to speak, on the perimeter of the play space that stretches the length of the floor.) This is not in-your-face, interactive theater like De La Guarda, where the performers dance with the audience during the performance, but I get the feeling that the large company, the director Jess Chayes, and the set designer Nicolas Benacerraf were making a virtue of necessity when they wrapped the audience around the players in an almost uncomfortable embrace.
LAMPHEAD by Melody Mudd.
Feeding the Monkeys in Thailand. Photo ©2008 Melody Mudd
I am so deeply ashamed that I will be unable to make it to Key West for what promises to be unprecedented bad-ass-ness, produced by some of my favorite people on the scene, Tatah Dujour, Marky Peirson (both of Key West), and our local lovely, Jen Gapay. Plus, I’ve never been to Key West and when I met Marky Pierson at the Slip he made it sound positively inscrutable. Plus, I bet it’s warm there. But as I keep sayin’ like a CD player stuck on repeat, soon as someone starts paying me for my trouble, the easier it’ll be for me to cover every scene I’m invited to. Well, that’s just J.D. singin’ the blues. As for the rest of you, if you have the means, I strongly recommend it. Drop by and check it out.
(The following is lifted blatantly from the press release:)
The first annual Burlesque Holiday Extravaganza takes over downtown Key West this week! Key West’s Marky Pierson & Tatah Dujour present a wild four day event with two huge rip roaring glamorific shows with over 25 amazing performers from far away lands. The first annual event is co-produced with NYC’s hot impresario of nightlife, Jen Gapay of Thirsty Girl Productions.
With performances by Dirty Martini, Michelle L’amour, Julie Atlas Muz, Indigo Blue, Lily Verlaine, Trixie Little, Jo Boobs, Little Brooklyn, Gigi Lafemme, Lux Lacroix, Roxi D’lite, Tatah Dujour, Nasty Canasta, Minnie Tonka, Darlinda Jus Darlinda, Ophelia Flame, Clams Casino, Harvest Moon, Cheeky Derriere, Moana Amour, and Anita Cookie… Hot Toddy, Tigger! The Evil Hate Monkey, Jonny Porkpie, Seal Boy, and Mr Marquee Vonfister, and featuring Murray Hill!
Tickets here and for all the info you could ever want check out Key West Burlesque. Please go! Since I can’t!
Marky & Tatah, break legs and world records!
kiss kiss,
JDX
Richard "Dick" Pricey (a.k.a. James P. Stanley)
How many times over the last ten years have you been embroiled in a conversation about what to call the last decade? The “Ohs”? The “Aughts”? I think part of the outpouring of relief two weeks ago when we entered the identifiable “Tweens” was due to having a commonly accepted label to put on our present historical period. When have the first ten years of a decade had anything in it worth remembering? What happened in 1905? What was the big news of 1810? Retro was popular in the 90s, but these days — sheesh! — you can’t swing a dead cat in a circle without hitting somebody who’s living like it’s 1899.
Is this a sign of national decadence and decline? The impulse to get back to a more wholesome time is surely behind the National Theater of the United States of America’s production of “Chautauqua!” at the Public theater.
Gelber, Manning and Joseph Jefferson
(lost items from the last decade)
Congratulations are in order to Patrick and Andre Soluri on the raging success of New Year’s Eve’ Eve Salon, once again at the Player’s Club. Night before New Year’s, piercing cold, the door had only been open for a half hour, and the line was around the block. When I did make it in, I checked the nexus of the party—the dance floor, ruled by the swingers, jitterbuggers and lindy hoppers, getting off to the fat sounds of George Gee’s Jump Jivin Wailers—stopped by the bar—seriously reeling by the unexpected masses—gave up, and ran smack into Andre. I told him the obvious: “The line is around the block.” He shifted his weight, a bit uncomfortably, and said, almost sheepishly, “We’re not really ‘line around the block’ people.” You are now! It’s worth mention, especially considering that a) the vast majority of the guests at the event were playing by the rules (i.e. dressed to kill) and b) that everyone I talked to seemed to know someone somehow connected to the event. Read: word-of-mouth goodness, low douchebag ratio.
Tanya O'Debra in Radio Star
Everything old is new again! At least that’s how it feels these days. Five long years ago the vogue in vintage was vintage 70s — 1870s that is. Remember when conservatives wanted to repeal income tax and Social Security? It was the new Gilded Age.
But ah, how quickly the worm turns! Now vintage styles in dress and drink reflect the more sober times of the Great Depression and the privation of WWII. Only we call it the Great Recession, and our great global war is being fought by guys with explosive powder in their banana hammocks.
Custom Mad Lib (JDX) with fill-ins by Gal Friday, Minnie Tonka and Jo Boobs
Have I said how much I hate Christmas? I know, I’ve been too busy to properly VENT, the way blogs were intended. Didn’t even post my much-needed-by-society “Subway Etiquette,” which should have been obvious to anyone who had to ride a train since Thanksgiving. Whatevs. Humbug. Carriage return.
IF I have anything to look forward for NEXT year’s holiday season, it will be a rerun of this year’s piece of inflaccid brilliance by Bastard Keith et al, “B.K. Saves Chanukah” as part of the Burlesque Blitz at the Kraine. Pity it was only went one night. I would have gone back. Effin hilarious, totally hot, and quite possibly the most seamless blend of narrative, nudity, and ne’er-do’well-otry this reporter has seen on a thrust stage. (I know, Kraine’s technically not a thrust, but it’s not a black box either and there just aren’t any good double entendre’s coming off of “proscenium.” Perineum? Peritoneum? Forget it.) If there had been live music—and a door man who didn’t blow smoke in my face, mumble “Ah’m ‘bout to kick someone’s ass” and then, when I said “Excuse me?” bark that he was “On the phone”—well, if there’d been live music, anyway, I would have been in pervert/nudey-junky/bad-joke heaven.
So far James Cameron’s Avatar has gotten predictably mixed reviews. On one hand, the visuals and heroic story are grounds for A. O. Scott of the New York Times to rave “I had the feeling coming out of this movie that I haven’t felt since maybe I was eleven years old in 1977 and I saw Star Wars for the first time.” It has also been panned by critics like Kevin McCarthy for having a “derivative, unimaginative story and … shallow characters.” Says McCarthy, Avatar matches “terrific special effects with a lousy script — which is the way Hollywood has made many movies in the 32 years since Star Wars.”
In that infamous dead week between Xmas and New Year’s, your friends at Wassabasco Burlesque—along with a who’s who of conjoining producers—are blowing up at the Burlesque Blitz at the Kraine Theatre. Sunday night the saga got rolling with the rollicking waves of Brian Fisherman’s band, an evening set up as a hallucination—Fisherman trapped on a deserted island with only his memories of Coney Island and its fair denizens—the dreamlike sound of the vibraphone spelling hallucinations for all of us.
Bastard Keith, Madame Rosebud & Minnie Tonka. Sketch by Luma Rouge
Last Wednesday—I know, I know, but aren’t we all running a little behind? ‘Tis the season for tardiness, crankiness, and all-round bad cheer—I managed to wrap up my other nonsense and slip down into the basement Under St. Mark’s just in time. I had come with a purpose: to see Minnie Tonka’s “Revealed” debut. Madame Rosebud greeted me warmly, called me her “favorite pervert”—which I don’t believe for a second, not with B.K. standing right there—and rubbed some body glitter on my face. Miss Astrid’s words were dancing through my mind like sugar plum fairies: “Body glitter: the herpes of burlesque.” The crowd was already rowdy, passing bottles of wine and yukking it up like extras, and somebody reeked of reefer—or maybe it was my wishful thinking. Minnie stood off to the side in a boxer’s silk robe decked out with a larger-than-life star of David on the back, ready for the ring. The joint was frigid, the twin turkeys already done.
‘Tis the season of holiday parties, corporate and otherwise. On the longest night of the year my companion and I dropped in on the SPI Marketing holiday party at the Rootstein Mannequin Showroom on West 19th Street and 7th Ave in Chelsea.
One fine afternoon in the early 00’s, after having consumed several beers, two hot dogs, and probably as many cheese burgers at the Gowanus Yacht Club, my companion and I stumbled down Union Street headed East to Park Slope. After we passed the canal I saw the following graffito on the side of a building: “Go anus”. Someone had done a reverse Letter Man and taken the “w”.
The canal itself has never been pleasant. One source says “The opaqueness of the Gowanus water obstructs sunlight to one third of the six feet needed for aquatic plant growth. Rising gas bubbles betray the decomposition of sewage sludge that on a ripe, warm day produces the canal’s notable stench.” The environs around it aren’t much better. After you pass Hoyt headed East, the nice front yards and townhouses of Carroll Gardens give place to many warehouses and factories, many of which appear abandoned. It was in one such abandoned warehouse turned crackin’ night spot — The Green Building — that my date and I caught Michael Arenella’s Winter Ball last Saturday night.
Like I keep on saying, it’s the busiest time of the year and everyone should be excused for acting like straight-up maniacs. But no one’s excused. The complaint barometer is measuring tropical levels of homicidality, and even an average ride on the subway will send the most mild-mannered librarian’s blood pressure through the proverbial roof. Wait—is there actually a proverb about a roof? Must be, that book is like a hundred pages long. I digress. So the busiest night of the busiest season was Saturday, December 12th. I was triple-booked and sending regrets that I actually regretted. Top of the list was the Schlep Sisters’ Menorah Horah, which I totally missed, and was totally bummed. I heard that it was killer diller, but unfortunately the source of my news was none too forthcoming. Something something something about a Darlinda Just Darlinda act set on a musical medley ranging well over 12 minutes. Which Minnie Tonka corrected by saying it was a little over 6. Or something. I may have been drunkles by the time I heard that part. Oh, and I missed the Winter Ball, but Dr. K made the scene, so… I’m still bummed about missing it but you’re not. I DID have tickets to “Streetcar Names Desire,” about which I will keep my mouth shut. Not because I don’t have anything to say—come on, kids, this is your Unkle J.D. talkin’, and I got somethin’ to say ‘bout EVERYthing—but because what I think you really want to hear about is Albert Cadabra’s Birthday Party at the Slip. What? It’s—what day?—and you’re just now telling us about what you did last Saturday???
Busiest night, busiest time of year.
Cate Blanchett as Blanche Dubois
It seemed appropriate to be waiting on two self-described Southern belles to get into Streetcar at BAM last week. Nothing says “Southern” like being late to your own party. We were four, and at least three of us hail from south of the Mason-Dixon line, or as another of my Southern friends likes to call it the “Manson-Nixon” line. Ah the South! Home of pecan pie, obsessions with purity (mostly sexual), vowels longer than a summer sunset, religious revivals held in circus tents, Wal-Mart superstores, and — these days especially — widespread dependence on food stamps.
Window on the World, by Melody Mudd. Khao Sok National Park, Thailand, 2008
OR: Great Bacon at a Jewelry Show, Indian Sob Stories at a Dance Show, Bluegrass at a Chinese Restaurant, and a Crooner, a Sword Swallower, and the Junior-Miss-Pussycat-Dolls on Concrete Lily Pads
Madame Rosebud
By J.D. Oxblood
Saturday, Dec. 5, 2009
Yes, it’s true, I totally and completely hate Christmas. And Xmas. And “The Holiday Season.” And your mom’s eggnog and your grandma’s fruitcake. Though I will drink the rum your mom bought for the eggnog while flirting with your grandma’s granddaughter in the kitchen—coz let’s face it, the only bitchin’ aspect of the descent of winter (and accompanying descent of commercialized hordes on sidewalks and subways)—is the party-hopping potential. Office parties, house parties, annual parties… so long as the snacks are delish, the booze is flowin’ and the babes are randy, bring it on, and keep the scenes varietal so the flavors rotate like a lazy susan spicerack.
Anish Kapoor's Cloud Gate, Millennium Park, Chicago, Photo ©2009 Melody Mudd
The big bean known as Cloud Gate at Millennium Park in Chicago is so much fun to play with, espesh if you have a camera. It weighs 110 tons. One Hundred and Ten TONS. In other words, it is very heavy. It measures 66 feet long and 33 feet high. British artist Anish Kapoor created this awesome thing out of super highly polished stainless steel. It’s like seeing the Chicago skyline through a giant drop of water.
The Minsky Sisters ~ photo by Erin Patrice O'Brien
The Minsky Sisters have been on our radar for some time, so we asked them to tell us about themselves.
CC: We’re here with Jen and Kristen, the Minsky Sisters! Hello!
Jen: Hello!
Kristen: Hello!
CC: When did you guys get your act together, so to speak?
Jen: We’ve been performing together for several years but Minsky sisters became a thing July 2008. Our friend Shien Lee, the producer of Dances of Vice, asked us if we would do a tap number. Both of us have been dancing for most of our lives. And we didn’t have a name, we were just ourselves. We didn’t have an identity, and we performed just thinking we were gonna do just one dance and that was going to be it. But people really liked us and we started getting asked to perform at other venues, not just Dances of Vice, and we thought, OK, I guess we’re a thing now — an act. So we got a name.
BB Heart as Faye Valentine from Cowboy Bebop
Last Saturday night was the latest installment of Nelson Lugo and Shaffer the Dark Lord’s series of entertainments predicated on puerile pleasures. Last time around it was “Video Game Vixens.” This time it’s “Cartoons!” The genre of entertainment is burlesque, and the conceit is “Saturday morning when we were kids.” The tagline for the show ran thusly: “the boys and girls celebrate cartoons and the brightly-colored foxes that star in them. Pour a bowl of Cap’N Crunch and gather ’round the boob tube, because this month, EPIC WIN is gonna party like it’s Saturday morning!” Yes indeedy. Six lovely ladies did burlesque routines as six fairly well known Saturday morning cartoon females: Miss Mary Cyn as Bugs Bunny (dressed as a chick — natch), Lefty Lucy as Bubbles from the Powerpuff Girls, Victoria Privates as the chick who sang “Unpack Your Adjectives” on Schoolhouse Rock (Blossom Dearie), Bonnie Voy’age as She-Ra, BB Heart as Faye Valentine from Cowboy Bebop, Magdalena Fox as April O’Neil from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
Nasty Canasta
Here at Cultural Capitol’s unofficial Jonny Porkpie month, we’ve kept you well-versed in the upcoming and ongoing atrocities spewing from the mind of Pork. It all came to a boil last Saturday at Lurid Pulp!—the promised show-based-on-a-book-based-on-a-show tie-in to Jonny’s new book from Hard Case Crime. I already feel like I’m repeating myself, I’m getting overwhelmed just reading the back of the program (busy beavers at Pinchbottom—check out Naked Girls Reading a Christmas Carol, Filthy Lucre, How the Pinch Stole Xmas, etc.) and I got this avian-flu-bearing turkey breathing down my neck, so let’s keep it short—no spoilers! This is a murder mystery!—and dig the pix.
Don’t forget, Lurid Pulp! Plays this Saturday at 45 Bleecker so it’s not too late.
Sunday November 22, 2009 was a beautiful day in Brooklyn. I decided to take a leisurely stroll through Prospect Park to enjoy the fall colors and take in the smoky savor of Autumn air, and I saw this guy practicing his tap routine in one of the tunnels. This is pure New York.
NANDA's spectacular performance at Miss Exotic World this June left me breathless, and I was only taking pictures. Photo by Melody Mudd.
November 19, 2009
Oh the villainies of Facebook! It seems that when word gets out that you write for a blog as prestigious as Cultural Capitol you start getting invited to all kinds of parties. And so it was I was invited to the NCYFF film industry mixer at GStaad last night.
Jonny Porkpie’s pulp novel THE CORPSE WORE PASTIES, in which Jonny Porkpie witnesses the death of a burlesque performer, will be released by Hard Case Crime later this month. To promote the book, Pinchbottom Burlesque is producing Lurid Pulp!, an interactive-murder-mystery-book-release-party-burlesque-show, in which Jonny’s fellow burlesque performers finally read Jonny’s book, recognize themselves, and decide to kill him. Metafictional fu! I recently met up with Jonny Porkpie at Ward III to chat about pulp fiction, producing burlesque, and being an egotistical bastard.
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