Cue the Drunken Trombones

So last night, after intending to do this for years now, Kathy & I finally made it to a burlesque show in NYC. Starshine Burlesque was having its final performance at Rififi, and we decided we wanted to see them before they moved.

Man, was it a good time. The pre-show go-go was by Scarlet Sinclair, shakin' it in a black, KISS-inspired outfit. Nothing says "kiss my ass" like big pictures of Gene Simmons and Peter Criss on yer heinie. (Update: Scarlet's posted a photo from last night on her livejournal page.)

The show itself started late -- around 11 p.m. instead of the posted 10:15-ish start time. Because of the packed crowd (and despite Ms. Sinclair), I was getting a little cranky -- I was in a winter coat and sweater, and was dyin'. Then, when we got to the stage area, we found ourselves in a standing room only area behind two very tall women. I was getting a little grumpier.

But then the show began. And man, what a good time, right from the start. First up was Tigger, our transvestite emcee. We'd actually seen him before, on Pants-Off Dance-Off, but here, he was really in his element. He got the crowd cheering and dancing to the "national anthem" (that Old-Time Stripper Music Whose Name I Know Not), ran a drinking contest, and gave out spangly awards to members of the crew and the audience. All the while introducing dancer after dancer: Jo Boobs, Darlinda Just Darlinda, Julie Atlas Muz (who performed what was probably my favorite routine of the night, putting clothes on and packing up to "Another One Bites the Dust") and Miss Delirium Tremens.

Last but not at all least were Starshine's producers, Little Brooklyn and Creamy Stevens, who said goodbye to the joint. Brooklyn's routine was the title song of Rififi, joined by her husband, dressed all in black to offer her shadowy assistance in disrobing. Finally, Creamy Stevens' final routine was to "Auf Wiedersehen" from The Sound of Music. It's not a song that I'd ever imagined I'd watch someone take off her clothes to -- but now that I have, I doubt I'll ever forget it.

What stands head and shoulders above everything else, though -- even above the talent and dedication it takes to pull a show like this off, every week, with such panache -- is the sheer amount of joy in the room. The people on stage love what they're doing. The people in the audience--as many women as men, if not more so--love watching them, and they love the experience of watching them, which is a little different than the watching itself. The hoots and whistles and cheers -- it's all participation. Everyone has their own little piece of the action.

And when it comes down to it, don't we all want a little piece now and then?

Rob

Waltzing Through the Maelstrom

A couple of weeks ago, I was called by a publicist about a piano recital happening at Carnegie Hall. In order to promote recycling and earth-friendly practices, the pianist, Soyeon Lee, would be wearing a gown made from recycled juice pouches. The magazine I work for has a peripheral relation to the outdoors, but this story wouldn’t be up our alley. It was possible that one of our sister, more outdoorsy, magazines would be interested, I said -- though not likely -- and I gave the publicist the appropriate name for a contact. As thanks for pointing him in the right direction, the publicist offered me tickets anyway. So last Tuesday night, Kathy and I went to see an amazing pianist play some terrific music -- and, oh, yes, see her shiny, orchidlike gown. (Which, it turns out, she only wore after intermission. A smart move, I think, since she showed us how well she could play before wearing a big, if momentary, distraction.)

I know nothing about classical music. I don’t listen to it much -- occasionally, but not often -- and I pretty much never write about it. Mostly because I don’t really have the vocabulary. I’m a word guy, and most instrumental music stymies me a bit. With folk, jazz and world, I’ve got enough background that I think I might be able to open my mouth without embarrassing myself. But classical? Hell, I’m not even sure it’s called Classical. One of the pieces Ms. Lee played was written in 2007, and was a world premiere. How Classic can it be?

So there’s the idiot factor. If I stick my head out of my gopher hole to talk about classical music, I will undoubtedly look like an idiot. Opinions can vary on Green Day or The Decemberists, Tom Waits or Stevie Wonder. You can like ‘em or not -- it’s just an opinion. People feel entirely comfortable dismissing rap or country music as an entire genre. And it’s just a matter of opinion, no harm, no foul. But classical? It seems more like math to me -- there’s a right and there’s a wrong. I’m okay with seeming unhip (Jesus, the quote at the top of my blog for the moment is from a Fixx song, so how hip can I be?), and it’s okay if people think I’m stupid. I’m just wary of opening my mouth and confirming it, as Mark Twain says. (See what I’m doing here, bringing Mark Twain into things? I’m really worried that you’ll think I’m stupid, so I want to assure you that at least I can read. God, I hope the remark I’m alluding to is Twain, and not Wilde or Johnson. But I’ll be strong and not look it up. Resolve.)

So, the concert. It was terrific. Really engaging in most parts. I really liked Lee’s rendition of Isaac Albeniz’s Iberia, Book I, and later her performance of Bach’s Chaconne in D minor (adapted -- or is that arranged? -- by Busoni). I drifted off a little during Prokofiev’s Sonata No. 7 in B-flat Major, but it was kind of lullabylike, and, as I said, I’m a word guy. I fall asleep in the silent parts of movies -- and even subtitled ones -- all the time. I fell asleep during the quiet, stalking scenes of Predator. It’s a wonder I ever got through Rififi, with its 31-minute silent safecracking scene. But, y’know, safecracking. Anyway, her performance was wonderful, I'm sure -- my short doze should only be seen as a reflection on me.

After intermission was the Bach (quite good, and I feel like an idiot that I don’t have more to say about it than that) and a new piece by Huang Ruo, called Divergence: for Piano and Speaker. It was really interesting to watch, and it called for Lee to not only play the piano conventionally, but to pluck and hammer at its strings. At the end of the piece, a speaker (in this case, Ruo himself) recites a Chinese poem, “Sounds Ever Slow,” by Li Qing-Zhao. The effect of the voice is so startling that my first reaction upon hearing it from the balcony, even though I knew it was coming, was to think, “God, what an asshole.” Then I realized it was part of the performance instead of some attention-starved jerk, and relaxed and enjoyed it. Honestly, I think it was more interesting to see performed in person; I don’t think it’s something I would enjoy just in audio form, but the whole experience was memorable.

And then there was the Ravel. Lee played a piece called La valse, and it was just amazing. Originally written as an homage to Johann Strauss, La valse (why the lowercase? A mystery of classical music) is a waltz of the most apocalyptic sort. The piece sets a proper, elegant waltz against a swirling maelstrom of music. Playing it on one piano (it was originally written for a large symphony, and also transcribed for two pianos), the performer is pretty much at war with herself. And listening to it is like watching a traditional, high-society dance continue against all odds as the dance floor cracks in two and a giant chasm opens during an earthquake. It’s astounding. I’ve never seen or heard anything like it. It’s beautiful and devastating, as both pieces of music (it’s really just one, but it seems like two) race to conclude before the other. Will the dancers finish before they’re sucked into the gaping maw of the earth? It’s the sound of an aristocracy dying. A week later, I’m still awestruck.

I just hope I don’t sound like an idiot.

Rob

P.S. I plan to cover the after-party and the dress and such in a later post. But this one’s gone on long enough, don’t ya think?

P.P.S. If you want to read someone with serious classical music kung-fu, check out Brenda's blog. She has the virtue of knowing what she's talking about. I'm just flailing around in the dark.

P.P.P.S. Holy crap, they're remaking Rififi! And double holy crap, I already knew that and forgot it!

Respooling

A couple of strategically placed days off gave me a long weekend this week, and looking back, I don’t really have any complaints about how I spent my time. One thing I did, which I don’t make a habit of, was to watch a few movies I’ve already seen. I don’t revisit stuff often – and even less often just for myself. Sometimes I’ll watch a movie again with Kathy to see what she thinks of it, but that experience is different than just going back to the movie itself, just me and it. And, because I got my guitar out of the shop all stringed and ready to go, and because I can’t play worth a damn, going back to some old favorites seemed like a good way to pass the time while I taught my fingers some scales. (As it turns out, yes and no: my fingers caught on, a little bit, but I eventually just put the guitar down and watched.)

The first movie of the bunch was The Incredibles. This is a 2-DVD set, and I’ve yet to go deeper into it than the movie itself, but I will. I’d seen it in the movie theatre, and remember being impressed with it. I also remember being exhausted and dozing off for a stretch. It turns out that stretch was considerable – there are scenes that I didn’t remember at all, and others that were put into much sharper context. It’s interesting – some of the story is presented almost as if Mr. Incredible is cheating on his wife. He isn’t, of course, but at the same time is hiding the renewed thrill he’s getting from his return to crimefighting. It’s an interesting conflict, and well-resolved, I think. I’m also very sympathetic to Dash’s sentiments that “If everyone’s special, no one is.” Overall, it’s a really good movie. (But as friends have pointed out, not appropriate for really young kids, as it gets pretty scary.)

The second film of the bunch (and one of my favorites of all time) was Miller’s Crossing. Looking back on it, it seems of a piece with the Coen brothers’ work in its totality, but at the time, I think they’d only done Blood Simple (which I hadn’t yet seen) and Raising Arizona (which is as wacky as it gets). Consequently, no one really knew what to make of this when it came out…but man, is it good. Like the Continental Op in Dashiell Hammett’s Red Harvest, Gabriel Byrne’s Tom Regan lets a gang war blossom around him – only unlike the Op, Regan has a rooting interest in Leo (Albert Finney), the tough-nosed political boss he’s been advising for years. But Leo’s getting soft, and rival boss Caspar (Jon Polito, Homicide’s Detective Crossetti) is getting stronger by the day. The plot is complicated, as good noir always is, and it’s not made any easier by the dense gangland jargon: “What’s the rumpus?” “Take your flunky and dangle.” This is a beautiful, brutal film, and its rewards are many.

The final movie I revsited was Heist, a David Mamet film starring Gene Hackman, Delroy Lindo (who is so much cooler than most movies he’s in), the inimitable Ricky Jay (I will watch anything with Jay), Danny DeVito, Sam Rockwell and Rebecca Pidgeon (Mamet’s wife, who’s a regular in his movies. Her performance in The Spanish Prisoner still has me saying “Crikey” every now and then). Like Miller’s Crossing, a lot of Heist’s charm is in its stylish dialogue. Jay gets most of the best lines: “He’s so cool, when he sleeps, sheep count him.” and a great little rant about how it’s okay to rob the Swiss because he hates their clocks. But in watching Heist again, I noticed that the actual Heist sequence is wordless for a few minutes, as Hackman and Lindo communicate only in gestures. This, I now realize, is a homage to Rififi, a French film that’s the prototypical heist movie (a remake of which, I now discover on IMDB, currently in production as an Al Pacino vehicle). Rififi’s heist sequence runs 32 minutes without a line of dialogue or music. I doubt the remake will be so daring – and with Mamet on script (and directing), I can’t even imagine anyone trying with Heist. Thirty-two minutes without a completed sentence, maybe.

One other thing: There’s a moment in Heist, early on, when Rebecca Pidgeon is wearing short little cut-offs. The camera briefly lingers on her as she walks away, and you are for a moment absolutely certain that David Mamet loves his wife’s butt. Who says there’s nothing sweet about lechery?

Rob