I’ve been burlesqued! I recently attended the ever-so risqué event called Grotesque Burlesque – a gathering of some of Copenhagen’s most eccentric and emboldened. Having pieced together the necessary costume-ry (fishnets et al), glued on my false eyelashes (with surprising success), and layered on some razzmatazz, I tagged along to what would prove to be a most illuminating evening.
Pre-party, my friend and I amused ourselves by singing improvised, obnoxious pseudo-operatic refrains exclaiming that ‘we are whores’ (or ‘whoooo-ers’, for comic effect) being somewhat void of our usual modesty (as is de rigueur in burlesquian circles). As we slapped on the slap, we indulged in our freedom to be crass. We of course are NOT whores, but for the sake of a few shnicks ‘n’ giggles, allowed the bawdiness get the better of our good humour. Burlesque is, at least in part if not mostly, about titillation and if the long history of the art form says anything about human nature, we were not by any stretch of the imagination passing through the dark side, out of reach of human decency. People wear less on the local beach. Deal with it. (Sorry if Random Girl causes offence. You can stop reading now, or say you will and then read on anyway, you naughty thing! :) The modesty factor was certainly in place when my friend debated leaving the flat to visit the nearby cashpoint, even with a full trench coat covering her up completely. “What will people think of me?”, she asked in conspiratorial tones. “That you’re going to a party,” I reassured her and off she went, top hat and boots (and trench coat) out in public [gasp].
My outfit was more Moulin Rouge than Betty Page, and I have to say, it was really fun getting dolled up. By the time we got to the party, it was clear we had chosen a ‘classic’ look over the more defiantly deviant characters that surrounded us. A man who was covered head-to-toe in black (including his head) and wore only a blood-red leather, ‘Predator’-esque mask, attempted ‘normal’ conversation with me whilst I, not being able to see even his eyes or mouth when he spoke, resisted the temptation to withdraw in horror at his, frankly, demonic appearance. (Freaky mask, normal guy’s voice? How is he drinking his beer…ahhhh!) “He’s just a guy underneath that thing” was all that I remember thinking during our conversation. You can’t even ‘bump’ the guy in that situation for fear he might eat your hand.
Another man told me, most cryptically, that he thought my knees were ‘potent’. I asked him what he meant by that. He responded saying that he thought I was ‘a politician’. I then had to ask him what he meant by that…and so the conversation continued, like a scene out of a Woody Allen picture.
Entertainment-wise, there was a broad range of spectacular spectaculars to behold. Hula-hoop woman opened the proceedings with a free lesson in hula-stic gyrations, followed by a yo-yo master singing ‘My Way’ and peeling layers of clothes off while wind-milling two yo-yo’s akimbo. Later, we saw another man writhing his way through ribbons of fabric suspended from the ceiling (think Cirque du Soleil – only naked). He was completely starkers which I found slightly unsettling if only for being front row and centre to (or rather, below) the ...um...action. As though his nude acrobatics (and tautness) could potentially leave me with an eye out were he to slip that little bit too far down the red (of course) drapery, which suspended him - beautiful to watch, of course, but unsettling nonetheless. Naked acrobatics should be flawlessly performed. Aesthetics aside, the consequence of anything less is unthinkable – for both the performer and the audience. Anything could end up anywhere, bearing the fruits (sorry) of untold drama and/or trauma! Thankfully, this particular performance was immaculate – one could say in more ways than one (sorry, again).
I think in a way that moment of fearful amazement summed up the mood for me that evening. It was great to be there, but I was also checking my peripheral view from time to time just to see if anything ‘too extreme’ would try to overwhelm me. Here, for better or worse, was a place where the usual rules did not necessarily apply. Invited to ‘roll the dice’ at one table, I rolled a 'ten' and, by way of a corresponding list of instructions, was then told to ‘show’ what I ‘wanted’. Too ambiguous for me, I cheated and grabbed (stole?) a nearby bottle of champagne, opened it and poured everyone a round. When someone said thank you, I blagged and said, ‘That’s what I wanted – gratitude’!
You don’t plan to attend this kind of event if you are faint-hearted. You must just go with the flow and fearlessly flaunt your booty-ful burlesque come hell or high water, even if only for this one night. Rest assured, in that environment, the person next to you is trying harder than you are to stand out. Trying to be ‘normal’ is abnormal in such a place, and that is a liberating idea. Don't believe me, just ask the guy with the big fish on his head (oh, there’s always one…).
On the whole, I can say that the experience was actually…pretty amazing. The night encompassed intrigue, magic, laughter, melodrama, the sensual and the grotesque, and as it is, a lot of smiles. No fights broke out (though that is not to say the evening excluded random acts of mock/real violence, which seemed welcome by a few at this party.) I even got recruited to ‘work’ at a kissing booth to help raise money for charity, which was an experience in itself. In fact, this harmless exercise yielded what was for me, the most surreal moment of the night when I discovered that one of my kissing cohorts was the stupidly handsome brother of a former beau of mine. I resisted the urge to ‘go bro’, avoided conversation, and just kept trying to raise some money ‘for the kids’, meanwhile embarrassed at the amount of knowledge I had about this stupidly handsome person who had never met me and who, I made sure, would not be meeting me. At least not in a kissing booth at a burlesque party. Nuh uh. Very odd, even in that environment!
Of course, some aspects of the evening must ‘stay on tour’ (some things are sacred). Just so you don’t feel you haven’t got your money’s worth however, I will submit that, upon request, I did slap a man who insisted I do so (and as hard as I could)*. Another first. I have never slapped someone a full tilt but indulged the man in question out of genuine consideration rather than stimulation. For RG, there is absolutely no thrill in giving pain. This was (honestly!) just me being nice :) I am still shaking my head (and smirking, okay?) as I type this – bemused and bewildered by the experience as I still am, over a week later. There is a first time for everything...might as well make it worth remembering. What a hoot.
Perhaps you’ll be disappointed to find that I kept things relatively pedestrian for my birthday celebrations this weekend just past, attending a good ol’ fashioned house party and a late night (and astounding) Aphex Twin gig. Now that I am another year younger, I look forward to the next round of firsts…that is, if my ‘potent knees’ don’t give out on me...
Random Girl
*Neither this blog nor its author advocate violence of any kind. It was just that kind of party, ‘kay?
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