Dollypalooza

I wouldn't have said that I had little to no feelings about Dolly Parton, but I wouldn't have said she was at the top of my mind like the man standing next to me at Dollypalooza. This gentleman's head was adorned with a trucker hat airbrushed with the curvaceous country singer's figure and a swirl of her signature. He wore a western-style button down embroidered with flowers, and a big silver belt buckle held up his slim-cut jeans stuffed into a pair of black cowboy boots. Was I still in Manhattan?

I was, in fact, and I was in the basement of Le Poisson Rouge on Bleecker Street for Dollypalooza, an annual fan tribute to the blonde bombshell singer/songwriter herself. Intrigued by the lineup that evening of burlesque performers and drag queens--featuring performance legends World Famous *BOB*, Darlinda Just Darlinda, and Sweetie--and the possibility of even more wigs, glitter, rhinestones, and camp than usual at one of these kinds of shows, I decided to go. SJT was my willing companion that evening, and we arrived at the venue tipsy on Georgian wine from Old Tblisi Garden next door. Neither SJT or myself have a particularly Dolly-infused background, but we do love glitter and kitsch, and I think that was the biggest draw for both of us. What would a celebration of the woman who once said with a smile "It takes a lot of money to look this cheap" actually look like?

Coming down the stairs of the venue, we were immediately greeted by an explosion of spangles and sequins on performers milling about in front of the silent auction. To say we figured we were in the right place was perhaps an understatement. But shortly we were hootin' and hollerin' along with a crowd of New Yorkers decked out in their favorite Dolly or Dolly-inspired gear. Wigs and cowboy boots peppered the crowd, as did concert t-shirts from her tour that recently passed through Forest Hills. We sang along and danced to the sounds of Doll Parts, a Dolly Parton tribute band fronted by burlesque performer Corvette Le Face, shimmying to classics like "9 to 5" and "Light of a Clear Blue Morning."

I expected to love the performers I knew, but for whatever reason I didn't expect to come away with a burning desire to listen to Ms. Parton...which I did, incidentally, end up doing for a decent chunk of the day today. As with many of the sparkly icons we celebrate today--be they Stevie Nicks, Cher, Patti LaBelle, or whoever else--Dolly inspires an entire subculture of people, people who would love her enough not just to go see her concert but to go to a fan tribute show where their queen herself would not even be present. It seems like a no-brainer, of course, but as a person whose country music background is light at best, it was both eye-opening and reaffirming. Well, of course, Dolly Parton would inspire a tribute band, would be beloved by burlesque performers and drag queens, would be celebrated in an epic fan evening like Dollypalooza. The woman has 46 Grammy nominations and eight wins, 110 singles that have charted, and is a member of the Country Music Hall of Fame. Not to mention she has her own theme park, for crying out loud. What's not bright, sparkly, and boob tassle-worthy about that?

Take a look below to see some of my shots from the evening.

Hank & Cupcakes

I messed up. I thought the band we were hoping to see, The VeeVees, fronted by the incredible and astounding Sophia Urista, were opening for Hank and Cupcakes but it turns out it was another band. We were disappointed, and I felt like an idiot, but we had already bought our tickets so we decided to go anyway. As AR says, if it's great, then excellent, you just saw an unexpectedly awesome show. If it sucks, you get to make fun of it. So either way it would work out.

We stepped inside Le Poisson Rouge, which was wonderfully chilly with air conditioning and a welcome reprieve from the oppressive August humidity currently plaguing the city. In the basement of the venue, we found ourselves a spot and assumed our "New York music snob stance," arms folded in front of us, daring performers to just try impressing us.

I had never heard of Hank and Cupcakes, but apparently this was the New York record release show of their new album, Cheap Thrill, which debuted July 1. After the (rather forgettable) opening band departed the stage, setup for H&C began, which included a standing drum kit, a bass guitar, and network of interconnected stretched fabric painted over with hearts and eyes suns and moons in bold colors. I wondered what we had gotten ourselves into.

Shortly, the band came out. It was just two people: a slim, mohawked, shirtless man with a ruff of black chest hair who wore skinny jeans and black Chuck Taylors and a teeny little woman who had shaved sides of her head, her dark hair twisted up into a bun. She was shoeless, wearing only leggings and a minuscule crop top that read "Bitch Relax." Oh, and she was pregnant (about seven months in, she'd say later). Her naked-and no-fucks-given belly hung like some kind mystical orb above her hips as she took her place behind the drums.

And then they started playing. It was truly something electric to watch them, to watch Hank annihilate the strings of his bass and Cupcakes thrash her drum kit while her Beth Ditto-like voice gorgeously shrieks out of her mouth. I have never seen a pregnant woman rock so hard, and the experience of seeing her has reversed (well, let's be real, diminished is more like it) my fear of having children. With each song, the hard rocking escalates and I am moved to shake with abandon, untwirling my hair from its bun and banging my head to the beat, stamping my feet and swiveling my hips in time with the beat of her drum, the thrum of his bass. I love a good concert, but it takes a lot for me to be physically moved by it. But at a certain point I can't control it and my body is just moving independently of me. "TAKE ME TO CHURCH!" I shout through a smile as my arms fly upward. I am a congregant at the temple of rock and roll, possessed by the spirit of an unrelenting drumbeat. I am saved.

Cupcakes radiates energy and though Hank is playing that bass for his life I cannot stop looking at her. YOU ARE EVERYTHING! I think to myself. Has there ever been anything more punk rock than this petite Cupcakes pounding her drum kit while a life two months from beginning grows inside of her? What a way to start off in the world. I am almost jealous of this unborn baby: its home is a rock and roll machine, its blood pulsing to the time of a snare.

At one point Cupcakes climbs on top of the drum kit and sings an acoustic song about the importance of religious freedom and the crowd goes quiet, singing along and using only hands patting against chests as their instruments. I don't like to sing, but my hand beats against my own sternum in solidarity. The crowd is small but enthusiastic, their eyes not turned toward phones but to Hank & Cupcakes, the way concerts were when I was a teenager. The way I wished they still were.

Cupcakes speaks in an accent I can't quite identify, but I've learned now that it's not an Australian one as I had thought, but Israeli. The band formed in Tel Aviv in 2008 and are now currently based in Atlanta. They named themselves after Charles Bukowski's alter ego, Hank Chinaski, and the nickname of a lady friend, Pamela "Cupcakes" Wood. By day they are Sagit Shir (Cupcakes) and Ariel Scherbacovsky (Hank), and they met while serving in the Israeli Army. Cheap Thrill is their third album.

After the show, AR and I make a point of going to their merch table and making a purchase. For me, it's a t-shirt, and for him, it's their new album. "If you put on a show like that, I'm going to buy an album as a thank you," he says as we leave. I can't help but agree.

A Weeknight in the Life

I've been finding more often than not that all the nights of my week are jam packed. There was a time when I eschewed any activity in favor of yoga, but I seem to have deviated from this path in the last few months or so (don't worry, I still exercise during the day) in favor of a host of other activities. Below is a sampling of what this looks like from this week:

Monday

SC, B, and I gather at Boxers in Chelsea for the season 8 finale of RuPaul's Drag Race. The evening was hosted by she of the towering hair and perfect hourglass figure, drag queen Alexis Michelle. We were supposed to meet at the delightfully grungy Boots & Saddle in the West Village, but it was sadly closed due to flooding after a rainstorm. The next best option was Boxers, which is always packed for Drag Race, and we knew it would be especially so tonight for the finale, perhaps even more than it would have been because people who were also going to Boots & Saddle may have also ended up in Chelsea that evening instead. The venue was swarming with people, but B managed to find us some real estate in the center of something like five different televisions. This, after all, was our playoffs, or World Cup, our Super Bowl of Drag. Not only that, but I had been in the house all day so it was nice to be out interacting with other humans. Our beloved Bob the Drag Queen was in the top three representing our city. Hashtag #TeamBob was everywhere, and Alexis told stories of performing with Bob around town. And at the end of the hour and a half finale, Bob won! The bar let out an enormous cheer followed by bursts of applause. We walked out into the night, pretending to "walk into the club purse first" as Bob had done on the show.

"I expected to be running into people and high-fiving them!" SC said as we made our way down a rather quiet 20th Street. "But I forget not everybody watches Drag Race." It's an insular world, maybe, but it's ours.

TuesdayI had the distinct pleasure of being asked to be a judge at The Prose Bowl, a monthly literary event at Pete's Candy Store in Brooklyn. Founded by writers John Hague and Christopher Green, the premise of the series is that four people, all of whom enter their names in a hat at the beginning of the evening, are picked at random read a work of fiction that's 900 words or about five minutes long. The story is then judged by a panel, and the top two writers enter a lightning round, where they tell a story that's about as along as a tweet. The winner is decided by audience applause and given a free drink and a "doo-dad of infinite impracticability." 

On the judging panel with Green and another regular judge Jordan Zolan, I was worried I would be too mean, the Simon Cowell of the group, if you will. Listening to the stories, immensely creative for a few short minutes, I really enjoyed the challenge of coming up with a (somewhat? hopefully?) insightful critique to share at the end. I did at one point say "more fangirling, less sadgirling" in one of my critiques, which rather comically ended up on The Prose Bowl's Twitter later. The winning story was a hilarious tale about purchasing a couch from a Craigslist ad that ended up covered in cat pee. It included the wonderful line "She stays thin because she lies so much," in reference to the seller of the couch, who vehemently denied the cat urine incident. If you love free, interesting literary events, it's definitely one worth checking out. You can also read a recap of Tuesday's event on their blog here.

Wednesday

I actually did go to yoga.


Thursday

SE knows I love surprises and though he doesn't, he managed to keep a secret our plans for Thursday night for a few weeks.

"Meet me on the corner of 45th and 8th at 6:30pm sharp!" he said.

We met on the southeast corner, and he pointed to a pizza joint across the street. "I thought we could go and check out some of this amazing Times Square pizza," he said, possibly joking but I wasn't sure. I raised my eyebrows and said okay, befuddled yet amused. "But first I thought we could go see American Psycho." Ohhhhhhhhh! We had discussed the musical previously, so it was fun to be surprised with tickets.

During the show, SE told me he had made reservations at a restaurant uptown, but apparently the kitchen closed at 10pm and if the show got out later than 9:30, he wasn't sure we'd make it. It didn't matter to me, I said, that I'd be happy with Papaya King, but I knew he wanted this evening to be special. Magically, as we were making our way up 8th Avenue after the show amongst throngs of other people, a cab stopped right in front of us to let two women out. We got in and made our way very quickly uptown, to 70th and Columbus. "Ye of little faith!" I said, patting his shoulder as we got in the cab. The restaurant, it turned out, was Parm, one of my new favorite spots that now had a location on the Upper West Side as well as in Nolita. We had walked past it one evening and I had told him about the amazing eggplant parmagiana sandwiches and he had remembered. We arrived at Parm with about 10 minutes to spare, maybe less, before the kitchen closed. Our waitress, perhaps eager to leave, came over and asked for our order quickly--two eggplant parmagiana heroes, please--and soon we were chowing down into the crispy, tomato-y goodness on perfect sesame-covered bread. It was heaven. And SE, who isn't really even an eggplant or tomato fan, loved it just as much as I did.


Friday

I am on deadline, as ever, and I am a little late to meet SJT and L at Le Poisson Rouge, where we will shortly see the goddess, the high priestess, the Divine Miss P, the one and only Patti Smith. I realize that this is the fourth time I have seen her royal radness in person, and I am just as excited as I have been every other time. The evening is a benefit for a retreat community upstate and Patti is the star act, with her daughter Jesse on piano and her son Jackson on guitar. She is a warm and funny presence onstage, and sometimes when she's speaking I feel like she's my mom, too. She covers Prince's "When Doves Cry," and it's incredible, as is everything else she does with her voice. The stage lights turn a slight purple and bounce off of her silver hair, making it look purple too. Afterward she simply says "Prince!" with a smile, raising her hands upward to the sky. I could listen to her sing, talk, recite poetry forever while she wears one of those black blazers she always wears and her custom boots made for her by Johnny Depp to look like those he wears as the Mad Hatter in Tim Burton's films.

After the concert, we head to the Olive Tree Cafe for sandwiches, hummus, and a carafe of wine. We gossip and discuss theatre and SJT tells a story about when he accompanied a singer at a synagogue and really enjoyed the deli platters afterward.

Eyes heavy with wine, we part ways and I traipse into a cab and then, eventually, my bed.