I don't think I've ever had as much fun at TBA as I did on Saturday night. Evidence: cabaret with bluehairs, drag queens galore, and cheese-curd hotdogs. Can't beat that evening with a glitter stick.
I think the Schnitzer crowd got some blood flowing to their wrinkly bits at the Meow Meow show. The Australian cabaret diva is a little racy for the normal Oregon Symphony patrons; she's also brilliant. Meow Meow is a delightful mix of bathhouse Bette Midler, Fosse's Cabaret, sad Isabella Rossellini in Blue Velvet, and the physical comedy of Charlie Chaplin. In a cloud of sequins, slips, fake eyelashes, and confetti, she owned the stage in front of the Oregon Symphony, accompanied by Pink Martini's Thomas Lauderdale on piano. She kissed the musicians in loungey repose, bemoaned her lack of budget for smoke machines and dancing boys—which she solved with a tiny handheld smoke machine and amiable audience members that she draped about her body and used as arm chairs. She even managed to crowd-surf on the front-row audience. ("Google crowd-surfing when you get home," she advised.) No hips were broken!
Yes, it was schticky, and yes, it was absolutely fabulous. Meow Meow is a consummate showman—she had the crowd firmly in her manicured hands. On a beat, she turned the mood from raucously funny with her French/Chinese/avant-garde version of "Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" to heart-achingly bittersweet the next minute with Patty Griffin's "Be Careful" performed on an empty stage, holding her own spotlight. Along with a lovely full-bodied voice, she has the heart of a slapstick comedian—sashaying around the stage like a diehard lounge singer, working it hard, and throwing out roses to the crowd ("Throw them back!" she ordered in diva fashion). The whole shebang ended in a huge everyone-on-stage spectacular worthy of a Muppet Show finale—with Lauderdale and the Symphony in red long underwear, dancing boys from the Portland Gay Men's Chorus, the Von Trapp kids (!!!!), and a nearly nude mannequin. So. Much. Fun.
And just when I thought things couldn't get more gay... I went to the drag ball at the Works. Alison reported on some aspects of the evening. (Hey, I didn't see those giant pickles! I had a veggie hotdog with cheese curds and glitter on it, served up by a boy wearing an apron over his underwear.) Kaj-anne Pepper and Chanticleer Tru hosted the performance of vamping drag queens, titled Critical Mascara: A Post-Realness Drag Ball. Categories included Diva Practice, Glamour Gore, Vogue, and HAAAIIIRRR. After the gals strutted their stuff, the panel of judges awarded scores such as "Fuck You" and "Fuck Me." There were outrageous costumes, natch—one gal greatly reduced the value of her Beanie Babies collection—and even crazier hair (HAAAIIIRRR!), but I think the vogue dance competition really upped everyone's game. I've never seen arms do things like that—limbs were twirling around like drunken windmills and the audience was eating it up. The Con-Way building's sound was a little mushy, so it was hard to hear everyone's name, but the dance beat was strong. Very, very strong. And, two days later I'm still finding glitter in unusual places, which seems like a sign of a successful drag ball.
Check out more of Pat Moran's photography here and on his Flickr:
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