By Mawuse Ziegbe
In a city of screeching hype, blasé insiders and tepid stage shows, I’m always on the hunt for that ol’ razzle dazzle. So many thanks to Blitz The Ambassador who threw down one of the best shows I’ve seen in forever. He’s a New York via Ghana MC who rocked the Knitting Factory with a whirl of sweaty, rumbling energy. Flanked by a dapper band, Blitz shamed the lot of these pansy-ass rappers, growling his rhymes, rocking an African drum solo and paying homage to the greats of hip hop all within the first five minutes. Amanda Diva also performed and I liked her song about how being a female MC can suck. But she was all types of average (and dressed in an unnecessary amount of neon) compared to Blitz.
Chester French isn’t so much old New York glamour as it is teen movie recklessness. When the Star Trak duo (who met at the grimy halls of Harvard University) took the stage at Puma’s 60 Anniversary party at Williamsburg Music Hall, I felt like an extra on the set of Can’t Hardly Wait and the faux nerdy girl was about to make her debut as a hottie. I mean, there were actual balloons and people in the corner necking. Bedecked in preppy flannel they played over 40 minutes of their vaguely offensive hip-pop-rock including “Jimmy Choos” and “She Loves Everybody.” They’re like if Ben Folds Five scored ’60s surf movies.
At Fila’s sneaker launch party on Madison Avenue, I checked out some new-school glamour for narcissists who are easily amused by spinning thingys. This company called Fauxcialite had a rotating platform where patrons spun and took photos. Later, they projected animations of people trying to look fabu while keeping down whatever exotic libations that were dished out at the event. So, I guess there were new, sparkly hi-tops I should have been cooing over but I spent most of the time giggling every time a life-sized projection of me making drag queen poses splashed against the wall. It was grand.
Thursday night at The Box, I was able to experience a dizzying conflation of several types of New York glamour: bridge-and-tunnel bottle-poppers, foreign-based Euro-tossing dandies, cavalier in-the-know Downtowners and their freeloading friends (I’m obviously of the latter). The last time I went to The Box, Sting was milling about the bar and one of the acts included a woman dry-humping a mannequin. This time the cabaret show was way more 42nd Street than I was ready for. I appreciated the camp factor of the giant dancing vagina decorated in magenta sequins and marabou feathers. And the topless aerialists were pretty fun. But when the tranny picked up the Jack Daniels bottle with her…um…and then, er, drank out of it…and um…I think we’re done here.
Going into this holiday season of parties and warm fuzzy moments, just remember this: whether it delights the senses, massages the ego or induces nausea, be thankful for any performance that will make some new memories.