Dances of Vice Festival I Review We were on our way to town, Miss Lee and I, when she turned to me and said, “I want a festival.” I fidgeted nervously and said, “I hear they’re difficult pets to take care of. Very high maintenance, and they can never truly be potty trained.” She was unfazed. “I want a Festival. Of my very own.” And what Miss Lee wants, Miss Lee gets. I learned that a long time ago. We never did make it to town that day. I had to turn the carriage around and get back home so she could start planning this Festival of her Very Own. And I was so looking forward to a pint at the public house. “Don’t worry,” she said. “At my festival, you can drink all you like.” “I suppose potty training is overrated,” I mused. So Miss Lee got what she wanted. No surprise there, but here’s how it panned out: Dances of Vice Festival, Day One took place at our ancestral home, the Pussycat Lounge. The usual 20s and 30s soundscapes anointed the proceedings, provoking patrons into a frenzy of socially acceptable subversive behaviors. It was the perfect atmosphere to introduce the world of Desert Sin, dance troupe. Whatever level of hell our collective hearts had been reveling in, we sank at least one more as our model Sinners took the stage. It was a cool, calm water beginning as the dancers, in 1920s regalia, flourished before our eyes, but then the storm struck. A mad magician appeared and promptly hypnotized the girls, bending them to his will, and you can just imagine what sort of will it was. The poor, innocent and heretofore unsullied stage was next held hostage by the elaborate puppet theater trappings of the Black Forest Fancies, who delivered a wonderfully non-traditional musical story through their stringed homunculi, free-moving set pieces, laboratory equipment and luminescent special effects that probably violated the health code, although it could be coincidence that the club canary just happened to die during their performance. Questionable early warning systems aside, I can sure-handedly inscribe with utter confidence the assertion that the Black Forest never did produce anything fancier than these latter-day Punch and Judy-ists. And to acknowledge the fact, Nicki Jaine didn’t bother with a single puppet for her entire set. But she certainly did manage a number of magical moments using guitar, an adroit accordionist, musical saw and the sultriest voice that ever graced a saloon. And to acknowledge that fact, What Time Is It, Mr. Fox? didn’t bother with a single Nicki Jaine throughout their entire set. Instead, they chose to manipulate violin, piano, guitar and a bit of coronet into songs that could possibly serve as a bed of fresh greens for the pleasing peanut sauce that was, indeed, the vocal stylings of WTIIMF?’s singer. And what could possibly come after such a lovely salad? More Nicki Jaine, of course. And what other artist could be both soup AND dessert? I’m not positive, but my guess is no other artist. Dances of Vice Festival, Day Two was held at our ancestor’s ancestral home; a venue called Element, located in the Lower East Side. Luckily, the place was equipped with a formidable mezzanine so that Miss Lee’s bubbling, boiling, eye-of-newt collection of artists and vendors could spread their wares and adorn an already pretty-looking venue with the proverbial ribbon that turned the just-as proverbial Marquis into a nearly-as-proverbial Dauphin of Saint-Like resplendence. Really, the venue looked neat. However! If we learned anything from the night before, it’s that we should have, ready at hand, a proper defense against sword-wielding maniacs. And even if we didn’t learn that, Miss Lee thought it prudent to provide for us the Martinez Academy of Arms. Within moments, there was a novel and unprecedented potential for inadvertent vivisection as well as a thrilling number of near-decapitations as these fencing masters displayed their skills with various blades. As the demonstration concluded, it became obvious that our souls really should have been consigned to some level of hell for secretly hoping that someone would get decapitated. Enter Oryx Incruentis; a one-woman, cello-brandishing lesser demon whose musical nether-speak described our fates in the inferno. And just in case we were somehow unclear on her sonic illustrations, de Liguoro’s silent masterpiece the Inferno was projected overhead for all to see. All of which certainly left us wondering, “Now that we are in the abyss, what other sort of entertainment can we expect?” In answer, Nicki Jaine took the stage. And her voice, even in this new venue, and even with a slight change of accompaniment (keyboards, this time) was still darn sultry. Desert Sin, the marvelous dance troupe, knew full well that such a voice could only be followed up by the siren call of the mermaid. And that’s just what they gave us. And by that I mean they did a dance called the Mermaid, and actually didn’t sing at all. But I’ll be damned if we weren’t all entranced just the same. Damn you, Desert Sin, for luring so many innocent sailors to their watery graves! Damn you… you… beautiful… creatures… And speaking of mythical watery beasts, the Deadfly Ensemble and I simply couldn’t let the evening pass without some minor instruction on the biology, temperament, and general statistics of the Loch Ness Monster. We played a full set of songs, to be sure, but we would have thought ourselves absolutely negligent had we not shed some light on this elusive aquatic animal for the inquisitive public. And yes, for you skeptics who questioned some of our data, banging your shoes together really does repel an angered lake monster. To be on the safe side, however, it is recommended to avoid angering one in the first place. One method to avoid such a predicament might be to take the creature to a Rasputina show. As they were the Festival Headliners, I speak from experience when I say that the sight of masterfully-handled cello arrangements accompanied by the loveliest voices the baby Jesus could send down from heaven, and driven by a percussionist possessed in equal parts by John Bonham, Ulysses S. Grant and Rasputin, himself, would definitely be enough to quell even the most tyrannical heart palpitations within the breast of an enraged Nessie. Some days after the festival, Miss Lee and I were on our way to town. I looked sidelong at her. “That was some Festival, wasn’t it, dear?” “It sure was.” “I can hardly believe it all happened. And I was right there in the middle of it.” “I said I wanted a Festival of my Very Own, and I got it.” “Yes, dear.” “And here’s something more,” she said, and a cold sense of foreboding made my nostrils flare with trepidation. I noticed that the horse’s reigns were shaking in my hands. “Something… more?” “Yes,” she said with cool assurance. “I want another one.” We never did make it into town that day… |