When I first met Collin Pressler and Joshua Petite-Oisean on the Pink Line three years ago, I took them as nice articulate polite queer young men. I really should have known better by the way Petite-Oisean was dressed (in a crisp immaculate bowler and a pristine waistcoat) that they were not what they appeared to be. After running into them constantly for years imagine my shock and surprise to see the latest edition of Cabaret Cabaret, their monthly salon at Pilsen's Roxaboxen Gallery through their collective, Anatomy/Gift/Association. Of course, in the last decade queer grassroots performance spaces and events have sprung up like weeds to the north, south, east and west, but this particular show was an altogether different species.
What could I make of it? Well, yes, it was dripping in queer expression but also feminism, anti-sexism, political satire, blatant sexual joy, high comedy and a winking embrace of all of humanity. In short, the show was a homemade bare-ass good time. But Cabaret Cabaret was hardly a burlesque or a tarted up nudie show but came steeped in wit, open ended questions, and no answers. It gave the job of filling in the blanks to the audience while sneakily stumping them at every opportunity with a bald faced smirk.
So when Dove Drury Hornbuckle and Martyn Thompson performed a spoken-word piece with entwined naked bodies under a curtain and Hornbuckle articulated his carnal desires in the crudest language it came off as a sincere love poem turning the in-you-face act of sex into a sonnet of romance and desire. When transgender rapper Poy Born tore off his shirt, without explanation or introduction, to reveal a full female form while ripping into a hardcore hip-hop noise rant, it presented not a trans point of view but a clearly defined human view. And when Kiam Marcela Junin, in the guise of lounge singer Jerry Blossom, sang a karaoke version of Bruce Springsteen's "Born In the U.S.A." mashed up with Woody Guthrie's "This Land Is Your Land" in clipped, accented English, he bitingly sent up the hypocritical closed mindset that still pervades North America with a sweet-natured subtle wit. The fact that Pressler and Petite-Oisean present a new edition every month makes Cabaret Cabaret a must to experience, at least once.
The only adjective to describe the Nicholas Tremulis Orchestra is "overwhelming." After a decades-long career, Tremulis has evolved into a Chicago institution with a voice that is full of sass, bluster and silk, and his "orchestra"—with its squad of string players (Tremulis, John Pirrucello and Rick Barnes on guitars, Derek Grand on bass, and Suzanne Voelz on violin) and a positively demonic drummer behind them (Larry Beers)—has created a reputation that as one of the most formidable in the city. For them to play the City Winery in residency and the release of the new book/CD combo Songs for the Baby Doll (on 52 Records) is reason enough to celebrate but adding Willie Nile to the line up was pushing things too far.
Tremulis started his epic night by turning a cliche into a witty personal hat trick. Rather than stroll through the audience singing as an entrance he did it while accompanying himself on acoustic guitar surrounded by earthy vocalists Shawn Christopher and Yvonne Cage. The quiet "River Of Love" was elegant, engaging and unexpected. Of course, it was a sly intro to Baby Doll, a record that seems to be about love—particularly epic love—in all its phases, contortions and colors. "Pitiful" was full-throttle soul but "Your Gonna Lose Everything You Got," with its '60s retro rock sound (think of "19th Nervous Breakdown" by the Rolling Stones) and abrasive playing, made it jump with a life of its own. (A word to all radio programers: Put that song on the radio and play the fuck outta that.) "Super Human Love" and "You're Too Much (but Never Enough)" were over the top while, as promised, "Everybody Here" sounded like a fusion of Sly Stone and the Partridge Family. "Red Line" was far more subtle and delicate but also the nights most devastatingly beautiful song. Then Nile got out on stage and the place went to hell.
With his hair sticking up on end Nile was all animated moves and furious playing and you got the impression that he had been sealed in a tin can for months and was released just before he went onstage. If he brought a blast of pure adrenaline to Tremulis' already smoking party he gamely threw it into overdrive with a hearty grin. "Ringing Bell" went from a sprightly rocker to an electrified Irish rave up and though "House of 1000 Guitars" was introduced as a goofy tribute (think of "Night Shift" by the Commodores) Nile and the Orchestra's attack turned it into a slab of brutal hard rock. "Give Me Tomorrow," with its five-guitar attack and layers of percussion and noise, and the anthemic "One Guitar," with its stair-stepping bass line, were the nights big stab of spiritual uplift and they turned the night into a hell raising revival.
Another kind of big sound came later in the week from Portland Ore.-based Parenthetical Girls. Embracing the idea of intelligent people making intelligent music for an intelligent audience, the band—despite some odd shortcomings—has managed to make the concept pay off. It may take some effort to get used to front man Zak Pennington's near theatrical and at times arch croon or the bands tendency to over write song lyrics but as evidenced by the show at the Empty Bottle they can actually be quite embraceable and thrilling in the right setting.
Pennington is what really holds it all together being that his swooning vocals provide the melodies of the majority of the songs while the band creates what amounts to sonic landscapes around him. It's not music for the Top 40 and though the concept and design make them sound like some Stanley Kubrick experiment, after hearing "Sympathy for Spastics" or "The Pornographer," it's impossible not to get pulled into there dynamic. On "The Pornographer" Pennington's melodramatic wail (think of Morrissey without the warmth) slides right over a bottom less abyss of echo and percussion but for all that winsomeness the song is still as hypnotic as all get out.
Amusingly though, Parenthetical Girls may sound obtuse and slightly monotonous on record the music has an altogether different flavor in a live setting, particularly one as scruffy as the Bottle. The punch line for this particular show was that Pennington was suffering from some kind of stomach flu and he blithely engaged the audience with a blow by blow report on how close he was to hurling all over them and the stage. Though you had to feel bad for the guy you had to admit that his chattiness gave the show an entirely different dimension.
If Pennington felt like shit he certainly didn't play like it. "The Pornographer" actually grew some tension while the relatively new "Entanglements" took on the crashing thunder and drama of the apocalyse. "For All the Final Girls" may have felt like a shapeless mess but Pennington whipped it into a pretty shapeless mess with sheer vocal power. Painful as it was to watch him, you can't deny that Pennington and his band were nothing short of thrilling.
