Reflections on ... Little Richard: I am Everything (2023)

 

I finally watched the 2023 documentary Little Richard: I Am Everything. (It's streaming on Amazon Prime). Director Lisa Cortés succeeds in making it feel cinematic, and the archival performance footage of Richard in his prime alone is worthwhile. The best “talking head” contributors are Richard’s late exotic dancer girlfriend Lee Angel and pioneering transgender nightclub entertainer Sir Lady Java - and John Waters, of course! (Waters recalls he used to shoplift Richard’s records as a kid, and that his signature pencil-line mustache is a direct “twisted tribute”). By comparison, big name guests like Mick Jagger and Tom Jones mostly offer show biz platitudes (and Billy Porter is self-aggrandizing). 

One thing it accomplishes nicely: so often hidebound rock critics and filmmakers get hung up on "who influenced who" which descends into "who ripped off who" as if it’s always a negative thing. It's common knowledge that when “the Georgia Peach” was just starting out as a performer without his persona cemented, two flaming queer Black male rhythm and blues musicians - Billy Wright and Esquerita - inspired his musical approach and appearance (the towering, processed conk, thick make-up and mustache). As one of the talking heads savvily argues, Richard didn’t “steal” from them: rather, they provided a mirror for Richard to see his true self. 

Similarly, Cortés gives Ike Turner his due. A musical expert notes that Richard's piano playing was beholden to Turner’s, something Richard admitted (he raved about the impact of hearing "Rocket 88", the 1951 Kings of Rhythm track widely considered the first-ever rock'n'roll single). Yes, Ike was a monster to Tina, but his trailblazing musical genius must be acknowledged. 

Also: I am Everything zeroes in on Richard’s commercial eclipse. Various theories are offered: all the acclaim went to Elvis. Richard was simply so black and queer that he threatened the musical establishment. And, of course, he kept jettisoning rock’n’roll to record gospel music instead. But ultimately, as someone clarifies, in the fifties, Richard’s primary audience was teenagers – the ficklest audience of all! By the early sixties, they’d simply moved on to the next big thing. 

The finale where Cortés demonstrates Richard’s effect on modern pop culture with a montage presumably meant to represent his spiritual descendants (Cher! Harry Styles! Lady GaGa! Lizzo!) is misbegotten. Are we meant to think anyone who ever wore sequins owes Little Richard a debt? (At least the inclusion of Lil Nas X - a modern flamboyant Black male performer - is apt). Richard was instilled with a sense of shame and guilt as a child, and throughout his life alternated between extreme hedonism and extreme fundamentalist Christianity. Sadly, as one commentator argues, Richard set a great liberating example for other people but rarely truly enjoyed that liberation himself.

Reflections on ... Little Richard: King and Queen of Rock ’n’ Roll (2023)

Just before the new documentary Little Richard: I Am Everything hit UK cinemas, the BBC swooped in with its own feature length effort, Little Richard: King and Queen of Rock ’n’ Roll by James House. (Apparently many of the same talking heads appear in both. Nile Rodgers reportedly recycles the same anecdotes!). The film is streaming on iPlayer now. I watched it last weekend. My thoughts! 

With hideous inevitability, Keith Richards and Ringo Starr are featured, so we get too much emphasis on how the Beatles and the Stones couldn't have existed without Richard. Then Rodgers recalls how when they recorded the awful Let's Dance album together, David Bowie declared he wanted to “sound like Little Richard looked”. I always cringe when boomer cultural gatekeepers imply a Black artist’s greatest contribution is “inspiring” white musicians. (See also: “Tina Turner taught Mick Jagger how to dance!”). 

More happily, one of the more eloquent and knowledgeable talking heads is New Orleans’ fierce Big Freedia - truly a flamboyant androgynous Black performer in Richard's lineage. Then there’s the regal and fascinating pioneering transgender showgirl / comedian Sir Lady Java, who acknowledges an awkward fact: it’s correct and understandable that Richard is being embraced as a queer icon, but as far as we know the great love of his life was a woman - the spectacular stripper Angel Lee, who resembled an escapee from a Russ Meyer movie!   

Prepare to be enraged that Specialty (Richard’s record label) withheld royalties, and that the ultra-square Pat Boone’s white bread cover versions vastly outsold Richard’s originals. (Boone appears and I don’t know whether to admire his guts or marvel at his lack of self-awareness!). At the 1988 Grammy Awards, while presenting Best Newcomer with Buster Poindexter, Richard went gloriously rogue. “And the winner is … me! The winner is – still me!” Then he accurately points out, “Y’all ain’t never given me no Grammy, and I’ve been singing for years!” He plays it mock aggrieved, and the audience laughs, but behind the scenes, a friend reveals this lack of acclaim caused Richard genuine tears. I will never stop being fascinated by this man. 

Further reading: my reflections on Little Richard's obituaries in 2020. 

Reflections on ... Little Richard's Obituaries

Some random reflections on Bronze Liberace and all-round Flaming Creature Little Richard (born Richard Penniman, 1932 - 2020) after a week of sifting through the deluge of online tributes and obituaries. Some trends I noticed: a fixation with trying to pinpoint who the majestic Georgia Peach influenced rather than evaluating him as an artist in his own right.  The stale pale male hetero baby boomer guardians of hidebound rock history consistently gave the weird back-handed compliment that “without Little Richard, there would be no Beatles and / or Bob Dylan”, as if Richard’s greatest contribution or achievement was to beget those honkies. Younger writers (I try to never use the expression “millennials”, especially not as an insult) get similarly befuddled when trying to contextualize Richard’s legacy. For them, he’s primarily notable for influencing modern singers like Lizzo, Janelle Monáe, Lady GaGa … and Bjork?!

I haven’t seen a single reference to the late, great pioneering transsexual soul diva Jackie Shayne (1940 – 2019), who I’d argue is one of Richard’s spiritual heirs. (The outrageous and regal Shayne looked and sounded like a hybrid of Little Richard and Eartha Kitt). Or, for that matter, bold soul sister Tina Turner. The relationship between Richard and the turbulent Turners is under-documented. Richard freely admitted that hearing “Rocket 88” by Ike Turner and His Kings of Rhythm in 1951 “made my big toe shoot up in my boot” and profoundly fired his own musical imagination.  (He “borrowed” the piano intro to “Rocket 88” for his own “Good Golly, Miss Molly”). Ike Turner and Richard were life-long friends (Richard wrote the introduction to Ike’s 1999 memoirs Takin’ Back My Name and delivered a eulogy at Ike’s funeral in 2007). And – let’s face it – the two men shared a cocaine habit in the seventies. The details are vague, but intriguingly, Richard claimed that when young unknown Anna Mae Bullock first joined Ike’s band, Ike begged him to instruct the novice how to sing. “Ike came and asked me to teach her. He asked me, “How would you sing this song?” And when I sang, he would tell Tina, “Now that’s what I want you to do.” But when she [Tina] talks today, she never mentions my name.”” (Having read both of Tina’s autobiographies, he’s right. Tina mentions the personal significance of LaVern Baker, Sister Rosetta Rosetta Tharpe, Sam Cooke, Ray Charles, Otis Redding and James Brown on her singing - but entirely snubs Richard). So, in theory, it could be argued, without Little Richard, there would be no Tina Turner (or at least not the raw, unabashedly sensual lioness Tina Turner we now know and love).  

/ The tempestuous Ike and Tina Turner in the early days /

In fact, for mainstream white straight writers there’s been little attempt to analyze Richard’s musical output or persona outside of the prism of white rock’n’roll or to understand the flamboyant black urban “chitlin’ circuit” rhythm and blues milieu of strippers, drag queens and minstrel shows he emerged from. Tavia Nyong’o’s piece in The Guardian is exemplary for locating him in this context. Richard didn’t invent the wheel or emerge from nowhere. As Nyong’o argues, by the forties – when the teenaged drag queen Richard was performing in travelling minstrel revues under the name Princess Lavonne - there was already a vibrant “black sexual underground” of “freakish men” (this, Nyong’o notes, was how “the black speech of the period named gender-non-conforming males” and not necessarily a pejorative). Richard had no shortage of positive role models to emulate here. There was Richard’s complicated relationship with wild man mentor, friend and lookalike Esquerita (aka Eskew Reeder Jr, 1935 - 1986).  There was "Hip Shakin' Mama" Patsy Vidalia (1921 - 1982), the “femme impersonator” entertainer and emcee of New Orleans night club The Dew Drop Inn, where Richard performed. There was queer R&B singer Billy Wright (1932 - 1991), who encouraged Richard to adopt his own signature dandified style of thick pancake make-up, pencil-line mustache and processed pompadour “conk” hairstyle. In these circles, no one would have batted an eye over Richard’s songs “Lucille” (about a drag queen) and “Tutti Frutti” (a paean to the joys of anal sex). Maybe Richard’s gift to the world was to introduce aspects of this debauched queen-y subculture above ground into white popular culture, thus loosening it up? Provocatively, Nyong’o asserts that white rock critics have consistently dismissed and misunderstood Richard’s gospel records as “inferior” to his rock’n’roll work. Maybe it’s time for those to be reappraised?

/ Below: the enigmatic Esquerita /

/  File Under Sacred Listening: The King of the Gospel Singers (1962) /

In his New York Times opinion piece “Little Richard’s Queer Triumph”, Myles E Johnson vividly evokes Richard in concert in Paris in 1966. At a climactic moment he strips-off his sweat-drenched shirt and hurls it into the crowd. Regardless of gender, everyone there would have fought each other for this sacred artifact, “For those in the audience, it must have been fantastical to see, and a deeply erotic thing to witness. To think, in 1966, a black queer man - over the course of his life he would identify himself as gay, bisexual and “omnisexual” - could be a sex god. He was a symbol of brazen sensuality, three years before Jimi Hendrix would use his tongue and guitar to catapult a nation beyond their prudish sensibilities at Woodstock.”

I also loved David Remnick’s testimonial in The New Yorker. Summarizing Richard’s frenzied musical attack in the fifties, Remnick concludes “he is a human thrill ride.” How succinct is that? He’s also eloquent on Richard’s lifelong, agonizingly painful conflict between his sexuality and his fundamentalist Christianity. Some gay fans find it impossible to forgive the ailing Richard’s disillusioningly homophobic 2017 interview in which he disparages his past and his homosexuality. But walk a mile in Little Richard’s shoes. This was, Remnick reminds us, the kid whose father kicked him out of the family home aged 13 for his effeminacy and who grew up marginalized and bullied (“The kids would call me faggot, sissy, freak.”). “It seemed evident that Little Richard both thrived on his sexuality but suffered terribly from the time that he had been cast out of his own home as a boy. Despite the flamboyance of his performances and his carriage, he never quite settled, publicly, on a sexual identity. Sometimes, he would say he was gay, sometimes bisexual, sometimes “omnisexual”; there were moments, feeling the weight of his religious background, when he even denounced homosexuality.”

Unsurprisingly perhaps, it’s cult filmmaker and The People’s Pervert John Waters - always voluble about his worship for Little Richard - who says it best. “He was the first punk,” he exclaimed to Rolling Stone. “He was the first everything … to me, he was always a great figure of rebellion and sexual confusion. People didn’t talk about him being gay or anything. I don’t know if he was beyond that because he was so scary. They didn’t even know what he was. He was a Martian more than being gay. It was like he was from another planet.” Maybe that’s Little Richard’s crowning accomplishment. In real terms, his musical heyday was brief. But he defiantly let his freak flag fly and gave others the freedom to follow his example. All hail the queen! We'll never see his like again.

/ Little Richard looked exceptionally beautiful on this day /

/ Below: my boyfriend Pal's tribute to Little Richard. T-shirt via Printers Unknown / 

Further reading:

My account of seeing Little Richard give one of his final public performances at Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekender in 2013. 

Cockabilly at Bloc Bar DJ Set List 11 May 2016

From the Facebook events page:

Drag a comb through your quiff, swallow a fistful of bop pills and rock around the cock – at COCKABILLY! Wednesday 11 May 2016 in the louche surroundings of Bloc Bar in Camden! And every second Wednesday night of the month thereafter!

Leather boys, gay greasers, cry-babies, prison wives and juvenile delinquents of all ages are welcome at Cockabilly - London’s only regular queer rockabilly night! With DJ Mal Nicholson and I (Graham Russell) spinning all your favourite rancid vintage sleaze classicks! Think rockabilly, rhythm and blues, surf, punk and tittyshakers! Daring and virile! Chains, whips, knives and leather belts all swished around together in bone-jarring rock and roll! Way-out sex and sin for those who like it that way!

Bloc Bar: 18 Kentish Town Road London NW1
8-midnight
FREE

/ This month has been an emotional roller-coaster for fans of the fabulous Bronze Liberace, Little Richard. Prompted by a perhaps hasty Facebook update from Bootsy Collins (“Lil-Richard needs our love & understanding right now … he is not in the best of health so I ask all the Funkateers to lift him up”) on 28 April 2016, the internet was abuzz with speculation the 83-year old Georgia Peach was gravely ill. Certainly when I saw a frail Little Richard perform at the Viva Las Vegas rockabilly weekender in 2013 he was visibly (and audibly) ailing. On 3 May, Little Richard’s attorney was forced to make an official statement assuring everyone that in fact his client was most definitely not on his deathbed.  “I don’t perform like I used to”, an aggrieved Richard is quoted. “But I have my singing voice, I walk around, I had hip surgery a while ago but I’m healthy.’“ Phew! Still, it was gratifying to see the outpouring of love, concern and affection for Little Richard – the freakiest and queerest of rock’n’roll’s original pioneers. Little Richard is, of course, one of the essential faces and voices of Cockabilly. (I played his his version of "Rip It Up" at this installment of Cockabilly). All hail the kween! /

Second Wednesday of the month can only mean one thing – Cockabilly at Bloc Bar! Between us Mal and I whipped-up a menacing roar of rockabilly psychosis and my vintage beefcake homo porn looked sin-sational projected on Bloc Bar’s big screen.

I won’t lie: the crowd this month was small. But it was interesting! Some attendees in particular caught my attention from the DJ booth.  A middle-aged black guy sporting a baseball cap and faded eighties-style double denim entered. My initial impression was: no gay vibe, but a definite authentic sleaze vibe. I noticed he was alone, but ordered three drinks.  Within minutes he was joined by two tough-as-nails, been-around-the-block women in short skirts and heavy make-up. I kept glancing at the trio as I DJ’d and finally the nature of their relationship dawned on me: they were two “working girls” and he was their pimp (or john).  Finally – my kind of clientele! They were like escapees from one of my favourite New Orleans dive bars, The Double Play. Very John Rechy, very City of Night! At one point I cranked up a frantic surf instrumental and the two women jumped up and began gyrating to it, right in front of the flickering homoerotic sixties physique porn. Later - when Mal was DJ'ing - their hipness quotient dropped substantially when one of them requested some Pink or Lily Allen.

Anyway, here is what I played:

Jane in the Jungle - The 5,6,7,8s
Tough Bounce - The Fabulous Wailers
Ain't That Loving You, Baby - The Earls of Suave
I Will Follow Him - Little Peggy March
Little Miss Understood - Connie Stevens
Wipe Out - The Surfaris
Dragon Walk - The Noblemen
Tornado - Dale Hawkins
Here Comes the Bug - The Rumblers
Jim Dandy - Ann-Margret
Vesuvius - The Revels
Lucille- Masaaki Hirao
Rip It Up - Little Richard
Boss - The Rumblers
Year One - X
The Swag - Link Wray
Goodbye So Long - Ike and Tina Turner
Rockin' the Joint - Esquerita
Bombora - The Original Surf-aris
Drive Daddy Drive - Little Sylvia
Wiped Out - The Escorts
Chicken Grabber - The Nite Hawks
Chicken - The Cramps
Viva Las Vegas - Nina Hagen
Johnny Hit and Run Pauline - The Ramonetures

/ As usual, you get a reward for reading this far /

Upcoming Lobotomy Room dates for your social calendar:

Wednesday 25 May 2016: As host and DJ of the regular monthly Mondo Trasho punkabilly club night Lobotomy Room, I – Graham Russell - will occasionally crash Fontaine’s free weekly film night and screen a rancid title of my choice, with an emphasis on the cult, the queer and the camp! The Lobotomy Room Goes to the Movies film club selection in May is … The Valley of The Dolls! Wednesday 25 May!

“You have to climb Mount Everest … to get to The Valley of The Dolls.” Before Mommie Dearest … before Showgirls … the original “What the hell were they thinking?” Bad Movie We Love was The Valley of the Dolls. (Or Vallée des poupées if you want to get all French about it). A perennial favourite of drag queens and a cult classic for connoisseurs of kitsch, the unintentionally hilarious and wildly entertaining 1967 film adaptation of Jacqueline Susann’s lurid 1966 bestseller took the already trashy source material – and went even tawdrier with it! (At the film’s premiere, an outraged Susann reportedly called the film “a piece of shit!”).

A cautionary tale about the perils of show business, it follows the travails of three ambitious casualties of the glamour jungle: friends Anne, Neely and Jennifer. (The “dolls” of the title refer to the fistfuls of uppers and downers the characters pop like Tic Tacs throughout – usually washed down with booze).The Valley of The Dolls packs everything discriminating thrill-seekers demand in its lunatic two hours: hammy performances, pill-popping, bouffant wigs, catfights, slurring drunken scenes, rehab, drug-fueled meltdowns and crap-tastic musical numbers.

This screening is dedicated to the memory of Dolls’ recently deceased-leading lady Patty Duke (14 December 1946 – 29 March 2016). Former child star Duke is rivetingly awful rampaging through the role of Neely O’Hara, a scenery-chewing performance so berserk it can be favourably likened to Ann-Margret’s in Kitten with a Whip. Get yourself a stiff drink and strap yourselves in for a wild ride when Lobotomy Room Goes to the Movies presents The Valley of The Dolls!

As usual: arrive circa 8 pm to order your drinks and grab the best seats. The film starts at 8:30 pm prompt. The Bamboo Lounge seats about 22 people. If you’re feeling proactive, contact Fontaine’s to reserve a seat in advance: email ruby@fontaines.bar or call 07718 000546. Events page

Friday 27 May 2016: Oh god, it's happening again ... the next Lobotomy Room club night. Events page. 

Further reading:

Read about all the previous antics at Lobotomy Rooms to date here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here , here, here, here, here, here, here and here.

Follow me on tumblr for all your kitsch, camp, retro vintage sleaze and fifties homoerotica needs!

I'm also on twitter!

"Like" and follow the official Lobotomy Room page on Facebook if you dare!

11 September 2013 Dr Sketchy Set List

/ Cult movie actress / burlesk artist / convicted felon / naive outsider painter / gangster's moll ... the fabulous Liz Renay (1926 - 2007) /

For this Dr Sketchy, Frankie Von Flirter and Violet Strangelove performed and modeled, and the cadaverously elegant Dusty Limits injected a bit of Weimar Republic decadence into proceedings as emcee.

As usual, when the Royal Vauxhall Tavern was dark, candle-lit and gradually filling-up I cast a pagan and taboo spell with some ethereal Mondo Tiki tropical lounge music (the operatic ululations of Peruvian high priestess Yma Sumac, Les Baxter, Martin Denny), gradually cranking up the tempo (and lowering the tone) with bump-and-grind titty shakers and greasy rhythm and blues.  

At Dr Sketchy I also aim for a touch of Continental sophistication, and love to drop in some foreign language exotica. On this night the musical globe-trotting encompassed Japanese (Eartha Kitt’s ultra-kitsch Japanese language version of Rosemary Clooney’s "Come-On-A My House" from her essential 1965 Eartha Kitt in Person at The Plaza live album; a Little Richard cover by the Japanese Elvis, Masaaki Hirao) and even more French chansons than usual, via Brigitte Bardot, Anouk Aimee, Juliette Greco and gravel-voiced German diva Hildegard Knef crooning en francais.

Elsewhere, I also amused myself by weaving in some conceptual / thematic musical connections. For example, I paid tribute to two of my favourite filmmakers: John Waters (by playing a track each by two of his wonderful character actress stalwarts Edith Massey and Mink Stole) and David Lynch (a song from his ghostly angel-voiced chanteuse Julee Cruise; Milt Bruckner’s sleazy instrumental “The Beast” featured in Lynch’s 2001 film Mulholland Drive).  Later on I offered a musical valentine to the divine Jayne Mansfield (my patron saint) by playing “I Walk Like Jayne Mansfield” by Japanese girl band The 5,6,7,8s followed by “That Makes It!” by Mansfield herself (she coos this song in the 1966 B-movie The Las Vegas Hillbillys).

/ "Oooh baby that makes it!" I've almost certainly posted this clip from The Las Vegas Hillbillys already but hell - it's a rancid classick! /

/ The regal Queen Mutha of Rock'n'Roll Little Richard in the 1960s /

I also worked in a topical honour to the perennially fierce Bronze Liberace Little Richard (the king and queen of rock’n’roll) by playing Masaaki Hirao’s Japanese language interpretation of “Lucille” (it rocks!) followed by perhaps the Georgia Peach’s own definitive statement, “The Girl Can’t Help It.” As you've probably already heard, Little Richard announced his retirement last week and reportedly intends to spend his remaining days praying and designing clothes. I revere Little Richard as one of rock’s true pioneering wild men (and someone who injected an unapologetic queer sensibility into rock’s DNA). But when I saw him headline at the 2013 Viva Las Vegas rockabilly weekender (you can read my account here) it was a mesmerising but messy and bittersweet car crash of a concert. 80-year old Little Richard (wheelchair-bound and visibly and audibly ailing) was clearly a performer in decline. For me, this announcement is therefore a relief. His legacy is certainly secure. Let’s hope Little Richard is able to enjoy a serene and well-deserved retirement. 

/ Masaaki Hirao: The face of Japanese Rockabilly /

Back to Masaaki Hirao: I recently acquired an Ace compilation CD of his material called Nippon Rock’n’Roll: The Birth of Japanese Rokabirii 1958 – 1960, containing what the liner notes accurately describe as “raw late 50s live and studio rockers from Japan’s answer to Elvis.” Backed by his crack band All Stars Wagon, Hirao certainly tears through desperate and genuinely tough cover versions of rock’n’roll standards like “Lawdy Miss Clawdy”, “Jailhouse Rock”, “Little Darling” and “Jenny Jenny” with verve, style and conviction (usually with the verses in Japanese and the choruses in English), while on heartbreak ballads his teen idol voice soars and throbs sweetly. I live for shit like this! The liner notes give a concise and fascinating social history of the rise and rise of the rockabilly (or rokabirii as it's called in Japanese) subculture in late 1950s Japan.  (I've learned some useful phrases: for example, rokabirii buumu means “rockabilly boom”; rokabirii zoku means “rockabilly tribe”). The Japanese variation of rockabilly was inevitably distinctive due to both social and musical factors, shaped by its own unique challenges. How, for example, to rebel in a tradition-steeped, conformist culture with a great emphasis on respecting your elders? In terms of roots, Japan obviously had no black American Rhythm & Blues tradition to draw on – but it did have jazz, and a surprising amount of Country and Western bands clad in cowboy garb that had formed to entertain American GIs during the post-WWII occupation, ready to be pressed into action as rock’n’roll combos once popular tastes changed. Wanda Jackson’s “Fujiyama Mama” had been a surprise Japanese hit in 1957 (surely Japanese audiences would have found that song tasteless?); American juvenile delinquent films like Blackboard Jungle and Rebel without a Cause caused a sensation amongst the teen-aged Japanese rokabirii zoku – all paving the way for Masaaki Hirao’s emergence as the face of Japanese rokabirii (and a very pretty face at that). Anyway, I can’t recommend the CD highly enough. Read more about it and listen to some snatches of it on the Ace website. 

Further reading: An attendee of this Dr Sketchy posted this lovely blog about the night. Check it out - it incorporates some great photos of Frankie Von Flirter and a scantily-clad Violet Strangelove (Minnie Mouse has never looked kinkier!). For regular injections of NSFW kitsch, homoerotica and vintage sleaze, follow me on tumblr. 

Jungle Madness - Martin Denny
Tuma (Earthquake) - Yma Sumac
Misirlou - Martin Denny
Monkey Bird - The Revels
Lust - Les Baxter with Bas Sheva
Kizmiaz - The Cramps
Mamma's Place - Bing Day
Egg Man - Edith Massey
Sometimes I Wish I Had a Gun - Mink Stole
Drive-In - The Jaguars
One Monkey Don't Stop No Show - Big Maybelle
Little Queenie - The Bill Black Combo
Where's My Money? Willie Jones
Night Walk - The Swingers
Eight Ball - The Hustlers
I Can't Sleep - Tini Williams and The Skyliners
Wiped Out - The Escorts
I Love the Life I Live - Esquerita
Treat Me Right - Mae West
Night Scene - The Rumblers
Mambo Baby - Ruth Brown
She Wants to Mambo - Johnny Thunders and Patti Palladin
Bombora - The Original Surfaris
You're Driving Me Crazy - Dorothy Berry
Here Comes the Bug - The Rumblers
Little Miss Understood - Connie Stevens
Je Me Donne a Qui Me Plait - Brigitte Bardot
Accentuate the Positive - The Bill Black Combo
Come-On-A My House - Eartha Kitt (in Japanese)
La Java Partout - Juliette Greco
La fille de Hambourg - Hildegard Knef
Hand Clapping Time - The Fabulous Raiders
I Walk Like Jayne Mansfield - The 5,6,7,8s
That Makes It - Jayne Mansfield
Welfare Cheese - Emanuel Laskey
Tina's Dilemma - Ike and Tina Turner
Boss - The Rumblers
No Good Lover - Mickey and Sylvia
Lola - Anouk Aimee
Lazy - The Nuns
You're My Thrill (instrumental) - Chet Baker
Up in Flames - Julee Cruise
The Beast - Milt Buckner
Bachelor in Paradise - Ann-Margret
Angel Face - Billy Fury
Whistle Bait - Larry Collins
Lucille - Masaaki Hirao
The Girl Can't Help It - Little Richard
Dragon Walk - The Noble Men
Jim Dandy - Sara Lee and The Spades
Cooler Weather (Is A-Comin') - Eddie Weldon
The Big Bounce - Shirley Caddell

Las Vegas Grind! Viva Las Vegas 2013 ... Followed By a Few Days in San Francisco!

Before splitting for the annual Viva Las Vegas weekender and San Francisco (on 27 March 2013), I was feeling drained, angry and tired and London was still in deep winter. Ever since getting back (on 6 April 2013), I’ve been feeling drained, angry and tired and London is still in deep winter! Add to that a horrendous case of jet lag and being distressingly broke after ten days in the US, and I have been one grouchy mofo lately. Such is life! It’s taken me a while to absorb and reflect on my time in the US – it definitely seemed to speed by fast. And I did do a lot of drinking. But I want to document the trip as best as I can while it’s still relatively fresh in my tortured mind. Apologies if this entry comes across as fractured and disjointed!

Big Elvis and I ... an emotional reunion!

Thursday 28 March 2013 (Viva Las Vegas Day 1): I arrived in Vegas on Wednesday night, but after a tortuous, epic 18-hour journey by the time I reached The Orleans Hotel and Casino I crashed out in bed immediately. My hotel roommate this year was New Orleans-based journalist and homme du monde Kevin Allman. He was there partly to work, covering the New Orleans Bustout Burlesque troupe (who was responsible for staging the burlesque showcase and burlesque competition for this year’s Viva Las Vegas) for the publication Gambit. 

Thursday afternoon (once I was upright and functioning)  Kevin and I went to see Vegas institution Big Elvis perform in the lounge at Harrah’s on The Strip. Kevin was a Big Elvis virgin; this was my first time seeing him since 2010. It was a memorable and enjoyable reunion. Sure, you go to Big Elvis for the Mondo Trasho / kitsch / National Enquirer / Diane Arbus factor (hell, he is a morbidly obese Elvis impersonator) -- but you stay for his soaring, heartfelt and incredible voice. By then I’d already sunk a few cans of Budweiser, followed by a very potent (and expensive) Bloody Mary at Harrah’s. Against my better judgement, bad influence Kevin somehow persuaded to get up and dance during an audience participation number. OK I didn’t exactly “dance” but I embraced my inner Ann-Margret and shook some maracas along to “Viva Las Vegas.” The black mail photos exist: Kevin also filmed it on his iPhone! I’m hoping this incriminating footage doesn’t surface on Youtube! Anyway, I can’t imagine going to Vegas without seeing Big Elvis – he is compulsory, the embodiment of weird, tacky old-school Las Vegas glitz.(And I say that with love).

Historic meeting: When Kevin Met Big Elvis!

To my eternal shame ... me shakin' that maraca to "Viva Las Vegas." Never say I don't embrace the spirit of things.

Back at The Orleans I scored myself the dream biker cap I always wanted from the Los Angeles-based vendors My Baby Jo. It’s black (well, charcoal grey) and hopefully evokes Marlon Brando in The Wild One, or Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising. I caught up with some American, Dutch and Canadian friends I hadn’t seen since Viva Las Vegas 2012. Later, I accompanied  Kevin to watch Bustout Burlesque rehearse their revue in the deserted showroom. The musical high points of the first night were the Rockin’ Roy Orbison Show featuring Marcel Riesco, and the Janis Martin tribute with Marti Brom and Rosie Flores.

Patrick and friend



AnneMarie (from the Netherlands) and Patrick (from Seattle)



My reunion with Dutch beauty AnneMarie! (One of us might be a bit drunk)



Bustout Burlesque showcase dress rehearsal: Finland's LouLou D'Vil practices her routine. Note the full jazz band playing behind her: they really swung.



My new biker cap!



Natelle, Sharon (from Vancouver) and I

Friday 29 March 2013 (Viva Las Vegas Day 2): The first of the weekend’s series of pool parties. Coming from London (especially deep winter London), I’d been craving this, and it didn’t disappoint. Lounging in the sun, drinking icy beer with my feet dangling in the pool while listening to the surf combo The Aquasonics is my idea of bliss. (They aren’t rockabilly obviously, but the awesome Aquasonics are always one of my musical favourites at Viva Las Vegas: they really nail the deep, rumbling twang-y menace of how surf ideally should sound – and rarely does. Sadly, my old friend Miss Kitty Baby wasn’t go-go dancing with them this year. Viva Las Vegas was missing its queen in 2013: there was a definite Miss Kitty Baby-shaped hole).



Awesome surf guitar instrumental band The Aquasonics tearing it up

The Friday pool party was also the men’s vintage bathing suit competition. Two of my friends – Kevin and Patrick – had both entered in their best cabana suits. The competition was tough, but in the end, Patrick won. Later that night Kevin and I watched the proper Bustout Burlesque showcase, then caught the tribute to Gene Vincent (The Blue Caps with Graham Fenton).

A bit of friendly competition: Kevin and Patrick modelling their vintage cabana suits prior to the men's vintage swimsuit competition



I fucking love this guy! This cute Latino kid from San Diego befriended me and shared beer after beer with me from his cooler. Sweet guy. His girlfriend had passed out and he carried on partying. I kept reminding him, Keep an eye on her, don't let her get sunburnt or sunstroke and he'd say, "I put a towel over her."



The men's vintage swimsuit competition contestants

Patrick's moment of triumph



Reunion with Mitch



Waiting for the Bustout Burlesque showcase to begin



The big finale of the Bustout Burlesque revue (understandably, photography was forbidden during the performance)




Reunion with Suzy and Jorge from Los Angeles



Jorge and I



Viva Las Vegas beauties: the two I know are Lisa (tall and willowy redhead in the leopard skin) and AnneMarie (the brunette at the end in red).



Dance floor action



More dance floor action



The guys: Ejole (aka Little E), Chris, Patrick and Oran



Hijinks! Patrick, Lisa and Oran

Saturday 30 March 2013 (Viva Las Vegas Day 3): Kevin and I headed to the car show (the Viva Las Vegas car show is the best in the freakin’ WORLD!) before the sun turned too scorching. The climax for me was the glistening pink and cream Imperial, a vehicle worthy of Jayne Mansfield. Then Kevin and I decided to get out of the sun (and conserve some energy for Little Richard’s concert later that night) and grabbed a cab to Frankie’s Tiki Room for their signature Mai Tais. I only caught a fleeting and intriguing glimpse of Frankie’s last year en route to The Golden Steer steak house. It really is Tiki heaven in there: one of the hippest jukeboxes I’ve ever seen, exquisite Tiki / Polynesian decor, and excellent cocktails.

Me getting back to my hillbilly roots at the car show



Perfect shade of Halloween orange



That pink and cream Imperial



Items for sale at vendors at the car show. Check out the beautiful vintage magazine cover featuring Elizabeth Taylor. I love the screaming headline: "Film Star Vanishes! Where is Monty Clift?"



Outsider art at the car show



Delicious Mai Tais at Frankie's Tiki Room



Me getting bombed at Frankie's



Exquisite Tiki decor at Frankie's



Exterior of Frankie's (I emerged from the darkness blinking and drunk). The green neon sign must be dazzling by night



Tiki sculpture outside Frankie's

Little Freakin' Richard!!

My main motivation for attending Viva Las Vegas this year was to see headliner Little Richard, whom  I revere as the Bronze Liberace, the pioneering freaky Queen Mutha of rock’n’roll. And now that the former Richard Wayne Penniman has turned 80, it’s now or never.  His concert at the car show on Saturday turned out to be a hot mess / car crash / train wreck! But a compelling one! Musically Richard and his band were pretty awful, but just seeing Little Richard in the flesh, at close proximity, was a spine-tingling and unforgettable experience.

My best shot of Little Richard

The concert started a good 45-minutes later than scheduled. Kevin and I missed Vicky Tafoya and Dick Dale’s sets beforehand, but did catch opening act The Rockats – who were very, um, slick. We all waited with bated breath for Richard’s arrival. Advance word is he’s immobile now, the consequence of a near fatal car accident in 1985. His injuries have worsened with age and apparently recent hip replacement surgery did not go well. Sure enough, when Richard finally appeared he was wheeled straight to the piano from a ramp by the side of the stage in an ornate throne-like gold wheelchair (think ancient Egyptian pharaoh). Adding to the tension and weird atmosphere, he was flanked by tough, expressionless Nation of Islam-style bodyguards wearing suits and sunglasses.

Unfortunately, the opening song was a slow tuneless blues / boogie trudge that seemed to last forever – not a promising start! But it was representative of what was to come. You could almost feel the crowd’s good will and excitement start to evaporate. At one point Little Richard asked the crowd, “Do y’all like the blues?” I wanted to shout, “No!” It was at least three or even four songs into his set before I started recognising songs (when he got to “Good Golly Miss Molly”. The choice of material throughout was odd and unrepresentative of Little Richard’s oeuvre. For Kevin, the last straw was when Little Richard covered “Old Time Rock’n’Roll” – a Bob Segar song! He left in protest!).

Not to be ungallant, but Richard’s once-glorious voice is shot. Kevin noticed his keyboard player did most of the heavy lifting in terms of piano playing, allowing Little Richard to appear to be playing when he wasn’t; Richard himself mainly just did the occasional show-y flourish. His horribly slick band of jaded studio musicians mainly kept the tempo at a slow blues plod which made the songs almost interchangeable. (His bassist wore his jacket with the sleeves rolled up 1980s Miami Vice-style and tried to encourage the audience to clap their hands above their heads – an unforgivable sin in my book). Watching him, I speculated what it would sound like if Little Richard was backed by a stripped-down, lean and hungry, desperate little rhythm and blues band -- but I suspect it’s too late for that. At times you could almost sense Richard lose interest midway through a song and go into autopilot. For me, the musical highlight by far was the beautiful “Directly from My Heart to You”: it’s one of my favourite Little Richard songs, plus it’s a ballad (so a tempo he can still manage). Even the band’s bombastic treatment of it couldn’t wreck it.

This all probably sounds pretty damning – but Little Richard was mesmerizingly entertaining just to watch. I knew the concert had the potential to be great or awful -- but that either way it would be fascinating and it was, in a memorably twisted way. Richard’s outfit was a glittering rhinestone-studded suit somewhere between powder blue and lavender (the colour of Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes), accessorised with matching little Cuban-heeled rhinestone-studded ankle boots. His face was mostly obscured by wrap-around opaque smoked shades and a truly shocking jet black wig (a curly bouffant mullet, very long in the back, seemingly not updated since the early 1980s). What you could see was taut-skinned, mocha-coloured and still beautiful. (I mostly saw him from the side because of his position behind the piano; his haughty and elegant profile is worthy of comparison to Nefertiti’s). The signature pimp-tastic little pencil line mustache (the inspiration for John Waters’) is still intact. Occasionally he’d briefly remove the dark glasses to mop the sweat off his face and it was devastating to catch a fleeting glimpse of his piercing black eyes.

Glimpse of Little Richard without the dark sunglasses

Perhaps inevitably, Little Richard has lost his the feral wild-eyed quality of his youth, but he has kept his queenly androgyny, and (for a committed hardcore born again Christian) he still emanates a whiff of genuine sleaze and danger. Even burnt-out and ailing, his charisma is riveting – at 80 Little Richard is majestic, fierce and strange. Best of all, Richard’s rambling soliloquies between songs were odd and enthralling. Fussing over the selection of drinks on offer by his piano seemed to lead to some kind of meltdown (“I want ginger ale!” Kevin reminded me that during this episode, Richard picked up a can of the soft drink Sierra Mist and reflected, “Who’s Sierra?”). There was the expected amount of Bible-thumping (at one point he announced his brother Peyton would be handing out his "new book”and an autographed photo for us all. When they were tossed into the audience, everyone clamoured for a copy. The book turned out to be an entirely generic prayer book; the autographed photo was a black and white postcard from the 1980s featuring a much younger, heavily-retouched Little Richard). He talked about his disability and hip problems and asked us to pray for him (“my hip is broke on the inside,” he explained, adding that he’s now too physically frail for any further operations). He expressed amazement at reaching the age of 80 (his mamma was dead by 71). Most alarmingly, he suddenly said, “The world is ending soon, you know. Jesus is coming.” He said it with a smile on his face, but with total gravity – it’s a development Little Richard seemingly welcomes. He seemed to pad things out by endlessly introducing his musicians. “Y’all glad to see me?” he’d ask, and then continue, “Y’all glad to see Kenny? Y’all glad to see Carl?” or whatever his band members were called. I was amazed by the amount of people daring to call out song requests to someone so regal and so patently not a people pleaser (“Jenny Jenny!”). Little Richard would respond by turning to his musicians and querulously asking, “What did they say?” and then snap, “Shut up!”

My favourite Little Richard moment: towards the end, someone said something about bringing some dancers onstage. Little Richard leered, “Girls or boys? I want girls.” (Sure you do. The campy King and Queen of rock’n’roll managed to say this with some conviction and a lascivious grin). Of course this was the cue for “The Girl Can’t Help It”, one of Richard’s towering all-time finest moments. But the band played it as a slow crawl that was painful to hear and Richard’s voice was harsh and strident. A selection of women from the audience was dragged up onstage to dance and channel their inner Jayne Mansfield. As “The Girl Can’t Help It” dragged on interminably, I wonder if they started to regret it. Once the female invaders were onstage, one of Little Richard’s unsmiling Nation of Islam-style thug bodyguards promptly materialised and stood right behind him protectively with a stony facial expression for the duration of the entire song – as if suspecting one of the dancing girls would suddenly lunge at and attack Little Richard? Or try to kidnap him? The split second the song ended, the bodyguard made a hostile, impatient gesture for the girls to vacate the stage – now! Wild!

Later that night, Kevin and I attended the burlesque competition. Outside the showroom veteran doyennes of the mid-century Golden Age of stripping were selling autographed photos – including the sensational Rita Alexander. In the 1960s when she used to strip in the clubs of Bourbon Street in New Orleans she was called The Champagne Girl (her trademark was balancing full flutes of Champagne on her amazing rack without spilling a drop). I’d hesitate to guess Alexander’s age (60-something? 70-something?). She certainly looked amazingly well-preserved in Vegas in her chic black cocktail dress, and still favours heavy black eye make-up and gravity-defying blonde bouffant hairdos. It was tempting to buy one of her 1960s black and white 8’10” glamour shots and have Alexander autograph it with a silver glitter pen (I’d turn it into a Lobotomy Room flyer!), but they cost a bomb. (I did hover around her table and say “Hi”. Rita Alexander was sweet and complimented me on my leopard skin flat cap). Around the corner from Alexander 85-year old burlesque royalty Tempest Storm was also autographing photos, and hers were even more pricey (there’s a definite hierarchy at work!). I can confirm Storm also still looks great, still with the tousled mane of long Rita Hayworth-auburn hair. I’ve caught glimpses of Tempest Storm over the years at Viva Las Vegas, and her whole demeanour is so poised, ladylike and imperial – she’s like an empress!

The fabulous Rita Alexander in her prime

In 1967 Alexander starred in a wonderfully rancid-looking sexploitation film called Hot Thrills and Warm Chills. Watch this brief but intoxicating clip of the sullen young Rita Alexander in a skin-tight spangly gold outfit smoking, go-go dancing and drinking. It’s the reason cinema was invented! It’s life-affirming!

GoGo McGregor of Bustout Burlesque, the night of the burlesque competition. Note: I just realised you can see Tempest Storm in the lefthand corner, wearing pink! So I managed to take her picture without having to pay for it, without even trying!

Suave couple: Allen and Aaron from Seattle



Allen, Aaron and I. I love the detail of elegant Allen in his dinner jacket, bow tie and frilly shirt ... drinking a can of ultra-trashy Pabst Blue Ribbon.




And the winner is ... Missy Lisa won the 2013 Viva Las Vegas Burlesque competition

Sunday 31 March 2013 (Viva Las Vegas Day 4): The last day of Viva Las Vegas always feels more laid back and mellow. Most of the day was spent at the pool party. Afterwards: we checked out the always-excellent and gripping jiving competition (think of the Corny Collins Show from Hairspray come to life. Obviously I mean the 1988 John Waters original, not the 2007 abomination!), then the Charles Phoenix slideshow. The rest of the night was a final round of wandering around, checking out bands, drinking and bumping into friends. The next day, Kevin split early for New Orleans. I left several hours later for San Francisco.

Suzy and Jorge



Suzy, Jorge and I



Tradition: Patrick always does some variation of the Easter Bunny on the Easter Sunday pool party. This year he was a vision in leopard skin



Friendly Canadians at the pool party



High glamour at the Sunday pool party (photo by Kevin. I would have been too shy!)



This guy sat in the row in front of us at The Charles Phoenix Slideshow. I told him I was hunting for a fez of my own. I seriously coveted his (the one I eventually tracked down in San Francisco is very similar to this one).



With Sweetpea from Seattle




The great Charles Phoenix with his festive Easter Lamb (made out of meat loaf)



This redhead was one of the most striking women at Viva Las Vegas all weekend. When I got up close to her and clocked her freaky cat-like / space alien contact lenses, I complimented her on them and she got a bit offended (I was meant to think they were her real eyes?). My biker cap is making my ears stick out weirdly in this shot -- my ears aren't normally that elf-like.

1-5 April 2013: San Francisco went by in a blur! Taking into account arrival and departure times (and that I lost the whole of Monday night when I went to bed early with a thudding headache. I felt rough by Monday: too many days of partying combined with wisdom tooth pain wiped me out), I was only there for 72 hours! I accomplished a lot while there, but I need to go back for a longer period next time. I managed to see most of my San Francisco friends, but I really regret not getting to see Kacy French this trip.

Highlights: For me, San Francisco means bar-hopping. I made it to all my old favourite haunts – Esta Noches, Hole in the Wall, Vesuvio, Lucky 13, Trax – and discovered some new places. I checked out Zeitgeist and Aunt Charlie’s Lounge based on recommendations – and neither was for me. (Maybe I went to Aunt Charlie's on an "off night"). Walking home from Aunt Charlie’s in The Tenderloin at about 1.30 am (the neighbourhood all travel guides warn you to avoid late at night) was certainly suspenseful! Parts of San Francisco look like something out of Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome. London’s street people are so benign by comparison – for one thing, they don’t do crack or crystal meth!

I always stop in for a drink at gritty Mexican gay bar Esta Noche in The Mission (usually after eating a burrito at a nearby taquería first!). I've been coming here since 2001.

Otherwise: I ate Mexican food every freaking day! (Truly, my soul is Latino. What a shame it’s wrapped around a pasty-skinned, ginger-haired, Irish-looking exterior). As per usual, I stayed at The Twin Peaks Hotel on Market Street – my home away from home. It’s situated right between The Mission and Castro – so ideal for what I have in mind! I did some serious shopping in Haight-Ashbury: dropped a fortune CD shopping at Amoeba Records and found the perfect vintage fez (the glamorous and eccentric fifty-something redhead who sold it to me at the vintage clothing emporium was missing a finger tip; I tried hard not to stare while she was counting out my change).

The wonderful Rooky Ricardo's Record Shop on Haight Street. I discovered it in 2012 and re-visited this year. Check out the vintage Ike and Tina Turner records ... goose bumps. They are like religious artefacts for me! Don't Play Me Cheap (from 1963) is one of my favourite album covers of all time. The very young Tina Turner wrapped in faux fur ... the bouffant wighat ... the frosted pink lipstick ... but most of all: those killer slanting Satanic eyebrows, worthy of Divine!

The awesome Beck's Motor Lodge: atomic era architecture at its finest. That pink and buttercup yellow colour scheme! I always stay at the Twin Peaks Hotel a few blocks away. Loyal as I am to The Twin Peaks, I'd stay at Beck's Motor Lodge if my budget would permit.

When I was in San Francisco last year I didn’t visit North Beach and really regretted it. This year I compensated by spending most of a dreamy day there reclaiming my beatnik roots. It began a bit anxiously: I caught the bus to North Beach from The Mission. The driver instructed me to alight at North Point -- waaaay too soon and I had to walk for ages to get to where I wanted to be! Finally seeing the familiar sights of Coit Tower and Saints Peter and Paul Church looming on the horizon warmed my heart. Then I mellowed right out by drinking coffee at a table outside Caffe Greco. It was blissful, and felt Continental, like being in Paris or Rome. From there, I indulged by inner beatnik: spent some quality time browsing at City Lights (I bought Funeral Rites by my spiritual mentor Jean Genet), stopped for a beer at Vesuvio, and wandered around the gift shop of The Beat Museum (but didn’t cough up the cover charge to enter the museum itself! Money was getting tight by then). I love the seedy old strip club neon signs that dot Columbus and Broadway. The only downside in North Beach: I went to Li Po Cocktail Lounge for their signature cocktail – the enticing-sounding Chinese Mai Tai. It's a Mai Tai with mystery Chinese ingredients -- could I be more intrigued? The bartender was initially friendly, I ordered – and then got kicked out for not having picture ID! At my age! (As younger friends delight in pointing out, my sideburns are flecked with white. That didn't seem to make any difference in this situation). I tried to negotiate with him, but with no luck. (I’m a Canadian who lives in the UK and doesn’t drive – so no picture ID. I didn’t have my passport on me). Instead, I backtracked to nearby dive bar Hawaii West for a beer. (The Li Po bartender argued I would be asked for ID everywhere I went. That was the only occasion I was asked for ID all trip!).




"Topless A Go-Go!" It sounds like it should be the title of a Russ Meyer film. In the 1960s the fabulous Condor Club on the wonderfully seedy corner of Broadway and Columbus in North Beach was a burlesque club. These days it's a sports bar. Luckily they've kept the original neon sign intact.



Placque outside The Condor commemorating the historic and pioneering topless and bottomless exploits of stripper Carol Doda. I highly recommend you type "Carol Doda" into Google image -- except maybe not while you're at work.



The giant mural inside the lobby of The Condor in North Beach dates back from when it was still a titty bar (it's now a sports bar). I think this buxom cartoon woman with the neon nipples is meant to represent Carol Doda.

/ Tough cookie: the real Carol Doda photographed in 1968 by Diane Arbus /



The Hungry I Club just around the corner from The Condor in North Beach. In the 1950s and 60s The Hungry I was an intellectual beatnik nightclub featuring jazz and folk music and comedians. The likes of Bill Cosby, Lenny Bruce, Maya Angelou and Barbra Streisand all performed there early in their careers. Later on it changed venues and management and became the low-rent strip club it is today! Still, what a great sleazy neon sign! I did peek into the gift shop of the Beat Museum next door, but didn't cough up the cover charge in order to enter the museum itself. I didn't need to actually visit the Beat Museum; I was already living it!



"The Home of Beat Poetry" Vesuvio Cafe in North Beach, where the likes of Jack Kerouac and Dylan Thomas used to drink. It's just around the corner from the wonderful City Lights book store



The best grafitti I saw in San Francisco. This was in North Beach, on the corner of Vallejo Street and Stockton Street, right where Chinatown begins. I'd just been kicked out of The Li Po Cocktail Lounge, was backtracking to the Tiki bar Hawaii West instead and spotted this en route.

Finally: It was a blast having dinner with Oran, Teresa, Lisa and Charlie at The Front Porch in The Mission on Wednesday night. Thursday I hung out with my friend and finally did something a bit high culture – went to look at some old masters at the Legion of Honour museum in Lincoln Park. (Lincoln Park offers spectacular views of San Francisco, but it was very misty the day I was there). Then we went for sea food at the Anchor Oyster Bar in Castro. On Friday I split for London, got back Saturday 6 April – and it’s been downhill ever since!

Oran and Teresa. Shame it was so dark out when I took this shot, as you can't fully appreciate Oran's awesome vintage car.



Lisa and Charlie



Oran and Teresa



The memory of those mashed potatos and macaroni and cheese are flooding back to me. Carbs ... CARBS! Left to right: me, Oran, Teresa and Lisa.

Further reading:

See the rest of the photos (there are more!) on my flickr page

Kevin Allman's article about Bustout Burlesque's adventures at Viva Las Vegas on the Gambit website

My blog about Viva Las Vegas 2010

My blog about Viva Las Vegas 2011

My blog about Viva Las Vegas 2012 (and trip to San Francisco)