Broken Hearts

I literally can't stop listening to these Broken Hearts covers of songs. LOVE them. i want to be in the videos, clad in neo-burlesque finery with a heart shaped bob.  

Trash City

I think my favourite moment of Trash City, the aerial acrobatics-meets-rock concert-meets-freak-burlesque show that punched its way into public consciousness at Glastonbury in 2007 and whose current show is part of The Roundhouse's Circusfest, wasn't quite when the silver Lycra-clad tranny flew through the air singing Alice Cooper's Poison, nor even when a giant robotised bull charged into the crowd seemingly ridden by a lost Bon Jovi band member, nor when the sexy rock-chic angels fell from the sky on bungy-cords only to grab an audience member and simulate tearing their throats out - rising to the heavens again with bloodied mouths. No, it was when a near naked woman (modesty barely preserved by Matthew Barney-esque bloody cones on her breasts and a red sequined fig leaf on her bajingo), suspended from a giant cobweb-shrouded chandelier and twisting, flipping and contorting with acrobatic splendour, reached a crescendo by pulling a ruby necklace out of her pussy. amazing.

la Clique

Marawa

Ursula Martinez

Unnecessary nudity. Crude humour. Pornographic magic. Men writhing around to music like Bad Things (had to download that the moment i exited, sad loser that i am) while suspended from the ceiling in a cage. Leopard-print-catsuit clad girls hula hooping. Obviously La Clique is so up my fucking strasse it's a wonder i haven't run off to join them... my god this show is totally life-affirming, heart-racing and invigorating. it manages to be sexy, funny and fresh with virtually zero cringe factor, which you might have though was tricky when a girl's doing a magic show in the buff, pulling red hankies from her punani, or there's some guy dressed as Freddie Mercury doing a choreographed juggle to Queen songs. It should also be pointed out that this formula can go suicidally wrong, as evidenced by my experience outside Battersea Power station about a year ago, where i saw the similarly conceived Madam Zingara, which was so abysmal that i wanted to hang myself from its velveteen big top with one of the overabundant feather boas. the good thing about La Clique is there's an enormous cast, so you get completely different people performing every night. the exception that proved the rule of universal excellence the night i went was the Swedish magician/clown. but then i FUCKING HATE CLOWNS and general clowning around, so that was no shocker. apparently there's a term for it. fear of clowns: Coulrophobia.

Farewell Whoopee

The Whoopee Club was one of the front runners, if not the front runner of London's neo-burlesque movement. Six years ago, when i was working at The Erotic Review, we worked a lot with its founders Lara and Tamara just as they were starting it up - collaborating on Burlesque features, promoting nights and generally thoroughly enjoying a celebration of sultry, elegantly sleazy glamour. It was underground, left field and more than a little excitingly unsettling. there hadn't really been anything like it for eons. I'll never forget the first evening of theirs that i went to - the naughty but nice titillation was wholly captivating. i never looked back and from then on any opportunity to dress up in 1940s and 50s regalia for a night of tease was snatched with both hands. Now, of course, Burlesque is everywhere, and not all of it good - i've seen enough two-bit wannabes peeling their kit off in a show of sexiness that turns me on about as much as a mosquito buzzing in the middle of the night to have become more than a little wary. a pair of nipple tassles, some suspenders and stockings, a thong and killer heels, i've come to realise, does not an erotic performance make. a serious amount of chutzpah, sass, wit and inventiveness does, which is somewhat rarer than the nearest branch of Agent Provocateur. When Whoopee started it really felt naughty. deliciously naughty. Like it was actually rather fabulously ok to be utterly entranced by girls stripping - old school style, where you were always left wishing for more. what you don't want is to feel slightly embarrassed for any performers - wishing instead that they'd save their dignity and just stop. It's a state that's all to easily achieved, sadly. Anyway, Friday saw The Whoopee Club's last ever show - a night of war time austerity at The Bethnal Green Working Men's club. I was keen to go, for old time's sake. There were some brilliant performances - i especially loved the pole dancer grinding to Peaches' The Boys Wanna Be Her (especially good as i do so love Peaches - esp Lovertits), the spandex bodystockinged girl hula hooping and Audacity Chutzpah's hilarious feminist striptease.  Less keen on the maniac tranny flinging himself around the stage and staplegunning things to his chest, but that's personal preference i guess. Paloma Faith wore gold sequins and sang, and everyone was red lipsticked and seamed tights-ed. Bliss - a glorious memory of the good old days.