It never got weird enough for me.
For New Year's Eve I met up Corrie and Dr. Polly at a place called the Little Red Studio, in downtown Seattle. I went to Burning Man Seattle last year, on Doc Polly's recommendation, and that was a human zoo. Looked like one of Andy Warhol's parties at The Factory, or some other stereotypically weird Greenwich Village festival. (I wanted to go this year, but it was held in early November, as opposed to December last year, so I missed it.) I was given to believe this would be another expedition to the artistic lunatic fringe--and I'm all about that. I can't turn up the origin of the Hunter S Thompson quotation "It never got weird enough for me." It was in WHERE THE BUFFALO ROAM, but I've been looking for it in his books or articles. Anyway, I'm with him: I'm all about the surreal and abnormal. St Mark's Place in New York, the Haight in San Francisco, and Capitol Hill in Seattle: playgrounds to all the weirdos.
I wasn't to be disappointed. The studio was smaller than my apartment, and crowded shoulder-to-shoulder. Strange music filled the place even further, I can't really describe it. The musicians were on the opposite side of the room, since there was no stage. A stand-up bass and an electric violin played against a programmed rhythm track, and a comely female vocalist did just that: vocalized. Wasn't singing, since there were no words, and it didn't rise to the level of chant, since she didn't strike a cadence or beat. Just seemed to hit a note and hold it, in counterpoint to the instrumentation. The result sounded like nothing I've ever heard, exactly.
Right next to this performance area a photographer was having a photo shoot, light stands and scrims and everything. So much for no cameras. Best I could make out, he'd take pictures of anyone who lined up for the privilege. When I walked in, the subjects were a couple, about 30ish, decked out in leather straps and chrome rings and nothing else. He spent a good ten minutes or so on them, before moving on to a gay couple that were formally dressed. About a third of the men in attendance were in suits or tuxes, and about half the women wore evening gowns. The rest were...a variety. A few Utilikilts, a few guys in drag. A young woman in a Carmen Miranda-style tropical fruit dress. A man naked except for white body paint over his whole body, and a foot-long phallus sheath (I didn't see what was holding it up, but I didn't want to stare to see if there were straps or anything--). A septuagenarian woman in a skimpy 20's era flapper dress.
The camera flashes and close crowding played havoc with my sense of space, and the bizarre music added to the disorientation. I felt like I was in a David Lynch movie. Which, of course, was the experience I was going for. That was what made Burning Man Seattle so cool. One big difference: there, they had a full bar. This place only sold wine and bottled water, which is a drag when what you really want is a keg cup of Red Hook. I had to make due with the bottle of Sprite I brought (and a few shooters of Yukon Jack I could gulp down while in the bathroom).
One thing I found unsettling was the way everyone looked me over when I walked in. I don't think it's that my black leather jacket and jeans were in any way provocative, just that the denizens of the Little Red Studio seemed to be a loose circle of regulars, so while this was open to the public I got the sense that there were those on the inside and those who weren't. Good thing I'm used to the feeling of not belonging, so it wasn't so bad--but like I said, a bit unnerving.
Met up with Doc Polly, and she led me to the upper studio, a little more spacious, where a band was playing dance numbers. This was more like a party and less like Seattle Pride, but it was the same crowd, after all. And the same kind of anything-goes approach: the dancing gave way to a jazz poetry reading, complete with accompanying erotic interpretive dance. After that, someone was offering dance instruction, for couples who wanted to dance more intimately. Or something, I wasn't really listening. After that, some form of truth or dare without the truth: participants had picked up "dare" cards at some point, and were now called on to act out in front of everyone. "Listen to another person's heart", "Tease someone with your tongue", "Fake an orgasm", that kind of thing. Again, I would have most likely found it more amusing had I been more inebriate, as it was it was simply diverting.
I went back to the lower studio, to catch some more of that weird music. They were still at it, as was the photographer; I got in line for the bathroom. This was a single, small lav just inside the entrance, couldn't hold more than one person at a time and was decked out like someone's home bathroom, all comfy and a marked contrast to the scene outside. There were several people in front of me, so I stood in line and tried not to block anyone coming in the entrance. At some point, after watching the band for a bit, I noticed that I was standing in front of a shower stall, right next to the bathroom. And the shower was on. And through the clear plastic shower curtain, a woman in her early 20's was showering off, casually as you please. I tried not to stare, but that was kind of a challenge, since she had a body like Christina Ricci. Soon she stepped out of the shower, towelled off and got dressed right next to me, completely unselfconscious about her nudity. Which is the best kind of attitude to have, given a body like that. She got dressed: a fishnet camisole, powder-blue panties, dark blue nylons, and heels. Whatever.
For midnight, they were going to torch a Christmas tree. It was outside, hanging upside down from a wooden scaffolding, an arboreal sacrifice. As midnight drew near, a couple of guys in muscle shirts and leather were doing a fire-breathing act. As the new year finally hit, they turned their fire on the tree, and it promptly went up. Burned out in less than two minutes, but for a pyrophiliac like me it was great.
All in all, I thought it was fairly cool. If they have another one next year, I think I'd go.
I wasn't to be disappointed. The studio was smaller than my apartment, and crowded shoulder-to-shoulder. Strange music filled the place even further, I can't really describe it. The musicians were on the opposite side of the room, since there was no stage. A stand-up bass and an electric violin played against a programmed rhythm track, and a comely female vocalist did just that: vocalized. Wasn't singing, since there were no words, and it didn't rise to the level of chant, since she didn't strike a cadence or beat. Just seemed to hit a note and hold it, in counterpoint to the instrumentation. The result sounded like nothing I've ever heard, exactly.
Right next to this performance area a photographer was having a photo shoot, light stands and scrims and everything. So much for no cameras. Best I could make out, he'd take pictures of anyone who lined up for the privilege. When I walked in, the subjects were a couple, about 30ish, decked out in leather straps and chrome rings and nothing else. He spent a good ten minutes or so on them, before moving on to a gay couple that were formally dressed. About a third of the men in attendance were in suits or tuxes, and about half the women wore evening gowns. The rest were...a variety. A few Utilikilts, a few guys in drag. A young woman in a Carmen Miranda-style tropical fruit dress. A man naked except for white body paint over his whole body, and a foot-long phallus sheath (I didn't see what was holding it up, but I didn't want to stare to see if there were straps or anything--). A septuagenarian woman in a skimpy 20's era flapper dress.
The camera flashes and close crowding played havoc with my sense of space, and the bizarre music added to the disorientation. I felt like I was in a David Lynch movie. Which, of course, was the experience I was going for. That was what made Burning Man Seattle so cool. One big difference: there, they had a full bar. This place only sold wine and bottled water, which is a drag when what you really want is a keg cup of Red Hook. I had to make due with the bottle of Sprite I brought (and a few shooters of Yukon Jack I could gulp down while in the bathroom).
One thing I found unsettling was the way everyone looked me over when I walked in. I don't think it's that my black leather jacket and jeans were in any way provocative, just that the denizens of the Little Red Studio seemed to be a loose circle of regulars, so while this was open to the public I got the sense that there were those on the inside and those who weren't. Good thing I'm used to the feeling of not belonging, so it wasn't so bad--but like I said, a bit unnerving.
Met up with Doc Polly, and she led me to the upper studio, a little more spacious, where a band was playing dance numbers. This was more like a party and less like Seattle Pride, but it was the same crowd, after all. And the same kind of anything-goes approach: the dancing gave way to a jazz poetry reading, complete with accompanying erotic interpretive dance. After that, someone was offering dance instruction, for couples who wanted to dance more intimately. Or something, I wasn't really listening. After that, some form of truth or dare without the truth: participants had picked up "dare" cards at some point, and were now called on to act out in front of everyone. "Listen to another person's heart", "Tease someone with your tongue", "Fake an orgasm", that kind of thing. Again, I would have most likely found it more amusing had I been more inebriate, as it was it was simply diverting.
I went back to the lower studio, to catch some more of that weird music. They were still at it, as was the photographer; I got in line for the bathroom. This was a single, small lav just inside the entrance, couldn't hold more than one person at a time and was decked out like someone's home bathroom, all comfy and a marked contrast to the scene outside. There were several people in front of me, so I stood in line and tried not to block anyone coming in the entrance. At some point, after watching the band for a bit, I noticed that I was standing in front of a shower stall, right next to the bathroom. And the shower was on. And through the clear plastic shower curtain, a woman in her early 20's was showering off, casually as you please. I tried not to stare, but that was kind of a challenge, since she had a body like Christina Ricci. Soon she stepped out of the shower, towelled off and got dressed right next to me, completely unselfconscious about her nudity. Which is the best kind of attitude to have, given a body like that. She got dressed: a fishnet camisole, powder-blue panties, dark blue nylons, and heels. Whatever.
For midnight, they were going to torch a Christmas tree. It was outside, hanging upside down from a wooden scaffolding, an arboreal sacrifice. As midnight drew near, a couple of guys in muscle shirts and leather were doing a fire-breathing act. As the new year finally hit, they turned their fire on the tree, and it promptly went up. Burned out in less than two minutes, but for a pyrophiliac like me it was great.
All in all, I thought it was fairly cool. If they have another one next year, I think I'd go.
posted by Russ the Librarian at 11:00 PM
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