“Three is a magic number, Yes it is, it’s a magic number. Somewhere in the ancient, mystic trinity You get three as a magic number.” —Schoolhouse Rock
Long before De La Soul, the great sages of the 70s set forth a sacred truth, a truth long lauded by vaudeville comedians and long bastardized by the Catholic church, that the number 3 is, above all other numbers, magic. And yea, though I have preached to you, my brethren, of the value of the Neapolitan threesome of glorious womanhood, there may yet be a greater glory: 3 Brunettes. I give you—The Rhinestone Follies: Kita St. Cyr, dark, ample and budonkadonk-buxom; Hazel Honeysuckle, pale, svelte and Cosmo-cover delectable; and Beelzebabe, short, spunky and girl-next-door take-advantage-some. Something for everyone. Truly, 3 be magic. (City Winery, November 4,, 2010)
But can I rant? Ok, we get to the show and there’s some awful guy singing onstage and playing guitar, badly. He’s gone well over his allotted time, and still he takes an encore. He finishes 45 minutes over, and THEN doesn’t bother to tell the packed house that there’s another show coming. The entire house stands, put on coats, and exit. Legs Malone busted out of the curtains to holler—but the crowd was goners. I thought he sucked, but you’re allowed to suck. What you’re NOT allowed to do is be an inconsiderate asshole. A pro tries to help out his fellow artists. So I had to look him up: Bob Mould. Fucking Bob Mould? YOU sent forty paying customers away from City Winery’s tiller? YOU’RE the guy who shut a half dozen lovelies out of the dressing room? YOU’RE such a fucking asshole that six gorgeous women wanted to treat your ass to a stiletto panini-pressing? Dude, I totally listened to Husker Du in high school. You were, like, MISTER alternative before there was such a word. You, of all people, ought to know better. Grow some class, remember your roots, and above all, act like a fucking gentleman. Bob Mould, you mouthbreathing douchebag.
I am, perhaps, too close to the scene, so I felt bad that there were eleven people in the audience… but on the flip side, it’s nice to have a nice hall to yourself and even nicer to feel like the girls are really performing just for you. Kita St. Cyr gets bonus points for giving her all to a small hall, and girlfriend has boo-tay to spare and an impeccable sense of timing. It also helped that her musical selection had an applause track behind it—a happy accident. Beelzebabe came on in a magenta dress and a black boa, shaking her finger “no” and working it in 20s showgirl style. Hazel Honeysuckle found a clever, jazzy version of “Besame Mucho,” and is… sigh… Oxblood kryptonite. I mean, come on. But for anyone, that dress was just stunning—and she pulled out a clever trick, with a long zipper pull on the back of the dress, catching it under her stiletto and, yes, unzipping her dress with her foot. Legs Malone gave us her Aladdin act, and Doc took a turn at hosting, saying, “This is my job. I’m at work. You’re my coworkers.” The night took on a mellow, yawning feel, and wished the manhattans weren’t thirteen bucks so I could slowly lower myself into half a
dozen. It was, as I said, a tiny crowd, and the ensemble whipped through the set: Gal Friday sported a short red wig, totally fetching, and worked her hipsway with joy; Sapphire Jones gave us her “Mrs. Jones” act in royal blue; and Nasty Canasta came out in a rhinestone-covered eyepatch, a tuille skirt, and sporting a candy-cane colored cane and a white fright wig, shaking it to a wild Punjabi beat. Totally and completely weirdly wonderful. For a finale, we got the Rhinestone Follies in all their glory, a three-piece showgirl routine. I confess, I still owe it to the Rhinestones to check out their regular show at the R Bar. Check out the pictures anyway, and if your run into Bob Mould, tell him I said suck it. Kiss kiss, JDX
All photos ©2010 Melody Mudd. For usage, please contact firstname.lastname@example.org.