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As passive-aggressive as her namesake, equal parts snarl and
purr, Meow Meow channels the spirits of Lotte Lenya and Sid
Vicious as she performs the songs of Weill, Piaf and Ramone.
Pawing through her suitcase full of props and costumes, the
Australian Sally Bowles purr-sonifies purr-fectly the concept of
weltschmerz. She’s a world-weary songstress in the process of
public disintegration.
An antipodal sister to Kiki, another flaneur on the “Boulevard
of Broken Dreams,” Meow Meow prowled through a two-hour
deconstruction of show business and the human condition on
Friday night at the sold-out Hiro Ballroom. With its myriad
Chinese lanterns and low candlelight, the Hiro resembles nothing
so much as a 1930s Shanghai opium den, making it the purr-fect
litter box for Meow to kick up her heels.
One moment purring, before snarling the next, Meow exhorted the
audience to cater to her every whim. First appearing curled up
in a red leather banquette amidst her audience, she cajoled men
and boys to carry her cocktails and her suitcase, and to unzip
and undress her—and that was just to get her onstage. Before
long, she had males lying at her feet and wrapping themselves
around her middle, and forming a sort of chaise longue for her
elegantly tapered legs (think Cyd Charisse), legs which appeared
to have a life of their own, often swinging wide open,
spread-eagle—at which point Meow would demand the paparazzi to
fire away in a flurry of flashes.
Before long, like a contortionist Iggy Pop, Meow was transported
over the crowd, as the audience sent her roaming around the
room, passed from one group to another, over their heads—until
an ungenerous martini landed in her eye, causing temporary
blindness and an unceremonious drop back onto the stage.
Whereupon the audience went quiet—suddenly fearful and anxious,
wondering if all the fun was now off, for it was no longer
possible to determine the line between spontaneity and scripted
performance.
Not to worry, however, Meow was soon back on her feet, if a
little shaky—and in need of another supporting man from the
audience.
Like most domesticated felines, Meow couldn’t do much for
herself—save for sing. And when she did, in a voice haunting and
clear, the audience was rapt. Singing in French, Italian and
German, she sometimes sought a native speaker from the audience
to translate the lyrics—sharing with us how it would be in
another culture, another city, another life. “You can imagine,”
she purred—her signature aphorism. She sang “Ne Me Quitte Pas”
and “Je N’Oublierai Jamais” as if Piaf were still pining for
Marcel Cerdan. And she ended with her version of “Surabaya
Johnny,” resigned to loss, draped over a Meow Meow mannequin, an
empty shell of her former self.
Yet Meow Meow is nothing if not a survivor, a true feline with
nine lives—and many of them on display during the course of one
evening. She sheds personae with alacrity, adopting postures and
changing moods, from seductress to victim, first wailing in
despair, then whispering with awe. She’ll be back in New York,
maybe as soon as this summer—and if you catch her, be sure and
hold her tight. |
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