The Kolour of Kabarett

Regular readers of my ponderous musings will know I’m something of a fixture on the cabaret “scene”.  The beautiful ladies of burlesque fawn over my mature good looks and demand a kiss and cuddle. The well-groomed young men of boylesque shake my hand, call me “big man” (somewhat ironically, as I’m only 2 foot 6) and offer me huge pints of beer (which I can never finish!).  But The Creative Martyrs simply and silently raise their bowler hats in unison to acknowledge my presence in the room.

I was charmed to receive this greeting from Martyrs Gustav and Jacob last night as they took the stage to conduct a tastefully programmed evening of entertainment simply entitled: Kabarett.  The spelling I had assumed to be a misprint, but I’ve now been enlightened that it’s in German  which “reflects the neo Weimar influence on the idiom”. Well, that’s me told.  The intimate surroundings of the Voodoo Rooms Speakeasy, bedecked almost entirely in black cloth and gold leaf, provided a suitable canvas for a stylistically perfect collection of performances, rather prettily portrayed throughout in tones of black, white, red and silver.

Striking visual burlesque was provided by Cat Aclysmic and Cherry Loco.  Cat Aclysmic’s routines were raunchy yet graceful; humourous and endearing, and of course, visually perfect.  A femme fatale, embodying a film noir murderess, who may have done a bad thing, but did it so nicely, I’d like her to do it all over again.  And what lovely legs she has! Cherry Loco is the consummate showgirl: a maelstrom of tantalising red feathers; then a chilling snow queen in white satin and diamonds who I truly believe could turn my heart to ice with one flash of the eyes and a pointed painted toe.  This stunning creature is actually a boy.  I hope that’s not given it away for anyone who didn’t know.

Musical entertainment, and a great deal of ribald humour, was provided by international artiste Mr Joe Black, who had birds in his hair and extremely pointy shoulders.  For such a petite young man, he’s got an impressive set of lungs on him, and I was tempted to ask for some tips on technique (as a midget with a chest filled with fluff, I just can’t ever seem to belt it out, vocally).  A gentle start with Kander & Ebb, all the way to a death in carnal violence, by way of Lada Gaga and Britney Spears, sung from the very pits of hell.  Perry Como he ain’t! – through strangely charming nonetheless.

The true stars of the evening, The Creative Martyrs held the audience in the palms of their grease-paint covered hands. They sang their carefully crafted songs of love, conflict, vodka, napalm, more love, war, fascists and jail. They pulled their hearts out through their shirts. They shouted the names of fruit and chased a bee around the room.  They cajoled, delighted and captivated.  I raise my hat to Gustav and Jacob - Bravo!