To Boldly Dress

Last week marked the 45th anniversary of Star Trek and as such, last Friday night, I experienced what was undoubtedly the nerdiest evening of my entire life. To honour the occasion, a screening of The Wrath of Khan was planned, with the film projected on to a bare wall in Billy Flag and Jack Samson's Rathmines apartment, which as it happens is one of the best ways to watch a film ever. I say it was a nerdfest of an evening, but obviously that also means that it was a huge amount of fun. The main event was preceded by an episode of Deep Space 9 and an episode of the original series. The DS9 episode was one that saw the crew go back in time in order to infiltrate the Kirk-era Enterprise and featured the character of Dax giving herself a sixties Starfleet makeover in order to blend in. When she emerged in her red Mary Quant style minidress and shiny beehive, EleventyFour turned to me and said "That's going to turn up on your blog, isn't it". And GUESS WHAT….she was RIGHT! She knows me so well.

I've actually written about Star Trek once before on this blog, and have posted about sci-fi fashion over on Blaubushka, when I looked at the shiny dresses of Forbidden Planet, but this post is all about the wondrous wardrobes of the women from the original Star Trek series. For example, the most famous wearer of said red minidress, Lieutenant Uhura. There may have been a constant threat of ass cheek, but if anyone could rock it, it was she.


Anyway, the other episode we watched before KHAAAAN! was the one in which, as Jack Samson puts it, "Spock is so horny he might die". This particular episode also features the enchanting T'Pring, a Vulcan bird that Spock was betrothed to when they were both children, but in a fit of wagonry (I may have just made that word up, but you know what I mean) has decided she'd rather hook up with Kirk. All this is beside the point though, as I think my mouth fell open every time she was on screen. She's utterly GORGEOUS and sparkly and lovely and…just look at her for Jaysus sake, she's amazing. Kind of a bitch, yes, but amazing.

The hair! The clothes! The FACE!

Of course, enthralling as T'Pring and her outfit were, the series had its fair share of dodgy wardrobe choices, not least those of Andrea the Android and her criss-crossed mostly-not-there bodysuit, Shahna the stern, green haired gladiator trainer in her silver nappy and the tin-foiled state of this random blonde slave girl.


Speaking of slave girls, there were also green skinned Orion Slave Girls who appeared in the original series, all bouffant hair and looking like an alien version of Goldie Hawn when she used to appear on that 1960s sketch show. They also popped up in an episode of The Next Generation, however this time around they were updated and dropping it like it's hot as if they were the Verdigris Pussycat Dolls.


In fairness to Star Trek's costume department though, the ladies weren't always nearly naked, and oftentimes their more modest outfits were properly gorgeous, such as Dr. Miranda Jones and her cool beaded dresses (one of which was displayed in the Smithsonian as part of their Star Trek exhibit), finished off with a weird but cute topknot.


Former Catwoman Lee Merriwether also lucked out when she appeared on the show as Losira in a deadly purple cutout dress and utterly awesome eye makeup that totally reminds me of sweets from the 90s like Fruit Salads and Drumsticks.


Finally, one of my favourite Star Trek looks belongs to warrior woman Nona who, apart from being ridiculously beautiful, looked astounding in black leather, bright orange fur like she's just been Muppet-hunting and a Native American style necklace, finished off with sparkles on her face. GLORIOUS.


However, for every superb costume, there's a horrendous one too. While Nona's outfit used brightly coloured fur in a tremendous way, the following picture illustrates the exact opposite of that.


Step away from the Fraggle showgirls, McCoy. Just. Step. Away.

Gotham City Girls

When Eli Mordino pointed out earlier today on Twitter that the Joker in the poster for the upcoming Batman Live stage show was channeling a serious Caesar Romero vibe, it reminded me that I had been meaning to investigate Catwoman's costume for the same event. You're probably aware by now that I'm pretty gay for this particular slinky villain, what with the big rambling post I've previously written, which detailed all her different incarnations since her first appearance. So naturally, I had to know what this production went for, especially after being so very underwhelmed by the recent image of Anne Hathaway's costume from The Dark Knight Rises.

Ehh, Anne, I don't know if you realise this, but your costume is seriously lacking a pair of kitty ears and y'know, A GENERAL AIR OF AWESOMENESS.

However, I was rather glad to see that the live tour has gone for the current comic book outfit of a shiny black catsuit and a pair of feline goggles, giving the look a tiny tasty lick of steampunk.

While I was happy enough with Catwoman, I'm not quite sold on Poison Ivy's costume, in that she looks more like a vaguely garden-themed stripper rather than an alluring, albeit demented scientist/eco-terrorist with dominion over all plant life.

That being said, however nonplussed I might have been with Poison Ivy, the absolute STATE they made of Harley Quinn's costume is nothing short of disastrous. Allow me to remind you how brilliant and amazing and kickass Harley Quinn usually looks.

Now, have a look at the manky, monstrous, Pippi Longstocking-runs-away-with-the-circus atrocity they've inflicted on her for the live show:

I hate the pigtails, I hate the stupid skirt and I hate that she's not all red and black or wearing her jester hat. In essence, I've got a bag full of NO especially reserved for this thing. Just...no. NO!

Hectic Picnic

I think it's pretty safe to say that Electric Picnic is essentially a weekend of guaranteed merriment, regardless of how demented the weather has decided to be at that given point in September. Of this I am convinced, having had spectacular fun at the the wet, muddy, cold version in 2009 and the earlier ones around 2005 and 2006 where there was actual honest to God SUNSHINE for most of the weekend and I have the photos and rather hazy memories to prove it. Anyway, that's enough preamble. For this was yet another shenanigan-filled three days, which involved the following...


> Santigold taking the roof off the Electric Arena on Friday night, such was the ferociousness of her electro/superfunk set, sending the crowd into a frenzy. Her show was made all the more amazing thanks to her two backing dancers that would out-fierce Tyra herself, bopping along in perfect time with matching golden pom-poms which were soon exchanged for giant hammers, which then gave way to lassos for the part when the pantomime horse came onstage and danced to the music. Yes. A DANCING PANTOMIME HORSE. I want to live inside Santigold's head.

> The Salty Dog shipwreck stage being its usual decadent, dreamy and brilliant self, where we caught Jerry Fish and The Mudbug Club, a Cajun band I can't quite remember the name of and most importantly, the three delightful cancan dancers that frequent The Burlesque and Cabaret Social Club. Jackpot.


> Getting our disco on at the glittery, sparkly wonderfulness of Bitches With Wolves. I seriously can't get enough of this band, not to mention frontman James O'Neill's AMAZING Eighties Madonna dance moves. Eighties Madonna but miles better, in fact.

> Ambling past someone in the full bespectacled, stripey jumpered Wally outfit passed out asleep under a tree.


> The sheer joy of getting to see the very lovely and tremendously talented EleventyFour play both the Peace Pagoda and the Love Letter Stage in Body & Soul. Both of her sets seemed to attract the most random, bizarre and brilliant of happenings, what with the man dressed as a tiger raving to her sweet, funny, folksy stylings, a zombie bridal party stopping by for a listen, a conga line of people disguised as a deck of cards scampering through the audience, and that's actually only the half of it. She handled all the distractions marvellously with her witty banter and the audience most firmly on her side for the Eleventy vs Loud Drumming Bastards debacle. She's recounted the whole thing on her own site and it makes for most surreal and entertaining reading. Also, I completely missed the fact that I had been sitting near Pop Culture Monster at her gig, who I would've loved to have met properly. Next time, purple monster!


> Mr. Billy Flag distracting the drunk-ass headwrecker that kept asking us all what our favourite Bruce Springsteen song was by pointing to the middle distance and shouting "What's that over there!?" whereupon we all legged it in the opposite direction. It was the only way, there was just no getting rid of this fucker.


> Tieranniesaur stomping some amazing funk pop into the main stage of Body & Soul, with bass lines so big and delicious I wanted to eat them. The bass lines, not the band. There was also a brief appearance by frontwoman Annie Tierney's brother Mick Pyro, which was rather class.

> Discovering the genius that is Abandoman in the Comedy Tent. An improv hip-hop duo that stormed through a series of amazing on the spot songs, earning themselves three standing ovations from the delirious crowd. After that astounding performance, MCs Andrew Stanley and Damien Clarke led the audience through the first verse of Fresh Prince Of Bel Air, with the entire tent taking over when they forgot the rest of the words because we all knew it by heart, obviously. David O'Doherty's meandering lo-fi whimsy followed, which was hilarious as ever and topped off what was possibly my favourite ever stint in the Picnic's Comedy Tent.


> Lords of Lightning BLOWING MY MIND entirely with their genuinely awesome lightning bolt performance as they duelled atop a giant Tesla coil each alongside the fire-breathing Arcadia stage. Yowza.

What the Jaysus fuck? Amazing, is what!

> Dancing my socks off in general, but particularly to Gordon Gano finishing out his set with Blister In The Sun, Public Enemy lashing out Don't Believe The Hype, Pulp treating us to Disco 2000 and pretty much all of Beirut, as I do love a bit of brass.

> The Brownbread Mixtape knocking it out of the park in Mindfield with their inspired comedy sketches (in particular the reconstruction of Amanda Brunker's already laughable appearance at Oxegen, punctuated with the YouTube comments from her video. There's really nothing like seeing the unnecessary rage of the YouTube commenter brought to life) the gorgeous poetry and music and the most rousing end to a performance that I've ever seen, in the shape of their alternative Irish anthem My Blood Is Boiling For Ireland. It mostly involves the crowd shouting "Ireland! Ireland! Ireland, FUCKIN' IRELAND" and a fantastic call and response bit as Gaeilge. Go h-ana funky ar fad.

All told, it was a typically fantastic Electric Picnic weekend...'till next year, Stradbally!

Festival Frolics

Well I'm off to Electric Picnic, prolonging my absence from the blog even further. A massive THANK YOU to all the people I haraunged into voting for my Heineken bottle design. Without you all I wouldn't be Picnic-bound at all. I'm sure that once I'm back I'll have many a tale with which to regale you all, but for now I'm trying to decide just how much rum we'll need to bring and where the hell I left the hand sanitiser after Oxegen.

Till next week, when I'm in need of shower and quite bleary eyed.

Quelque Chose #13

Unlucky for some, #13 goes out to 19th century Irish courtesan/dancer/saloon owner/temporary ruler of Bavaria and all-round hussy Lola Montez, about whom I've written a guest post for The Anti Room.

"Her aforementioned temper has become the stuff of legend, stories abound of her carrying a whip everywhere she went, like a sexed-up, slightly unhinged Indiana Jones and using it to strike men across the face if they annoyed her. In essence, you didn’t fuck with Lola Montez."

Her name was Lola and she actually WAS a showgirl.

The Houseboat That Rocked

Well that little holiday was the fastest five days in the world ever. It's taken me forever to get around to this post because I've been too busy boring the arse off people by going on about how AMAZING our holiday was and how we didn't want to leave. I swear time speeds up in Amsterdam. As was to be expected we had a most enjoyable time, rife with tomfoolery.

SUCH AS:

* Staying on a houseboat. Let me just say that anybody going to Amsterdam NEEDS to stay on a houseboat. This one in particular was only brilliant. (And it was called Little Bear! How ridiculously perfect was that?)

Shazam, motherfuckers!

Like a little timber bungalow with beaded curtains and hippy cushions and a most delightful terrace on which we could sit out in the sunshine, eating cheese and grapes, waving at the passing boats manned by people eating cheese and grapes and watching little rows of ducks swim past in single file. They didn't have any cheese or grapes though.


* Staring in awe at the beautiful Tuschinski cinema, an explosion of Art Deco decadence and gorgeousness, inside and out. I actually whimpered "I want to live here" to the Bear. I could totally live in an Art Deco cinema, surviving on popcorn and ice cream. What? I COULD!

* Spending an entire brilliant day in the Efteling theme park. I have to be kicked out of bed to get up for work in the mornings, but tell me to rise at seven in order to catch a train to a place I can go on rollercoasters all day and I'll spring out of bed five minutes early, bright of eye and bushy-tailed as fuck.

Ca-caw!

Much like last year's trip to a Dutch theme park, we were being whirled upside down, screaming our faces off and whipping around breakneck corners all before breakfast again, running between thrill rides and taking care never to queue for more than half an hour for anything and totally succeeding. We manged a spin on one particular rollercoaster five times. Tremendous.


* Ambling along the canals and canal houses with their varied angles of leaning in search of lunch and mischief, stopping every minute and a half so I could take yet another Hipstamatic photo.


* Taking a wander around the dark wooden spiral staircases and chequerboard floor tiles of Rembrandt's house, despite the Bear's protestations that had no interest in it seeing as "there's an entire wing of paintings by Dutch masters in the museum at home that I could go to for free and I couldn't be arsed going to that". He was glad we went in the end though, as the Rembrandthuis is actually incredibly interesting. I for one learned that people in the 17th century were much smaller and slept half sitting up, which explained all the short little beds secreted around the house. The tiny eejits.


* Being woken up at all hours by the honking, squawking, giant flappy geese bastards that patrolled the canal, eyeballing houseboat residents for a potential mugging, or possibly bits of bread.



We're going to have to construct some manner of excuse to get ourselves back there quick smart. I even miss the geese.

Dutch Divilment

Come 9.45 tomorrow morning, the Bear and I will be squeaking with excitement as we board a plane that'll take us to Amsterdam for five days of mischief and frolics on a houseboat. A HOUSEBOAT! In a shock twist, I'm actually packed and everything which is very unlike me, although I ended up doing it in my underwear due to constant trying on of clothes I was bringing as I seemed to have completely forgotten what everything looked like on me.

A few days ago I came to the conclusion that I had absolutely NOTHING to wear for fuck-acting around Amsterdam and its tremendous environs and did what any reasonable girl would do. I panicked and tried on around 38 different things in Penneys. After getting annoyed at the fact that I appear to be a size eleven in AWear, finding myself trapped in a pair of Topshop skinny jeans, buying and then returning a floral dress from Forever 21, I eventually calmed down by picking up this spotty navy gúna in River Island.

Yes. This will do nicely.

Given the indecent amount of fun we had the last time around, the odds are pretty much in our favour that it'll be at LEAST twelve kinds of amazing. At LEAST. Hooray!

Hero In A Half Shell

In American burlesque of the forties and fifties, competition was fierce among dancers constantly trying to outdo each other. It became the age of the prop, with sights like Rosita Royce and her bikini of trained doves that would fly away on her command, Linda "Cupid Doll" Brigitte who would swirl about in a giant champagne glass and Lili St. Cyr who playfully splashed around in a transparent bathtub all performing to packed houses. My favourite story from this age of extravagant props and imaginative dancers concerns Kitty West, who performed an act as Evangeline The Oyster Girl in New Orleans.

Kitty West aka Evangeline The Oyster Girl

In 1949, Evangeline was the headliner of the Casino Royale burlesque house on Bourbon Street, with a routine that involved her rising up out of a giant oyster shell, stripping to a jazz soundtrack and dancing with a giant pearl. She even dyed her hair green for a while, to evoke the idea of seaweed. However, a rival water-themed act soon came swishing into town in the shape of Divena and her 300 gallon water tank in which she performed an underwater striptease.

Divena "The Aqua Tease"

OH NO THEY DI'INT.

Evangeline mid-performance. (Note Divena's tank on the right. Not only was she trying to muscle in on The Oyster Girl's claim to aquatic fame, she was encroaching on her stage space! The WAGON!)

The management at the Casino Royale immediately gave Divena top billing, a move which Evangeline was having absolutely none of. One night, while Divena was doing her nautical thing, Evangeline had decided "balls to this" (possibly not in those exact words, however) and marched onstage wielding an axe.

"I just wanted to break the tank into a million pieces, and I did. I went out there and I just started pounding away at the bottom. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I was just in such a rage that I didn’t want her to take all the spotlight."

The furious stripper smashed the tank open, sending water crashing over the edge of the stage, drenching the audience and leaving a bewildered Divena spluttering at the bottom of it. Apparently, before the startled performer even had a chance to crawl out of the destroyed tank, Evangeline reached in and pulled her hair, as if she hadn't already gotten the message loud and clear.

Take that, you soggy bitch!

Yeah. You better recognise.

Conveniently, a photographer from Life magazine was in the attending crowd and managed to capture the entire incident, making it headline news the next day. Evangeline has always denied that it was a publicity stunt and insists that she had no idea that there was a photographer in the audience. Saying that though, cameras in 1949 weren't exactly the most discreet of apparatus, so he can't exactly have been Mr. Inconspicuous.

A look that seems to suggest that one should not fuck with The Oyster Girl unless one wants their head caved in from a sudden change in water pressure.

Evangeline was promptly hauled off to prison where she was photographed again and fined $10, which, considering the nationwide publicity and cover of Life she got out of it, was a total bargain.

***

Incidentally, I've been rambling on about the sexy publicity stunts pulled by the brazen ladies of the 30s, 40s and 50s over on Boob.ie, most of which involved their boobs. So that particular post contains pictures of boobs, just so's you're warned. Boobs.

Amy Amy Amy

The first time I heard an Amy Winehouse song was when Ian Dempsey played Rehab during his breakfast-time slot for Today FM. I was living just off Anglesea Street in Cork and slowly getting my act together for work that morning in my tiny bedroom that overlooked an alleyway frequented by drunk old homeless men. I remember being genuinely amazed by the voice that came streaming out of the speakers and I'm pretty sure I did that stupid thing where you stare at the stereo as if doing so will help you hear what's coming out it that bit better. Up to that point, I was vaguely aware of Amy as a brassy, mouthy London jazz singer but had never actually heard her.


There's been a huge amount of beautifully worded tributes written about her that say everything far more eloquently than I ever could (Russell Brand's piece is particularly moving), and to be honest, I still can't quite believe what's happened. As much as I love Back To Black, I really just want to watch this video for In My Bed, from Frank, where Amy slinks around an empty hotel, all Coca-Cola bottle curves, showgirl legs and raw, spectacular talent.



Gorgeous.

Oxemorons

Well how about that. I actually went and achieved my aim of making it out of Punchestown both alive and relatively unscathed. (Save for a smattering of sunburn on my shoulders - I know, SUNBURN at an Irish festival! It's unheard of!) I genuinely wasn't sure if that would be the case after the helpful and terrifying comments on my last post and hearing that Oxegen is the only festival that the security guards are required to wear stab vests at, but we somehow pulled it off.


As I sat by the tent drinking cans with T Cup and her sister, observing the festival attendees passing through the campsite, it felt a bit like a wildlife programme. That is, if David Attenborough wore giant sunglasses and the wildlife in question consisted of drunk, half naked teenagers.

It seems that boys favour walking around with a hand down the front of their pants. Or in one case, BOTH hands. BOTH hands were actually shoved down the front of his pants as he wandered about. What the holy fuck is all that about? The less skangery variety seem to think that everyone wants to hug them, and much of the weekend was spent humouring seventeen year olds with high fives for fear of being called a cunt. The girls inexplicably appear to enjoy writing on each others arms and legs (who brings markers to a festival? WHO?) and wear denim hotpants with the mandatory two inches of ass cheek hanging out. I swear their shorts were wedged so far up their arses they must have been able to taste the frayed denim. All weekend it was wall-to-wall ass on show.

Anyway, aside from just not getting kids today, there was some most enjoyable music to be encountered, at which I found myself:

* Dancing in the Electric Ballroom while Bitches With Wolves were their usual exuberant, sparkly and ferociously fun selves, with their cover of Toca's Miracle sending the crowd into a disco frenzy.

* Catching Weezer play My Name Is Jonas and a cover of Teenage Dirtbag, at which point I sniffily decided that this crowd of kids probably thought they were actually Wheatus.

* Having Joyce Country Céilí Band lodged in my head until Tuesday after seeing The Saw Doctors.

* Coming to the conclusion that The Black Eyed Peas and Foo Fighters are actually the polar opposites of each other in terms of live performances. You see, will.i.am and his motley crew are probably the worst band on the planet, but their live show is actually sort of entertaining, thanks solely to an abundance of lasers and great visuals, even though their songs are criminally awful. Whereas Dave Grohl and the lads crank out hit after tremendous hit with inescapable charisma and enthusiasm and no reliance whatsoever on fancy light shows and as such, rock the pants right off you.

Dave can rock my pants off any time he damn well likes.

* Squawking along happily at Fight Like Apes and their typically raucous and demented set. May Kay emerged onstage dressed like a version of Morticia Addams that had decided to take up crime-fighting, with the boys in the band wrapped in technicolour morphsuits. Their performance was an obscenely fun mix of whacking giant iron bars together, the title sequence from California Dreams and a trailer for Plan 9 From Outer Space being played on the big screen and May Kay clambering onto a surprised security guard's shoulders from the stage, from where she finished belting out her song.


* Being taken completely by surprise at how much I enjoyed Beyonce. Seriously, when Twitter was set alight during her Glastonbury performance, I didn't even bother changing the channel to see what all the fuss was about, and yet there I was whooping, dancing around and singing along to the Destiny's Child medley, Crazy In Love and Single Ladies, out of my mind with happiness. I have to hand it to her, girlfriend puts on one HELL of a show.




Honourable mention must go to Tinie Tempah, Two Door Cinema Club, Swedish House Mafia, Manic Street Preachers and Coldplay (who were surprisingly fun) as well as the outdoor screening of The Life Of Brian which was exactly what we needed on Sunday morning. But not Arctic Monkeys, seeing was they were shite. So despite the surrounding knackpocalypse and being wary of everyone in the crowd in general, a great weekend was had, and yet...and yet...it's still no Electric Picnic. Which can't come soon enough.

EDIT: Completely forgot to mention that Imelda May was fantastic as ever and Slash & Friends was like watching a quite good cover band. Except for the part where Fergie Ferg joined them onstage, at which point it was more like listening to a bag of cats being swung against a wall.

This Ain't No Picnic

Earlier this week, a free ticket to Oxegen was most kindly bestowed upon me. Having never been to this particular festival, and having been spoiled by year after terrific year of solid gold fun at Electric Picnic, I find myself both scared and excited about the weekend ahead. I made the mistake of reading this article a few days ago, which served to frighten the bejaysus out of me and envision a three day stint spent as a paranoid wreck, but nevertheless to Punchestown I go.

The weather forecast is awful and I'm well aware that the surrounds will be nothing like the fairy-lit forest or rolling green hills of Stradbally. The only rolling green things I expect to encounter are discarded cans of Tuborg. Then again, with a hipflask of rum stuffed into each cherry-print welly boot, I'll make it my mission to ascertain the perfect level of fucked up and enjoy myself enough to be undeterred and unfazed by the myriad shitfaced teenagers. Also the prospect of Fight Like Apes, Bitches With Wolves, Fun Lovin' Criminals and Foo Fighters will surely make up for any amount of mud. Right?

If all else fails I can just throw things at Amanda Brunker.