The wit and wisdom of the outrageous Brigit Brat
reprinted from the Compost NewsLetter
Brigitte Steps Out
reprinted from the Compost NewsLetter
by Valerie Walker
CNL Samhain 1990
It's really all Ron's fault.
If he hadn't come home and asked
if I wanted to go see Bobby the pastry chef perform in Shock Treatment,
a drag show playing in Walnut Creek, I don't think any of this would have
happened. But he did, and I said sure, fine, sounds like fun.... but Walnut
Creek?
The club, Just Rewards, is in a
business-park sort of area just off the highway; not the sort of location
you'd expect to find much of anything. But it's an interesting place.
On Sundays from 3 to 9 p.m. it's a lesbian country-western bar, and after
nine it alternates between Shock Treatment and male strippers. The country
dykes usually hang out for the drag/strip shows, so the audience is a
mix of jeans-and-plaid, glitter-and-leather, and suit-and-tie. All very
friendly, too. On our first visit, Ron and I meet a wonderful woman named
Martha (jeans-and-plaid), generous with tips on the best time to get there,
places to sit, and dancers to watch.
We perch precariously on a shelf
as the show begins. Two performers blow us away: Cartoona Strip (Bobby)
and Michael Angelo, the King of Drag. 'Toona is entirely unlike Bobby:
where he's quiet and unassuming, she's an in-your-face, totally wild and
athletic performer who leaps up on tables, in laps, all over the club,
fast and furious; where he's a nice-looking guy who tends to fade into
the woodwork, she's rampantly sexy. Her costumes tend to wander north
as she gets energetic--one little number begins as a dress and ends as
a crop-top. And wasn't that miniskirt an old Fifties-style girdle?
Michael Angelo, on the other hand,
is a barrel-shaped, Mohawked example of total and complete gender-bending,
with the most incredible costumes this side of Hollywood--all self-designed
and -made. Neither of them take themselves as seriously as the Cher and
Tina Turner knockoffs usually found in drag shows--and the audience loves
them. Ron and I decide that BG MUST see this show and meet these people.
BG agrees, and thinks this would be a nice time to come out in public drag.
So two weeks later, after hours
of planning (costume, makeup, shoes, omigawd, SHOES!!!) and an extended
glamour attack at our house (This belt or This one? The dog collar? the
five-inch fuck-me pumps or the four-inch patents with the ankle straps?
Earrings, omigawd, earrings! Hair up or hair down? Can I borrow an evening
purse?) BGwobbles to his feet (a full seven foot five, what with the heels
and the hair), reborn as --Brigitte!!!
It's a rainy night, and I'm glad
Ron is driving -- no way could Brigitte manage in those shoes. She can
barely walk. We get to the club early and grab a table right up front
in the middle. Martha is there and hails us cheerfuly with the news that
everybody is planning to give Brigitte a special welcome, since it's her
first time out in public.
The show starts. Cockatelia makes
a passing reference to tall blondes, but it isn't until 'Toona comes on
that Brigitte gets much attention from the stage. Too much attention,
unfortunately. In whipping her leg around, 'Toona catches Brigitte a hefty
Klongggg!! on the head with her knee. Brigitte is, to put it mildly, discomposed.
"Ow, my neck. I think it's dislocated..."
A short intermission, during which
I help Brigitte stagger to the bar and recover her poise. I point out
that 'Toona treated her gently in comparison to the man at the fourth
table back, whose head was nearly snapped off.
Another number, this one a duet
by Michael Angelo and 'Toona to "The Homecoming Queen's Got a Gun," during
which Michael Angelo as the Homecoming Queen, using a blow-dryer as a
gun, interacts with the audience. (Actually, he thrusts it down Ron's
throat, if you must know.)
At last, the finale: Nina Hagen's
"Sunday School." Several performers enter the stage in white veils and
robes. As the chorus begins, Michael Angelo, swathed in black, appears.
He spreads his arms wide to reveal a lethal-looking black patent-leather
bustier with huge pointy tits, studded with safety pins. He struts through
the audience, menacing various victims with his massive enbonpoint, then
back to the stage. Uh-oh... He's coming to our table. He's approaching
Brigitte. He's grabbed her hair! He's got her by the hair and is burying
her face in his bustier! He's mashing her face into the safety pins! Ow!
She's bleeding! She's pissed off! She rises to her feet, grabs my hand,
and yanks me along the hall to the ladies' room, where I attempt to stanch
the blood with wet paper towels. Brigitte is incensed. To make matters
worse, the ladies' room is visited by a parade of country dykes who seem
to be taking the matter far too lightly. I mop away at the small gash
in her forehead. The door opens, and Michael Angelo surges into the room,
talking fast: "Oh hey I'm sorry man it was an accident you look TOADLY
fabulous in that outfit would you like to sing a number with us sometime?'
Brigitte pulls herself to her full
height. (I am trying to mop the blood while keeping a straight face, no
easy task.) From all the dignity of seven foot five (including heels and
hair), Brigitte says awfully, "my music is SERIOUS."
The rest of the evening is a blur
for me. I recall trying simultaneously to bring Brigitte out of a Major
Snit, keep Michael Angelo from flying into a retaliatory Major Snit, and
stop laughing. (None of these attempts was successful.) I don't even remember
the trip home.
But I can't say the evening was
a loss. I had been witness to (and instigator of) an Historic Moment.
Brigitte had been blooded (literally) and was well on her way into the
ranks of Great Drag Queens. She has armed herself with a natty little black leather
riding crop for defensive purposes. And Ron and I will dine out
on this story for a long time to come.
Update:
Michael Angelo has since died of AIDS, Shock Treatment disbanded, and
I don't know what Bobby's up to these days; but Brigitte (now known as
Brigit Brat, aka God's Girlfriend) is alive
and kicking, recording and performing and living as a girl fulltime. She's taking estrogen and looks
just like a giant version of Barbie....and she finally learned how to
walk in those heels. Definitely a better woman than I am.
The lovely and talented Ms. Brat