I attended a Cabaret show last night. Words I sincerely never thought I’d lay claim to, that’s for sure. A cabaret show called “L’effleur des Sens” at King King in Hollywood, CA. My friend Diane from the LA Weekly got a group of us on the VIP list, which, if you’re going to do cabaret, is a must. (You’d think so, anyway.)

Turned out the first 25 people there were on the VIP list. The area reserved for regular patrons, or “peons” as I like to think of them when I’ve managed to evade joining their ranks, was completely empty. Even the doorman was amused–which I think we can all agree is an uncommon state for 6′5″ hulking dude with an earpiece and the requisite all-black outfit.

After some minor confusion we were escorted to our booth–which consisted of a red leather booth seat curved around a lightweight table adorned in black vinyl. The table itself brought to mind my parents’ Bridge parties and gave me a slight longing for a Fresca and some cocktail mix. While the Planters weren’t on the menu, a two drink minimum was in effect and the waitress was at our table in a heartbeat to get the party rolling. First round was delivered and then we waited. And waited. And after nearly 45 minutes, the show began. (I’d been misinformed that it began at 9:00, when, in fact, it began at 10:00 pm)

First up, a French number performed by a man and the entire troupe of dancers. Suddenly I wondered how a person could tell the difference between “good” and “bad” cabaret? The sinking feeling in my stomach, I recited the mantra I Will Be Open-Minded, I Will Be Open-Minded. There’s that self-conscious thing I feel when someone is doing something live and in person that I would never, ever do because I’d feel like a total tool. But I was in for the entire hour, so I figured I might as well put my analytical side to work if my creative spirit remained unmoved. My first observation: while the dancers wore military uniform jackets and hats with black panties and garter belts, the male dancer’s version which featured blue boxer shorts (my friend Jen swears they were from Old Navy) was a little less than stellar. A man should bring something tight, black and banana-hugging for the first number. It’s only fair.

At any rate, much to my actual delight the show skyrocketed upward from there. My instinctive need to judge evaporated before I knew it. Those girls were hot in the kind of way that made me reaffirm my commitment to Mat Pilates and Yoga. And they could dance! The program flowed from French chanson to Portishead, James Brown (a solo number performed in a small loft area to “It’s a Man’s World”) followed by a slightly disturbing number I like to refer to as the “Spousal Abuse Tango.” My immediate neighbor, Melissa, was repulsed by the simulated violence and snorted “That’s not even real.” I reminded her that it was a fantasy albeit it a little sick–but I agreed that she did have a point and that it might be better dance if the woman at least fought back. My friend was beside herself with contempt. “She wouldn’t even have to kick him in the nuts. Just something.”

Minutes later a willowy blonde did a Cirque du Soleil type solo number on this bright red ceiling-to-floor hanging fabric. Highly dramatic stuff that I definitely wouldn’t try at home. Ever. It completely made up for the questionable faux fight/dance production preceeding it.

So on and so forth…more dancing, fabulous costumes…at some point they whole group did a very sassy dance to “The Boots Were Made for Walking.” The dancers wore purple and black striped leotards…and matching boot/legwarmer hybrid things. (I’m sure there is a real word for this particular garment, but I’m not down with the jargon.) And, of course, fully exposed black brassieres. If these outfits aren’t currently available at American Apparel they should be.

A real highlight was this crazy sexy white (not wet) t-shirt dance that I can’t really describe other than to say I was pretty sure we’d see an exposed breast, but the ladies skillfully avoided crossing that line. I’m guessing that none of the straight men in the room were able to stand up for at least 20 minutes after the conclusion. Assuming there were straight men there, that is.

The final number was Tina Turner’s “Proud Mary” complete with mesh mini-dresses–and the girls shakin’ it at warp speed, seemingly without breaking a sweat. Each dancer did a little strut of her very own to the middle of the room, struck a pose before returning to the shimming ranks. We cheered. And possibly hooted and hollered.

My final assessment? High energy, great music and choreography and tons of personality. This show embodied what a stripper pretends she does for a living when she says “Dancer.” For my first-ever Cabaret experience it was really great–and at one hour, exactly the right length to encourage me to try the genre again without hesitation.

http://www.kingkinghollywood.com/cabaret2.html