Why don't you come up and see me sometime, when I've got nothing on but the radio... (Large jpg - 34K)
Scenes from behind the scenes at a drag show, -- Part I.
Dutiful, slightly frumpy reporter climbs the stairs to ask performers a few questions during a break in the show. Turns the corner, stumbles unexpectedly right into the dressing room, where men with long, elegant eyelashes, painted fingernails and shapely, shamelessly exposed breasts look up, startled.
"Excuse me, I... I'm sorry..." stammers reporter, overcome with embarrassment at the general state of undress, before realizing that at least part of the nakedness is strapped, pasted, taped or otherwise tied on. Is it a breach of etiquette to look at a man's naked, fake boobs?
"Come back after the second half of the show," coos a man in fishnet stockings. "We're getting ready."
The whole of St. Petersburg is ready, from the looks of the crowds on Friday nights, for Mayak, the city's first bar with regularly scheduled drag shows. Drag is not new to St Petersburg -- shows have been performed off and on at different venues throughout the city in recent years. But the opening of Mayak gives a welcome permanence to what was not long ago a clandestine affair.
The club is open on Fridays and Saturdays, and the drag shows start around 1am. That's when Oleg Aksyonov, by day an administrator at Lenfilm, by night a vamp in spike heels and slit skirts, comes out in his role as MC to present the show. Wearing a man's tuxedo (a drag performer in reverse drag? Double drag?) and bright red lipstick, he welcomes all guests to relax and enjoy "Women through the Eyes of Men."
From the perky, pig-tailed schoolgirl in black Doc Martens to the blonde bombshell in a slinky green gown, the performances are designed to entertain without being vulgar or offensive. The idea is for the show to be humorous, says Oleg, and enjoyable for everyone who wants to come see it. "We like women," he says. "We're not trying to make fun, just to entertain."
Scenes from behind the scenes at a drag show, Part II.
"Am I pretty?" ponders Vlad, drawing deeply on a wet-looking Belomor Canal cigarette. He leans back in his chair, absent-mindedly scratching his graying temple with a long, carefully filed fingernail. In his everyday clothes -- black jeans, a black button-down shirt and boots -- the lean, 40-ish performer looks a lot like a young Clint Eastwood. Until he starts talking about sewing his own dresses, and about how he sympathizes with women over the problem of runs in their pantyhose, that is.
"Am I pretty?" he asks again, then slowly, with a tired but deliberate air, answers his own question. "Not everywhere... not all the time. But sometimes... oh, yes. I am something to look at."
The club itself is something to look at, men in gorgeous gowns aside. Picture seeing a drag show in a wing of the Hermitage: the interior of the main hall is reminiscent of some of the most tasteful, ornate and best-preserved palaces in St Petersburg. Surrounded by 19th-century sculptures, ornate molding and towering gilded mirrors, the first-time visitor is inevitably awed by the opulence of the main hall. Yes, there are a lot of queens at Mayak, but that's not the only reason you could call it a palace.
The management has complemented the interior with tables covered by crisp white tablecloths and adorned with candles. A small dance floor takes up one end of the hall, and the stage with its massive wine-red velvet curtain takes the other. The second main hall in the club is more hard-edged, with coarse, stalactite-like material covering the walls and a laser light show set to throbbing techno dance music. There are also sitting areas outside the two main halls, and a small bar staffed by men in sailor suits.
Scenes from behind the scenes at a drag show, Part III.
Oleg, 40, has taken off his flaming red Alla Pugacheva wig, peeled off his nylons, and wiped the last traces of eye shadow and rouge from his boyish features. He has short, dyed-blond hair and wears a conservative pair of khaki pants hitched up around his ample midsection. Only his smile gives a hint of the glamorous, stage queen persona he has just stepped out of.
"What do I do for a living?" he asks, breaking into that endearing, girlish grin. "You'd never guess. I'm a gynecologist."
The club's clientele is well and truly mixed: gay and straight, men and women, Russian and foreign. Although the club's official name is the "Mayak Men's Club," there is no way in which the club caters particularly to men over women. Couples of all persuasions dance unselfconsciously on the two dance floors, and, inside the club, at least, tolerance seems to be the order of the day.
Predictably enough, not everybody feels that way. In the nearly three months since Mayak opened, the club has received two anonymous bomb threats.
On a recent Friday night, the club was emptied for about 90 minutes after an anonymous threat was phoned in. With patrons and drag queens relegated to the street in the rain at 2 am, and plenty of armed police milling about, the scene could have been straight out of a documentary on New York City's Stonewall riots. But this time, luckily, the police were there to protect instead of harrass. After a bomb-sniffing dog made the rounds inside, the club was declared safe for the show to go on.
Scenes from behind the scenes at a drag show, Part IV.
Alexei, a 22-year-old newcomer to drag, is preparing for his opening number. With the help of Jeffar, a professional actor who manages the performers, he is positioning two small tubes branching out of a water pouch attached underneath his black dress. The tubes wind up around his ears, ending near his eyes, where they are obscured by the long blonde bangs of his wig.
To the strains of an unbearably tragic love song, Alexei staggers about the stage in mock anguish, weeping theatrically into a soaked hanky, lip-synching all the while. At the song's melodramatic peak, he leans out toward the audience and presses his girlish hands to his chest in torment. A stream of tears comes shooting out of his eyes, drenching the enraptured spectators in the front tables.
Wild applause, laughter. Alexei wipes his eyes, demurely blows his nose into his hanky, and walks off stage, wobbling only slightly on his spike heels.
We're not in Kansas any more, Toto -- you can't get sequins like this at K-Mart, after all (right). (Large jpg - 42K)