Chantal Claret, the spastic redheaded front-woman of Morningwood, squinted at the crowd after performing what appeared to be a song about temper tantrums and says, “This is the best version of Eyes Wide Shut I’ve ever seen,” referring to the crowd of masked and costumed Beaux-Arts Ball attendees squinting right back at her.
She was right. The crowd did resemble the secret-society orgy in Eyes Wide Shut—feathered and sequined masks, art-themed costumes, and yes, boobies; thanks to Ballet-burlesque (ballesque?) mistress extraordinaire, Lily Verlaine, who, in some sense, opened for Morningwood.
To the serenade of a Flamenco guitar, Lily Verlaine strode onto a raised platform in the middle of the dance floor. Covered head-to-toe in white paint, she elegantly mimed her version of Pablo Picasso’s work, pouring bottles of red, yellow, black, and blue paint over her body like a randy Jackson Pollack trying to seduce a paintbrush.
But if there were a contest for best costume, I would have voted for the couple who arrived wearing plush panda hats and carrying what looked like stalks of Japanese Stiltgrass. However, this cheeky duo was not representative of the general Beaux-Arts populace.
Tuxes, tulle, sequins, feathers, and at least one impressive pair of white patent leather loafers mixed and mingled most of the night to groovy jams selected by the very gracious DJ Angry Little Man, and Dave Allen from Gang of Four.
And then there was Morningwood who, at least, kept the old folks awake until 11:30.
Morningwood are a full-speed-ahead rock and roll band from New York who claim in their bio that their most recent album of tightly woven songs, Diamonds and Studs, is “made to make you move.” If by that they mean make you move away from the speakers, then yes, it definitely made me want to move. Or maybe they mean move back from the stage so Miss Claret doesn’t steal your martini and spill it, or kidnap your Moleskine for an involuntary tour around the stage.
The lead lady of Morningwood reached down mid-song and stole my notebook just moments after she yanked a full martini glass away from the guy next to me. She did not write in my book, but she did spill the martini all over the stage, and my shoes. It was not my intention to wear heels to a rowdy punk rock show, but there I was.
Proceeding to bounce and flail, Moleskine in-hand, Chantal finished the song and mumbled something like “This lovely lady over here is a critic! So I took her little journal!”
Dear Chantal,
Thank you for a memorable evening. I will not soon forget it. And, no, contrary to your suggestion, I did not get “shitfaced” from the free drinks. I was, however, especially impressed when you rubbed your face in the painted-man’s belly . . . or was it when you licked the sole of your boot? Wait, no, I thought flipping up your dress to show us your bloomers was pretty unique. Oh, Chantal, I can only aspire to your level of social grace. You remind me of Karen O from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs; but less, oh, I don’t know, believable. I would wish you and your band of well-mannered men great success, but it looks like you’ve already attained that—having your own jewel-studded microphone and appearing on the Tonight show and all. Oh, and thanks for giving my Moleskine back.
Cheers,
The “Critic”
