Her commanding stage outfits, often flung loose to reveal racy undergarments, or, on occasion, nothing at all, will soon be featured in a photography book by clothing designer Todd Oldham. Everett’s soaring, purring voice - which croons lube-soaked choruses like “Tell me, does this dick make my ass look big?” - is classically trained. Her metaphoric bedmates hail from diverse worlds. It’s like I’m fucking 200 people and we’re going to have coffee in the morning!” “Go to the next bar and then go back to bed and have sex and then do it again and then make French toast and have a fucking espresso! That’s how I feel when I’m performing there. “It’s like you’re on a great date and you just want to keep going!” Everett enthuses later of Joe’s Pub, her home venue since 2008. And with the exaggerated oral-sex simulation, Everett grants the delirious crowd permission to bust an emotional nut. The audience’s gasping roar - a vocal celebration of Everett’s fearless pushing of performance boundaries, and of their own foresight in snagging tickets for tonight’s dress rehearsal - has been building steadily all night. (“If they were all that sweet,” she sighed, the “baby” perched atop her knee, “I woulda kept ’em.”) A grown man portraying one of Everett’s (several) unwanted pregnancies has stumbled blindly out a side door in bald cap and adult diaper, harmonizing with Everett to the saccharine duet “Let Me Live” as he made his way onstage and into her arms. She’s reached under what had been a black-and-white cheetah-print skirt - since reversed and exploding outward in rose tulle - to pull a tube of lip gloss from an ambiguous hiding spot and dab her lips. Over the past hour Everett has swigged from something stuffed into a brown paper bag and from something else in a bottle gussied up in pink foil, and has helped herself to several audience members’ wine glasses. He rises and turns: nose, mouth and chin covered in white foam, arms raised triumphantly. “Stand up and show everybody what it’s like to be a man!” Glancing down again, she laughs, her serious-sensual façade breaking into giddiness. His face descends and Everett’s legs gyrate like Elvis in an earthquake. “Eat it, eat it.”Įverett gives the can a vigorous shake, traces a frothy line up her black panties, and interlaces her fingers behind his head. Everett grins down at the audience member she’s targeted. “Eat it, eat it,” she sings, repeating her song’s titular chorus.Ī backup singer presents a can of whipped cream. Inching forward on thighs and buttocks, her calves encircle a man seated front and center. “Short one, long one, doesn’t matter/Just suck on that bean, watch it get fatter/You’ve had a bad day, you’re feeling like shit/You want to beat something up? Beat up this clit/Here’s the combination to my lovely lady locker/She’ll pop in your mouth like Orville Redenbacher.”Įverett tosses aside the flopping pink dildo she’d earlier suctioned to the adjacent table and moves a couple’s drinks to safety. “Hit the track!” Bridget Everett growls as she lowers herself to the lip of the Joe’s Pub stage, lifting the hem of her flowing silver gown to flash the sold-out crowd in time to the slinky r&b beat. Everett describes her rapport with Joe's Pub audiences as "fucking 200 people, and we're going to have coffee in the morning!" All photos by C.S.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |