Charles Busch's current show at 54 Below is called "That Girl/That Boy"—a title that points to something essential about his longtime approach to drag performance. Unlike some drag guys, Busch has retained his male identity when it comes to billing. Had he chosen, he could easily have come up with some outrageous, giggle-inspiring female nom de guerre for himself, similar to the names he's bestowed on female characters he's portrayed in his outlandish stage plays. (Remember Fauna Alexander? Irish O'Flanagan? Gertrude Garnet?) But no. You may see marquees (or at least posters) with names like Hedda Lettuce, Lady Bunny, Flotilla DeBarge—and, of course, Dame Edna Everage. But Charles Busch has always been billed as Charles Busch.
There's a moment near the top of this new show when Busch—wearing a black dress and an exotic-looking shawl that makes him appear more than a little like Shirley MacLaine in Madame Sousatzka—recalls a time when he was a young man. He interrupts himself and remarks to the audience on this curious phenomenon of being simultaneously a female character and a male self. He says he hopes his observation won't spoil the "Illyoo-sion" of his performance. (If one were looking for an illustration of the concept of "meta," this would be an excellent moment to remember.)
The show is a fairly sedate one—at least when compared with other contemporary drag performances. At moments, I felt as though I were at an evening hosted by a Broadway or Hollywood demi-diva of a certain age, who has deigned to give her fans the chummy, up-close-and-personal treat of an appearance in an intimate club. As he's aged, Busch seems to have grown increasingly more settled into this glamorous-matron persona. His portrayal here won't likely be branded (as drag acts often have been) as an exercise in misogyny. How could anyone not fall for this grand yet vulnerable gal who dishes with her audience about her interactions with Sir Paul McCartney and Sir Ian McKellen? Anyway, when you hear the loving way Busch talks about his Aunt Lillian in this show, it's hard to imagine him having a misogynistic bone in his body.
Almost none of the show's musical material is comedic on its face. An exception is the opening number, an up-tempo version of "One Note Samba" (Antonio Carlos Jobim, with additional lyrics written by Busch and novelist Mark Childress). On the night I saw the show, Busch and his pianist, Tom Judson, seemed out of synch with each other's tempo during this number, setting the show off on a rough beginning. (Throughout the rest of the evening, the two collaborated beautifully—Judson often beaming at Busch, as though having the time of his life.)
Other songs range from a duet with the powerfully voiced Judson on the wistful "That Sunday, That Summer" (George David Weiss, Joe Sherman) to a spunky "Hey, Look Me Over" (Cy Coleman, Carolyn Leigh). In the jazzy "Under Paris Skies" (Hubert Giraud, Jean Dréjac, Kim Gannon), Busch performs with barely leashed ferocity. When he sings the line "Stranger, beware—there's love in the air," he shields his head as though protecting himself from falling shards of glass or dive-bombing killer bees. Then there's the audaciously thunderous treatment he gives to a New York City medley that includes "Where Do I Go?" (Galt MacDermot, James Rado, Gerome Ragni), "I Guess the Lord Must Be in New York City" (Harry Nilsson), and a snippet or two of Cole Porter's "I Happen to Like New York." Imagine a lady Godzilla roaring a similar musical Valentine to Tokyo, and you've got the idea. Yet Busch seems emotionally invested in every word he belts about his hometown.
The better of two nonmusical set pieces is "Charles and the Wolfe," a comic monologue about Busch's long-ago encounters with a miserable human being who happened to be his neighbor. Not quite as satisfying is a segment in which he revisits a character named Miriam Passman (who showed up on Broadway as "Marjorie Taub" in his 2000 stage comedy The Tale of the Allergist's Wife). The gauche and self-important Miriam (a small-time cabaret performer, rather than a pro) is indeed funny—but she seems an odd intrusion here. In this segment, Busch is in effect juggling three separate identities: That Girl, That Boy, and That Noodge. It's too much by a third.
Quibbles aside, this is a very satisfying turn by Busch. During the proceedings he mentioned that his performances are being taped for a possible CD. I sincerely hope that pans out.
