REVIEW: THE PUMPS PIN-UPS - DAMN EVERYTHING BUT THE CIRCUS

“…damn everything that is grim, dull, motionless, unrisking, inward turning, damn everything that won’t get into the circle, that won’t enjoy, that won’t throw its heart into the tension, surprise, fear and delight of the circus, the round world, the full existence…” - e.e. cummings

Sunday evening in Bushwick, with the hospital halogen glow of a gas station illuminating the Pumps Exotic Dancing banner on the side of the building, I enter the third show from The Pumps Pin-Ups, entitled “Damn Everything But the Circus.” The casual bar has been transformed into a neon graffiti palace, with grotesque, macabre, inspired creatures and profane scrawlings adorning every centimeter of mirror on both sides of the stage. The artwork ranges from psychedelic foliage and casually satanic symbolism to characters that look like Robert Crumb portraits drawn for a Butthole Surfers album cover. Wise words above urge the audience to “Iggy Pop Til You Drop.” The show’s art curator, Aubrey Roemer, glides through the crowd and applies glow-in-the-dark ink to their faces with glee. She adds a few decorations to my forehead and cheeks and they feel like inverted crosses, which makes me feel like she’s seen deep into my evil soul and understands exactly who I am. When I examine the symbols they’re more like addition signs (+ + +), but what the hell, close enough. Sunny de la Vega entertains the crowd before the show officially starts and every person who came early rejoices in their decision to arrive before showtime. She seems effortless as she displays grace and impressive and strength while pole-dancing, seemingly defying gravity while the red flower in her hair impossibly stays in place. But this is the brilliance of The Pumps Pin-Ups: They make everything difficult and challenging and anxiety-inducing seems calculatedly cool and easy.

The show’s MCs, the wise-cracking Rocket Ships (rocking neon green/black lingerie and teased pigtails) and new team member Evan Von Doomstein, looking slick in a suit and combed mustache, welcome the audience to feast their eyes on Sinister Shabzzz, Harley Quin, and Foxy Highroller, each posing in their own spotlight while Scarlett la Rosa, the troup’s fearless leader and director, circled them with a whip as the evening’s Ringmistress.

The first half of the show was full of inspired performances, including: Ariel Wolf’s inventive routine in a white gown of balloons, popped one by one by a peacock-feathered quill; Scarlett la Rosa’s sultry rendition of Peggy Lee’s “Fever” concluding with a triumphant drag of a cigarette; Bella Boop transporting us all to Burning Man with an impressive display of neon hula-hooping in her awesome horned demon outfit.

Around this point Von Doomstein appropriately asked the crowd if anyone was willing to share their drugs, and received one whistle. Selfish bastards.

Sinister Shabzzz took the stage in a black corset and pink heart pasties as a spellbinding black metal siren looking for her “pussy,” who subsequently returned in the form of Harley Quin wearing a cat costume and purring. I have friends whose first crushes were anthropomorphic animated bunnies and cats who would replay their heart-warming exchange over and over, with even less clothing in mind. Shanlita Bandita then  sizzled in a pink onesie, guiding Von Doomstein to a chair and giving him a private dance, if you ignore the bar full of ogling people. My friend leaned in and whispered, “The irony of paying to watch another guy get a lapdance.” Shanlita stole a flask from her mark’s pocket and proceeded to rob him at gunpoint, requesting he strip to a leopard-print thong, to the delight of the scowling guys stationed in front of him. Come on guys, you could do worse, and you probably have. If anything, this routine, apart from being incredible fun and slyly humorous, should also inspire some guys to come open their wallets when lapdances are available.

Spanx Sinatra then sang a song possibly titled “Creep,” which was not a Radiohead cover, but a brutal and totally deserved skewering of cheap, shady, disrespectful tools that occasionally wander into Pumps. She has natural ability that just dazzles and transforms any space she inhabits into a high-class speakeasy. Sasha Berkowitz danced to Marilyn Manson’s “Dope Show” (guessing her name was inspired by Daisy Berkowitz a bit) with makeup that invoked either a seductive clown or the sidekick we all wish The Crow had. With chains draped from her black collar to her negligee bracelets, she had my favorite outfit of the night. Heidi Glum, dubbed “Supermodel of the Underworld” and dressed like a 60s pin-up homemaker, steered the show to its intermission, where Kill ‘Em All-era Metallica had me drumming on the bar top while Kat and Vanessa, the establishment’s amazing bartenders, served up cold drinks with corsets and a smile.

Act Two, and Scarlett la Rosa is knocking ‘em dead again with her smooth voice and her white boa, draped over black & white bra top. Rocket insists that the audience is “Ten years younger and 20% more cancer free” after hearing Scarlett’s voice, and I have toa dmit it’s a pretty damn good tonic. Shanlita then downs half of a bottle of some anonymous liquid while donning a gol leopard-print dress. The audience thought it might be water, someone verified it’s not. My money’s on absinthe. Whatever it was, she sought escape near Dom, from Air of Ants, hiding in the shadow of his keyboard.

The performance of the evening may go to the tag-team rendition of “Don’t Tell Mama” that the lovely Ivy Nyx, Spanx Sinatra, and Scarlett la Rosa unleashed on the crowd. There was a huge reaction as each of them dared the other to sing louder and with unparalleled amounts of charisma and sass, and holy shit were each of them up to the challenge. I don’t have many notes written because I was applauding and throwing money in a nearby top hat, but in my notebook I have written down: HUGE. That could be describing the applause, their voices, their busts, or perhaps I glanced down at my own crotch.

Foxy Highroller made her Pumps Pin-Ups debut and was fantastic, pole-dancing to Radiohead’s “Talk Show Host.” With a rose-print dress, cigarette holder, and tattooed wings, she looked like she was floating and enjoying high society at the same time. Ivy Nyx was kind enough to grace us with another sing, belting out “Hit the Road, Jack” while Sinister Shabzzz brought howls and hollers from the crowd with her patented vertical split against the pole, which sounds less impressive than it looks. Seriously, watch that shit in person and tell me that pole dancing isn’t an art and a sport at once. The music wasn’t finished, as Spanx Sinatra sang one of my favorite songs ever, “Dream a Little Dream of Me,” with support from Jerry, an unfairly talented clarinetist who made that instrument sing and scat with impossible dexterity. I played the clarinet for years and it was one of my favorite moments of the night.

Before Rocket could round up a pack of “cats and small rodents to overpower her lifeless body,” Shanlita awoke from her alcoholic slumber in a sailor hat and polka dot bathing suit. With Gogol Bordello cranking out their unique brand of cabaret punk she spray-painted “see the spectacle” over the mirror artwork. The spray-paint leaked red all over her hands and chest like she was stuck in a crime scene from Dexter, which a creep like me finds very alluring. After her performance Evan Von Doomstein had his revenge, forcing her to strip with her own gun pointed at her, completing one of my darker fantasies in front of me. Who am I kidding, that’s kid stuff compared to what gets me off.

Spanx Sinatra sang a song while Sunny de la Vega, the Barcelonian dancer of undebatable skill, did a dramatic routine that was classy and captivating. I particularly liked the percussion of her opening and closing her fan as she slid pole to pole. I wasn’t sure of the song and just wrote down that it was “exotic,” a code word for “foreign” because I’m an ethnocentric douche. Rocket followed with her first solo dancing performance as a Pumps Pin-Up, entertaining the crowd in gold lingerie and headbnging like the black-souled metalhead we all know she is to “Minnie the Moocher.” At some point Evan Von Doomstein broke out the line “In Soviet Russia, Rocket fires you” and I laughed and raised my Bud in appreciation of his joke.

Heidi Glum brought hard rock and heavy metal back into the fray by dancing to “Living Dead Girl” by Rob Zombie while dressed like vintage Marilyn Manson with a Frankenstein’s monster twist. It was an inspired performance but mostly made me miss the days when Marilyn Manson wasn’t so chubby that he had to draw in a jaw line to try and convince people he was still thin. Ariel Wolf then illuminated the room with a fire-eating and breathing act to another song I love, Louis Armstrong’s “Kiss of Fire.” Damn everything but the circus indeed, and Ariel held the spirit of the evening in high regard with her two amazing sets.

The audience showed their appreciation with cat-calls and crumpled dollars as Scarlett la Rosa invited the performers back on stage while she sang “Calendar Girl.” Having seen the two prior shows, I had high expectations for the night and they exceeded every one. The admission was raised $5 (to $12 at the door), but that increase could be seen in the additional performers and artwork, the improved sound quality (especially in the show’s second half), steadier work from the new MC duo, and the lighting that seemed seamless. This is exactly the sort of event that people in New York/Brooklyn write home about to brag about the benefits of being in the city. I can’t recommend it enough.

Go follow The Pumps Pin-Ups over on Facebook so you don’t miss a show. Even if you’re dumb as hell, you can do this one smart thing in your rotten life and turn it all around:  https://www.facebook.com/PumpsPinUps

REVIEW: PUMPED UP - A BACCHANALIA by the PUMPS PINUPS

Last week I handed in a review of a recent metal concert to the editor-in-chief at Decibel Magazine. I was asked to describe 4+ hours of music and moshing in 450 words. While that was a challenge, the real kicker was that when I attended the show I wasn’t aware I’d be reviewing it later. This lead to many (MANY) beers beforehand. I’m proud of the final product, but I have no doubt my journalistic skills were severely corroded with each $1 PBR/shot of Jack I enjoyed over at Duff’s.

When I arrived at Pumps, the “anti-gentleman’s club” of Brooklyn, I was entirely dedicated to staying sober and reporting the events with unrelenting accuracy. Several empty shot glasses of Jameson later, here are my notes regarding the second performance of the Pumps Pinups, the burlesque ensemble lead by show director/creator Scarlett la Rosa. Some may be out of chronological order, because there was a strange whiskey stain (I hope?) on a few of the pages:

It’s 8:45 PM, I’ve perused the assortment of sexually-charged artwork (curated by the talented Aubrey Roemer) featuring blacklight paints, and I’m sipping a Bud while Jesse McCloskey’s charcoal drawing of a seriously unhinged witch stares at me from the wall.

Kat, who befriends everyone within thirty seconds and one smile, bartends the event with the lovely Vanessa. Kat tells me she’s “way ahead of me” and has downed several shot of Patron. She declines taking a shot with me, but changes her mind about fifty seconds later. Vanessa grimaces as she joins for a shot, with orange nails glowing in the dimness.

The girls take the stage and they’re breathtaking, all writhing against the three poles positioned on the stage. Scarlett la Rosa belts out a gentle version of Guns ‘N Roses’ “Sweet Child O’ Mine” with piano accompaniment (from Dom of the band Air of Ants). The hardcore band I drummed for in high school used to cover the song as well, but without the grace and originality.

Spank Sinatra summons the spirit of Jessica Rabbit by way of Etta James for a smoky, seductive version of “Why Don’t You Do Right?” Jessica Rabbit was my first crush, and it was deeply tragic when I learned I could not date, marry, or fuck a cartoon senseless. This song just reaffirmed my love for that bad girl, even if she was just drawn that way.

Gypsy Nyx follows with two smoothly sung songs, “Burlesque” and “All That Jazz,” while the smirking and exceptionally strong Harley Quinn stuns the audience with acrobatic pole dancing. Gypsy owns an effortless sultry confidence and sounds like she’d be perfect for a James Bond theme song.

Sophie Von Z  dances with the dangerous appeal of a Prohibition era speakeasy back room striptease. Transports me to a time where I need to whisper a password through a hole in a brick wall to a scarfaced lug in a fedora to earn entrance. Luckily, liquor is easier to come by now, and entrance to see Sophie Von Z is a modest $7 cover charge.

Spank Sinatra returns to the stage, declaring after some banter with Rockett that her drug of choice is “dick.” She launches into a crowd-pleasing number I will refer to as “I Want To Be Fucked By You,” a song that fills the air with howls, whistles, and (allegedly) semen. Pure brilliance, an ode to submissive sensuality and a blunt injection of libido that shows sometimes innuendo is totally overrated.

Shanlita Bandita graces the stage for the first time as a recently dumped dame swallowed by depression after her scumbag boyfriend left her at a liquor store. She haunts the stage with a flask and a solemn trench coat before attempting the world’s first suicide by water pistol. Luckily for all of us, her aim is horrible.

Sophie Von Z dances for everyone’s communal enjoyment again, in a new golden Romany-inspired outfit with a transparent black cape. It’s a more exotic performance than her previous song, and makes me hear the distant chimes of finger cymbals and ankle bells. She sizzles, all eyes locked on the stage.

Scarlett la Rosa breaks hearts with a gorgeous red over-bust corset. Maybe I’ve frequented too many Renaissance Festivals, maybe it’s my days as a high school goth, but corsets kill me every time. She nailed the mysterious femme fatale quality that made “Sooner or Later” so hot in “Dick Tracy.” Plus, she totally out-sings Madonna.

Shanlita Bandita gleefully comes back to the stage after her successful therapy: Discovering the joys of “returning to her white trash roots” with the pleasures of boxed wine. She dances with pep and passion, rocking platform converse sneakers with clear heels that seem nineteen inches tall. She ends her energetic highlight performance by drenching herself in wine from the box’s lecherous nozzle. It was like “Flashdance” for alcoholics.

More to drink. Harley Quinn in a (crotchless) cat outfit, wiping up the white wine from the ground. She also purrs across the bar top, gathering donations for the girls. I don’t know why men have a primal attraction to women dressed as cats. I tell my girlfriend I think all men are inherently open to beastiality because of this. She says that makes her nervous about us both sharing a pet cat. Shanlita shares the box of wine with adventurous audience members. The wine tastes amazing, which signals I am thoroughly blitzed. While the stage is being cleaned and swept, the blue-haired head-banging beauty (and co-MC) Rocket Shippes pleads, “Get that broom away from me, I’m horny.”

Ms. Quinn (who Rocket claims “puts the Bang in Bangladesh) charms the audience with an erotic calm and a punk rock aesthetic. Heavily tattooed and pierced, the ladies to my left both take note of how striking she is and talk at length about her appeal. I don’t hear much besides a murmured blur and a few key words because I’m too busy staring.

Spank Sinatra again, and she keeps outdoing herself. This time it’s like she crept into my morbid fantasies and mined it for images. She comes to the stage with dramatic skull make-up, looking like the attractive female version of Papa Emeritus from Ghost B.C., which doesn’t sound like much of a compliment until you realize I’m a huge metalhead. She destroys the crowd with a macabre version of the Screamin’ Jay Hawkins classic “I Put A Spell On You,” a song that burns with sex appeal and has never sounded more fiery. Her performance is hotter than a long fuck in a moonlit cemetery.

Pumps owner Andy walks through the crowd and reluctantly accepts applause as Rocket destroys with one of her many viciously awesome one-liners, saying, “He’s done more for us than our dysfunctional fathers.” He’s just as happy letting the girls have the whole spotlight, despite the success of the event in his venue.

Despite some audio issues, first-time Pumps Pinup Bianca Dagga sways in a red skirt before treating the eager crowd to a striptease. She ends the performance by igniting the ends of her pastie tassels and swirling them in a perfect ring of fire that’s way hotter than anything Johnny Cash ever sang about. Huge applause ends the show, everyone’s smiling, more drinks ordered.

This show is a helluva lot of fun. I understand not everyone is as open-minded or sex-positive, but this is celebratory entertainment and a true art form. There was no creepy leering, no heckling, just a crowd totally on-board with pretty girls using their various talents to make everyone smile and go home happy. If you read my interview with Scarlett la Rosa, then you know they all achieved exactly what they wanted. I have no doubt they will overcome the mild technical glitches and obstacles they faced during the show and delight everyone with another performance in the future. This is definitely the sort of creative spirit that made New York/Brooklyn a destination for artists and artistic expression. You can wander into any Starbucks and meet a dozen writers (who haven’t actually written a word of that masterpiece novel they talk about every day for years at a time), or you can wander down to Pumps for these occasional burlesque nights and experience singing, dancing, comedy, stripteasing, photography, and cutting edge artwork all in the same evening. This is why art thrives in communities. Make yourself a part of it, because even audiences are participants.

Follow the Pumps Pinups on Twitter: @PumpsPinups

And check out the Pumps page on facebook for more information: https://www.facebook.com/pumpsbarbrooklyn

REVIEW: PUMPS BAR

Mister Growl doesn’t yelp, let’s get that straight. Yelping is a sound too sissified to come from my masculine vocal cords. I have been known to yawp, however. My personal “Yelp” ban left me with only one possible course of action after recently visiting Pumps in Brooklyn: Write about the city’s only rock’n’roll strip joint on my metal blog. It’s not like my friends and fellow headbangers would mind, I mean strip clubs have been an important element of rock excess for 30 years. Where would Mötley Crüe be without strip clubs? And where would we all be without Mötley Crüe, besides maybe just a smidge happier and a lot more sober? As a non-ironic fan of clubs, especially ones with character and rock attitude, I will even excuse Crüe’s entire discography if it means one more place like Pumps in the world.

Pumps is tucked away on a dreary stretch of road that Bushwick seemingly doesn’t want to claim, so people started calling it East Williamsburg. There’s broken glass on the sidewalks and foreboding factories leering down at pedestrians until the glow of a neighboring gas station lures patrons closer, like that famous dock light from The Great Gatsby that Baz Luhrmann will recreate using atrocious CGI. The locale is not hip, it’s not fabulous, but it’s the exact quiet walk you need before and after a trip to a strip club to think of The Greater Truths. The ten minute walk (if you have short legs) from the nearest subway is perfect for an internal monologue about how the stigma of these establishments is just a hypocritical view of “evil” capitalism. Truth be told: Strip clubs offer a service. If the service does not interest you, move on. No need to demonize the patrons, the owner, and especially the workers. Everyone’s gotta make a living. I’m lucky enough to make a few bucks writing about metal albums, and those are the cleanest dollars I make. My day job is no better than someone shedding a little clothing to a song off ...And Justice For All.

Which they do at Pumps. I walked in with Metallica’s “One” playing loudly and three topless dancers performing in front of a long mirror, creating the illusion that the venue is twice the size. After the initial M.C Escher mirror mind-trick I was able to take in the layout: A long bar with 2 female tenders sliding drinks to eager customers and one long aisle to walk behind the stool-perched patrons lining the counter with a narrow lap dance lounge separated from the main room by a curtain of beads. Two beautiful motorcycles hang from the ceiling with assorted rock/sports related posters and knick-knacks decorating the walls. The dancers take turns twisting around two poles, leaving one to freestyle against the mirror or on the floor of the platform. There’s a refreshingly blunt streaming neon sign over the bar reading “If you don’t have money take your broke ass home!”

Which takes me back to this being a service. Remember, most services cost money. I don’t know what your job is, dear reader, but I assume you would not do your job for free, unless you’re a lowly intern, which means that you have all my sympathy. Unless you wander into Pumps without the ability or desire to spend some money, then my sympathy dries up like a mummified vagina. There’s no cover, which is awesome and increasingly rare, unless you get some glossy postcard for a Times Square strip club and enter a place before 7PM, which I’m not against but will definitely limit your ability to accurately enjoy the full splendor of any establishment. Beers are $7, stronger drinks are $10 or so. The bartenders live off of tips, as do the dancers. After each song the dancers on stage will stroll around the bar, say hello, and ask for a sign of your appreciation, which is a dollar amount of your choosing, as long as it’s one or above. Some will gripe about this practice, as there’s usually more distance between seats and the stage, affording customers less anonymity and privacy. I personally love it, and it makes the experience more personal and closes that gap between performer and patron. This is a small place to begin with, so it’s not like you’re gonna find a dark corner and camouflage yourself to ogle without detection. Cough up some cash and treat everyone right, which includes polite tipping and staying respectful. Lap dances are available for the standard $20, but the dancers are not topless, which I admit is a bummer. Still, if you want some conversation and friction this is a promising opportunity. You’re also welcome to buy a dancer a drink if you’d prefer more conversation and less friction, and they will usually opt for a $20 glass of champagne. These prices are pretty standard for this industry, so if you’re rolling your eyes at them you have my permission to stay at home and peruse the internet for nudity, which should take an exhausting .6 second Google search.

The staff of dancers is eclectic but leans toward Suicide Girl territory, with body mods abound and Manic Panic hair moving brightly in the black light. Still, if you’re searching for a certain body type or ethnicity they are very likely represented on a weekend night. All of the dancers were very friendly, offering chit chat if it was sought, or vaster discussions about art if you pay for their time. I won’t mention any names (since aliases mutate regularly in this business anyway), but the staff in general were fun and laid-back, cracking jokes about their Catholic roots while Rage Against the Machine blasted in the background.

One extremely talented performer, a dark-haired beauty named Mia, invited me to a Pumps-hosted event later in the week featuring an art exhibit and a burlesque show. I used to frequent Dr. Sketchy’s Anti-Art School over at the Slipper Room, my favorite burlesque joint in the city, so the union of art and burlesque is totally my jam. I will cover Aubrey Roemer’s dynamic work soon as a featured artist on this blog, so stay tuned for that, because it features the Pumps Pin-Ups.

Anyway, I’m one of those annoying guys who is fifteen minutes early for everything, including the art exhibit. The Pumps owner (or manager, unsure which) was kind enough to not only open the doors to me, but give me a drink on the house for being the early bird eating the fuck out of the worm. He then said, “If you were wearing a Pumps shirt I’d have given you two beers.” I was wearing the Down “smoking Jesus” shirt. Frowny face. Still, little gestures like that are what make a business part of the community, and it did not go ignored. The burlesque show was sassy fun, showing off the singing/dancing/teasing talents of the Pumps Pin-Ups with smiles abound. Burlesque is one of my favorite forms of entertainment and they nailed the mischievous, playful tone that makes it so appealing.

I definitely recommend Pumps to anyone seeking a gentleman’s club experience more in line with my own blue collar working attitude. Scores may get all the Yankee players, and they can keep ‘em. Pumps get the rockers and metalheads who stop by Duff’s and Saint Vitus, though the clientele is diverse as well. I see Pumps as a positive life experience, one that discards the bells and whistles of polished, upscale clubs and succeeds with quality talent, personality, and a playlist that rocks harder than any other club in the city. It may not be glamorous and it may not be the Vegas strip, but I know Crüe would approve, and they’re pretty much the Roger Ebert of strip club opinions and insight.

Get more information on Pumps over on their site, including the address and happy hour times (with $4 beers, which is totally solid):  http://pumpsbar.com/