A New York Burlesque Show, A Crotch Muppet, The Stripper Police & A Belarusian Prison Guard

A Tiger Queen and a sexagenarian stripper on a Ukulele- What more could you want from a Burlesque graduation show?

March 24, 2024
Alphabet City, New York

After a liquid dinner on Avenue B with our friends, we ambled towards Tompkins Square Park to cheer on fellow cartoonist and part-time burlesque dancer,

Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell

. This was her New York School of Burlesque graduation show and it was to take place at the legendary New York music institution: Drom. From the Romani Gypsy language, “drom” translates to English roughly as “the journey.”

And what a journey it was.

Sandwiched between a pizza joint, a ramen bar and a karaoke club, the 17-year-old basement venue is well-hidden from human sight. That didn’t stop it from having a long line snaking down Avenue A.

We descended the cement staircase that led past a strict ID checkpoint and through a doorway to the historic basement: A giant old painting of the Galata Tower from Istanbul sat high on the back wall. Every kooky corner housed something shiny, all orbiting a massive chandelier dangling in the middle of the room— threatening to end somebody's night with the snap of a chain.

After being told we didn’t have the right kind of tickets to be treated like adults, Sophie, Andrew, Meg and I were ushered grumpily by the hostess to a small square of cement where we were told we were to stand and not move until the conclusion of the show.

When we dared ask if we could sit at the bar, we were castigated and told not to go anywhere near the bar. Testing the strength of the hostess’ conviction, I edged towards the bar to order a drink and was quickly nudged back to the cement square where I belonged. Had she a working cattle prod, I'm certain she'd have used it. She threw me a scathing glare that turned me to jelly. With all the charm of a Belarusian prison warden, she gnashed her teeth and told me to ‘stay’.

I didn’t catch her name, but I shall call her Madamé Drom.

I forgot to take a photo, but this is what my memory is serving me.

After running the gauntlet of trying to enter the basement, good friend and fellow New Yorker cartoonist, Sophia Warren committed the mortal sin of attempting to order some fries from the bar sans the exact combination of identification documents. She had made it across the border only to be met with yet another checkpoint.

She was unable to receive said fries on account of her not being able to open a tab without calling the Chairman of the Federal Reserve. When she finally did manage to bring some paper cash to successfully engage in basic commerce, Madamé Drom gave her an ear-lashing for attempting to relocate the fries from the bar area to share with a friend at a table. She was lucky to escape with her hands still attached to her wrists.

Sofia was close to tears. “This place is awful.” she sobbed, as we looked back at the door wondering if it was too late to bail. The show was sold out; they were turning people away by the dozen, snarling at them for having the audacity to show up to support their friends wizzout using ze phone.

I still hadn’t checked my coat, which I was still holding. Come to think of it; we were all holding our coats and scarves. We asked the clerk at the check-in desk if we could check our coats, and were told, “No coat check tonight!”
“Could we just hang th—”
“NO!” she snapped.

Fuck it— in for a penny, in for a pounding.

Just then, the person we were there to see —our pal, Hilary— appeared at the bar in a thin red dressing gown.

She stood waiting, next to a moustached man in a brown leather jacket who was seething loudly about his fiancée. She wanted to order a drink but was steadfastly refused. “Dancers drink last!” the bartender growled at her before she slunk back behind the curtain, parched and sober.

Andrew managed to open a tab after filling out a short mortgage application form. We made sure to sip our drinks in the no-man’s-land between the bar and the tables like good comrades. I glanced behind the bar to see they were offering Scathing Insults at twenty-bucks-a-pop. I couldn't help but think they were going to add a few to our tab.

The lights came down and all was forgotten

You read correctly before; this really was a graduation show for the New York School of Burlesque. That's an actual thing and you're very welcome. One of the many reasons I love this crazy city.

Our red-headed sexagenarian hostess for the show was vivacious and engaging, regaling us with tales of her decades in the biz between acts. One nugget of note was the hostess’ era working in the South where she had to routinely spread her legs over local county law officers so they could inspect, uh… The South. This was to ensure neither Arts nor Leisure were visible in her Arts & Leisure section.

Andrew and I both looked this up (because of course we did.) It’s actually a real thing: it’s illegal to show any of your bits in some counties and states, and they police it in great detail.

Above: A stripper in Clearwater, FLA showing the judge that her bikini briefs were too large to expose her vagina to the undercover cops that arrested her. (The case was dismissed.)
Source: Reddit

A seemingly endless cavalcade of bright and energetic burlesque graduates proceeded to perform for an enraptured crowd. We saw everything from a quiet Parisian secretary to a multi-layered Jim Henson tribute, culminating in the performer pulling a muppet out of her crotch.

I just invented the term “Crotch-Muppet”. You can have it.

It was impossible not to get caught up in the energy of the night.

This was a place where wolf-whistling was not only encouraged but mandatory. After each performer left the stage, a hirsute Indian man in a G-string danced alongside a completely bald black woman in red tassels. They would then scurry around the stage scooping up crumpled dollar bills and rhinestones that had flung off a spinning boob. Both Sophie and I had our own Roger Rabbit moments amid the line-up.

The show was the human embodiment of opening the world's craziest Spotify playlist and hitting Shuffle.

Another highlight included a young Asian American woman dressed like Joe Exotic from Tiger King, complete with blonde mullet wig and cowboy hat.

Our legs melted into the cement as the show continued past intermission. We’d been waiting all night to see Hilary and by gum, we weren’t leaving until we saw her. The moment finally arrived, and she burst forth from the curtain dancing in her unique, charismatic style to Lesley Gore’s “You Don't Own Me.” to rapturous applause and a hailstorm of singles.

As the sun rose in the east, the show slowly came to a conclusion. A quick demonstration of the hostess’ own formidable burlesque skills was followed by a call for all of the performers to return to the stage as she sang a number on her ukulele. That was our cue to skedaddle.

We had a fantastic night, and I was grateful Madame Drome gave us her scathing insults on the house.

I know it sounds like I had a rotten time at the venue, but in all seriousness, these are the places I love most in New York. Iconic, creative, swarming beehives of madness and talent. They encourage artists from every corner of the world to share their art with the deranged creatures that inhabit this scrappy little island, and they’ve been doing it for a long time.

Drom is as essential to jazz and burlesque as the Nuyorican Poets Cafe is to poetry and rap. It is as beloved by musicians as the Comedy Cellar is by comedians.