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As
passive-aggressive as her namesake, equal
parts snarl and purr, Meow Meow channels the
spirits of Lotte Lenya and Sid Vicious as
she performs the songs of Weill, Piaf and
Ramone. Pawing through her suitcase full of
props and costumes, the Australian Sally
Bowles purr-sonifies purr-fectly the concept
of weltschmerz. She’s a world-weary
songstress in the process of public
disintegration.
An antipodal sister to Kiki, another flaneur
on the “Boulevard of Broken Dreams,” Meow
Meow prowled through a two-hour
deconstruction of show business and the
human condition on Friday night at the
sold-out Hiro Ballroom. With its myriad
Chinese lanterns and low candlelight, the
Hiro resembles nothing so much as a 1930s
Shanghai opium den, making it the purr-fect
litter box for Meow to kick up her heels.
One moment purring, before snarling the
next, Meow exhorted the audience to cater to
her every whim. First appearing curled up in
a red leather banquette amidst her audience,
she cajoled men and boys to carry her
cocktails and her suitcase, and to unzip and
undress her—and that was just to get her
onstage. Before long, she had males lying at
her feet and wrapping themselves around her
middle, and forming a sort of chaise longue
for her elegantly tapered legs (think Cyd
Charisse), legs which appeared to have a
life of their own, often swinging wide open,
spread-eagle—at which point Meow would
demand the paparazzi to fire away in a
flurry of flashes.
Before long, like a contortionist Iggy Pop,
Meow was transported over the crowd, as the
audience sent her roaming around the room,
passed from one group to another, over their
heads—until an ungenerous martini landed in
her eye, causing temporary blindness and an
unceremonious drop back onto the stage.
Whereupon the audience went quiet—suddenly
fearful and anxious, wondering if all the
fun was now off, for it was no longer
possible to determine the line between
spontaneity and scripted performance.
Not to worry, however, Meow was soon back on
her feet, if a little shaky—and in need of
another supporting man from the audience.
Like most domesticated felines, Meow
couldn’t do much for herself—save for sing.
And when she did, in a voice haunting and
clear, the audience was rapt. Singing in
French, Italian and German, she sometimes
sought a native speaker from the audience to
translate the lyrics—sharing with us how it
would be in another culture, another city,
another life. “You can imagine,” she
purred—her signature aphorism. She sang “Ne
Me Quitte Pas” and “Je N’Oublierai Jamais”
as if Piaf were still pining for Marcel
Cerdan. And she ended with her version of
“Surabaya Johnny,” resigned to loss, draped
over a Meow Meow mannequin, an empty shell
of her former self.
Yet Meow Meow is nothing if not a survivor,
a true feline with nine lives—and many of
them on display during the course of one
evening. She sheds personae with alacrity,
adopting postures and changing moods, from
seductress to victim, first wailing in
despair, then whispering with awe. She’ll be
back in New York, maybe as soon as this
summer—and if you catch her, be sure and
hold her tight.
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