Damn'd Right, Christeene
Gutter-slut drag queen bids America (temporary) adieu
By Kevin Curtin,
10:30AM, Mon. Jun. 16, 2014
“Fuck you, ROT Rallyyyyy!” shouted Christeene Vale in her raspy lisp. As if anyone from the local biker gathering had showed up to LGTB venue Cheer Up Charlie’s to watch the trashy drag queen rap.
Dressed first in a black leotard and veil combo, the vulgar alter-ego of local darling Paul Soileau launched into the hardcore porno flow of “Slowly/Easy,” the energetic beats of producer JJ Booya pulsating in the background. Her backup Boyz, T-Gravel and C-Baby, wore panda masks and coveralls, summoned Christeene then paraded her around the CUC stage in tight birthing position.
The Boyz then shed their getups in favor of skimpy striped underwear, as Christeene continued her sewer-mouthed electro rap with anthemic career-starter single “Fix My Dick.” “How many people does it take to fix my dick?” she pleaded before jumping into the audience and crowd surfing about the patio.
I've witnessed a Christeene performance every year since I first caught Soileau’s character in action at Lovejoy’s in 2010. Each time the show has been noticeably better. Now it’s undeniably impressive. Totally vile, yes, and still somehow shocking, but the costume changes and stage gags now come marked with constant improvement. More crucial, it's becoming easier to forget that this horny, quasi disgusting, self-confident, and hilarious wreck of a concept that we're watching is the invention of an artist.
“Hey you! What is that? Give it to me!” Christeene demanded at the onset of a reoccurring part of the show, in which she steals liquor from audience members, whom she casually refers to as “faggots” and “fuck-faces.”
“Tell you friends not to drink beer. Beer makes them look pregnant and boring!”
Wearing smeared red lipstick, a gold tooth, a greasy black wig, and less and less clothing with each ensuing song, Christeene filled the bulk of her set with surprisingly diverse chunks of music/performance art, including a hard-hitting industrial punk shouter and an Eighties dance pop track for which the group donned neon garb and executed a synchronized routine with black light Japanese fans.
The hourlong performance crescendoed with the slow ballad “Tears From My Pussy,” through which T-Gravel crouched between Christeene's legs, squirting a water bottle on the audience. The spastic lust of “African Mayonnaise” followed. During that song, Gravel spat on his index finger, penetrated himself with it, and waved it under the nose of an audience member.
“We’re going on a trip across the ocean, but we'll keep you in our hearts and our booties,” Christeene said, acknowledging this month's 10-date tour through Europe. “We’re going to represent Austin in the worst way we can. Every time we get on stage, we tell ‘em we're from Austin, and they're afraid. We the new George Bush!”
I can find comfort in that.