We didn’t know what to expect.
We knew: variety show.
We knew: “dancing girls and sword swallowers and other fancy things.”
We knew it was called the “Yard Dog Road Show” which seemed, somehow, both a good description in and of itself, but still not descriptive enough to warrant or guide expectation. We assumed “dancing girls” meant burlesque, but we had never seen burlesque before. Like Potter Stewart speaking to the Supreme Court, we assumed it was hard to describe but we would “know it when we saw it.”
So we met before the show and had a few beers, because it seemed an appropriate way to prepare for a hobo variety jug band show. (And, OK, also because it was summer and we like beer and that’s what we do, hobo variety jug band show or no.)
We got there early and had another beer outside and couldn’t help but find ourselves in conversation with others who were there a little early. We shared and guessed at and asked one another and made up what we thought we could expect. We talked about burlesque and cabaret and the semantic differences between, or at least, again, what we assumed and guessed at the differences to be.
And then the doors opened and we took our places, and from stage design alone we were already happy and knew we were in for something special and fun and full of joy. Then a group of dandy-styled, hobo-looking guys took the stage, and then the dancing girls entered from behind a curtain at stage right and we whistled and yelled and clapped and smiled and that “something special and fun and full of joy” continued for the next hour and a half. Which sounds cheesy, I know and admit, but it is true.
The Yard Dog Road Show is hard to describe and, even when an attempt goes well and the right words are found and placed in as good an order as possible, they still don’t do it justice. Variety show is a good place to start. “Dancing girls and sword swallowers and other fancy things” is true. Hobo vaudeville. Choreographed spontaneity. Jug band shtick that never seems shticky or, even when it does, only in the best way possible.
There was a rooster magically pulled from thin air; the “sword swallower” swallowed both a chair leg and a neon tube; confetti shot from horns; a suit went flying off someone, itself swallowed behind the curtain stage right; yards and yards of handkerchiefs were pulled from a mouth; and all the while, everything accompanied by the band, which alternated between background music and rock show. And, of course, the dancing girls. One of us described it, immediately after the encore, as: “I’ve never seen anything that was a better representation of what’s in my head,” and that’s maybe my favorite description yet.
Did I (and I switch here from first person plural to singular, to only implicate myself) possibly have more fun than any other show I’ve been to? Yes. Did I hoot and holler a possibly embarrassing amount, all while smiling the entire time? Check. Was I overcome with the desire to adopt the hobo dandy look? Start looking for me at any and all local thrift stores. Did I fall at least a little in love with each and every one of the girls? Swoon. Did that spill over to the dudes, too, and their awesome mustaches? OK, fine, yes, you got me. Did I, after the show, be sure to hang out long enough to thank them (for the show and for coming to town) and heap praise and superlatives? You know it. When talking to them, did I call out one among us as, earlier in the night, thinking he was going to go home to watch CSI, until we talked him into coming with us, and now he was glad he’d come? Sorry, Sean.
Did I drunkenly and too often tell them, like I did in my preview, that I “knew” Cotton and had been emailing him for years, had even published a short story by him in a fiction magazine that I edit, curious and excited for years to see the show I knew he was involved in, all in a lame and shameful attempt to ingratiate myself to them, make them like me, hell, maybe even notice something in me and invite on the road with them, honorary touring jug band member? Did I hope that my recently groomed into my Motörhead-inspired “Lemmy” facial hair might help in said appreciating of me? Well, yes. Did I then, like nearly every other punch-drunk audience member before and after me, try to flirt with the beautiful and talented burlesque girls, again lamely hoping my correspondence with Cotton might give me some kind of conversation “in,” all while hanging out too long at the merch table? Look for me around town in my new, kickass “Black and Blue Burlesque” t-shirt.
Which is all to repeat: it is a hard show to put into words, but an even harder show to not fall in love and be amazed with. If you ever have another chance to catch it, I can’t recommend it enough. You won’t be disappointed.