Being a perroflauta does not mean you don’t have your camp moments. Wearing bright red lipstick in honour of Dr Frank N. Furter and kilts, Brad (a Glee-tastic Scotsman) and I marched toward Ya’sta for their monthly Rocky Horror Picture Show Sing-along (www.dramakuinshow.blogspot.com) only to be confronted by a builder’s crack repainting the club! Dammit Janet!
No closed doors (or bigots for that matter) can stop a queen ready to camp it up! We grabbed a few beers from a nearby chino and turned my living room into a karaoke bar. Two hours of ‘Don’t rain on my parade’ later, Streisand-out, we were ready to paint the town pink.
First off, the ground bar of Oscar – the hotel (Plaza de Vázquez de Mella) known throughout the capital for its rooftop swimming pool – surrounded by the label-addicted, upper-class Gays, the lone hippy that I am, truly felt like a queen out of water. Brad reassured me they were nothing more than posers, wannabes of the worst kind. But on seeing Alejandro Amenabear (the film director of hits such as Agora and The Others) walking in, I started to suspect that he’d only said that to make me feel better. The minute they played Lady Gaga, we left – thank God! When will we be rid of her? – and decided to shake our stuff somewhere else.
Polana was out of the question, its doors having been sealed shut due to – if the rumours are to be believed and let’s face it what would we be without them – not having the right license. When will they reopen their door – if ever- you ask? No one knows. It’s a sad and abrupt end of an era filled with cheesy tunes and Spice Girls classics – get over it! So we headed where –or so I’d been told – people actually danced. I won’t lie, I was excited. And as always, I shouldn’t have been. I had been right all along. Spaniards don’t dance in clubs. Not there, not anywhere. Dammit Janet!
What can be said about La Boite (Calle de Goya)? Well, not much. I walked around the club hoping to at least get a column out of this very unimpressive venue but the only interesting thing I noticed apart from the very eclectic crowd (ranging from early twenties to a few late forties) was their plastic ruby-inspired chandeliers and that does not a column make! The music, house remixed version of classic pop tunes, was dancy enough but surprising all everyone did was sway from side to side while holding onto their drinks.
Still singing Barbra on my way back home, I wished people would burst out into a song and dance more often. And you know what they say: be careful what you wish for! The next afternoon, I stumbled across a flash mob performance of about a hundred queens dancing on Plaza de Vázquez de Mella. Their tribute was a plea to get their idol to bring her world-tour to Spain.
Their idol: Lady Gaga! Dammit Janet!