`Adoration,” announced Trina Saxxon, a redheaded drag queen whose mascara was almost as thick as her Atlanta drawl, “is almost an orgasm.”
Assuming the validity of that analogy, then Saxxon and others like him (or is that her?) found an exhibitionistic orgy at the 2nd annual Style Summit, held recently here.
Sponsored by nightclub entrepreneur Peter Gatien-whose Palladium, Limelight and newly opened USA are the “holy trinity” of New York nightclubs-the Style Summit billed itself as an “unconventional convention” for trend-setting club kids, ravers, designers, performers, musicians and, yes, drag queens. About 780 participants from more than a dozen cities forked over $99.95 to attend this counterculture equivalent of an Elks convention, which comprised four late nights of fashion shows, photo exhibits, cabaret acts, seminars, outlaw parties (illegal outdoor gatherings where the dwindling of the alcohol supply coincides with the arrival of police) and, yes, nightclubbing.
“The Style Summit is like a circus,” explained New York fashion designer designer Ernie Glam, chairman of the event and its “ambassador-at-large.” “You don’t actually have to be a clown or a lion tamer to enjoy the circus-you go because you love the titillation.”
Though the Style Summit drew its share of what Glam calls “the uninitiated,” most attendees, like Trina, were club-circuit veterans who read about the Summit in underground and gay zines like New York’s Project X and Atlanta’s Popcorn. “There are always going to be accusations of this being a drag queen convention, and I can’t really argue that it’s not,” sighed Glam. “These people are the most flamboyant in the fashion subculture and they stand out.”
They did just that at the Style Summit’s opening-night banquet at the Palladium, adjusting their daisy-trimmed chokers under post-modern disco balls: Skip P. from Washington, D.C., who had tiny horns glued to his forehead, opted for a sheer black tutu, magenta tights, a veil of Spanish lace and, inexplicably, elbow pads. A bare-chested Diana Ross look-alike swathed his almost emaciated frame with tufts of turquoise tulle. Candice Cane, a striking blond whose plumed headdress recalled a football-size Ziegfeld girl, had a pack of Marlboro Lights wedged in his bustier-about where his cleavage would be.
It’s all about style
The Style Summit is mainly about alternative fashion, and there was plenty of it to go around. Chava, 20, a designer from Los Angeles who favors molded plastic sheathes, painfully curled eyelashes and headpieces that spout plastic tubing, showed his “psychologically dramatic,” sci-fi-inspired creations on the runway and off.
Though deconstructionism was the most “on time” trend showcased at the Style Summit’s seven fashion shows-one of which used a downtown overpass as a runway-retro ruled on the dance floor. Amid the blur of bell-bottoms, hot pants and psychedelia, one clubgoer in foot-and-a-half-high platforms needed an escort to move around the room.
Those unwieldy platforms are an apt metaphor for the way fashion hobbles the Style Summit and underground nightclubbers, in general, at the same time that it defines them. Nightclubs have always drawn a parallel between the visual and the personal; club kids and drag queens up that ante by staking their identities almost entirely on phantasmal makeup and outrageous costumes.
In a sense, celebrities were almost a redundancy at the Style Summit, for attendees already had that designation reserved for themselves. And, tellingly, big-name New York fashion designer and grunge champion Christian Francis Roth, who was to host the opening night at the Palladium with drag queen Lady Bunny, canceled at the last minute, allegedly voicing concerns about how the Summit would affect his reputation in the fashion industry.
Famous face
But at least one “well-known” did attend: Susan Olson, better known to “Brady Bunch” fans as Cindy. Squinting from under a scrunched cotton black hat and fingering a Lexus symbol that dangled from her neck, this now-grownup “youngest one in curls” was a fittingly surreal addition to the festivities.
“This scene’s not that lurid to me,” Olson, now a “struggling artist,” said as she stubbed out a Marlboro 100, whose filter had ignited in the ashtray. “I was into the punk scene.” Still, that hadn’t prepared her for her tablemates, including one woman-we think-who wore American Express Gold cards as earrings and had styled her hair in a modified Princess Lea coif. “Makes me want cinnamon buns,” mused Olson, eyeing the hair coils.
Out in the Palladium lobby, San Francisco club kid Richie Rich was mugging for a Showtime camera crew. “My parents don’t necessarily like it-let’s just say they digested it,” he said tartly, presumably referring to his lifestyle or maybe his appearance-blond hair slicked back like a ’20s flapper, ankles bound with duct tape, nipples painted gold. Dangling from a collar around his neck were gilded hand mirrors attached by strings-more talismans of narcissism.
His foot pointed like a ballerina, Rich basked in the glare of camera lights and dutifully repeated a take. “In 1996 there’s going to be a Gap ad of me-just like this,” he smirked and, with a flourish, pointed his star-topped wand.
So, soooo catty
Not everyone agreed.
“He said that already,” complained Chel Jones, a 22-year-old from Minneapolis, who ends every sentence in a question and has labeled Summit attendees “urban attention-seekers.”
“He’s (Richie Rich) like the person in school who didn’t get enough attention,” said Jones. “They think they’re being alternative, but they’re just as competitive as everyone.”
Like any social gathering, the underground club scene has its share of pettiness, said 34-year-old Mike G., the self-proclaimed “Club King of Cleveland.” He added that a disdain for competition might account for the absence of Chicagoans at the Summit.
“Club kids from Chicago don’t like to feel they’re being submerged,” explained Mike, dressed only in fuzzy red cowboy chaps. “In all this, people are struggling with their own identities and they don’t like to be compared.”
At the Limelight, formerly a church converted into a nightclub, New York-based Keda-who makes a living dressing up at nightclubs-reflected on the nature of drag. He made a strong case for the Style Summit being a more democratic gathering than most “straight” partyers give it credit for being.
“Everyone’s born naked,” said the black-draped Keda, who, with his bustle and fan, looked like a Victorian lady in mourning. “So the minute you put on clothes-even ready-to-wear from Macy’s-you’re in drag.”
Ultimately, then, everyone is a drag queen, and the only thing that’s left to debate is degree, not to mention juxtaposition. That was evident to suit-wearing, record company exec Bert Picot, who turned a number of heads at the Style Summit’s opening night and elicited the most comments from the boa-draped attendees who sashayed by.
“They say they like the way I dress,” shrugged a bewildered Picot, adjusting his tie.
