The spirit of Easter: ritual, rebellion and rising again

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“You know you’ve got the kind of kisses I would die for,” crooned David Hoyle last weekend – echoing the words Jesus almost certainly whispered to Judas long ago in the garden of Gethsemane, in between the planting of lips and the drawing of swords.

That first Easter was a long weekend to remember, all right. A blowout supper with the whole gang that morphed into some kind of kinky pseudo-cannibalistic ritual, followed a group outing to a park in the middle of the night that degenerated into arrest, torture and – ulp – crucifixion. And then at the lowest low point, as Jesus was about to give up the ghost, his mum turned up. Eesh. But wait a minute, just when it was looking like the mother of all comedowns – bam! Back from the dead! Saviour of mankind! #win #follow

It’s a high bar and this past Easter wasn’t quite as eventful – but it was a vintage weekend for queer London performance all the same, featuring a slew of outstanding down and dirty cabaret parties with sharp edges and love to spare. And plenty to chew on when it comes to those Easter perennials of congregation and ritual, sacrifice and betrayal, resurrection and renewal.

Thursday was the launch night of Abracadabra, avant guardian angel David Hoyle’s latest run of aggressive charm and passionate provocation, produced by Nick Blackburn. It was a change of scenery from Hoyle’s usual London home, the Royal Vauxhall Tavern – Abracadabra takes place in the basement space of Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club, an L-shaped room that can be challenging to hold together. Hoyle had no trouble keeping attention riveted on him throughout, though.

The run’s motif is magick-with-a-k – and God knows we need a paradigm shift – and the pre-show featured a couple of naked boys engaged in ritual writhing off to one side. For the main event Hoyle gave us a characteristically heartfelt rendition of Take That’s Could It Be Magic then held forth on the iniquities of gender and geopolitics while sporting a wardrobe incorporating a sequined red cape and, later, a Yoko Ono-print shift.

The tenor was of course ferocious, uncompromising and hyperbolic in its lambasting of hypocrisy, narcissism and neurosis, with militarism in particular getting a good pummelling; Hoyle’s events are among the few public arenas in which straight men are consistently put on the defensive. And who else could deliver You Made Me Love You accompanied by an MRI scanner or Maybe This Time to the sound of chill Antarctic winds?

Any good cabaret show is a bit like church but Hoyle’s righteous revels more than most. His events crackle with the flow of shared energy, the charisma of evangelism and the soaring sense of a world ripe for change. This is not entertainment. This is real. We suspect he might die for us. Or kill.

Good Friday saw the return to London of Pussy Faggot, New York alt impresario Earl Dax’s groundbreaking queer performance happening. Billed as Pussy Faggot: The Second Coming (technically more Revelation than Easter but whatever) the night took place at the Glory, the venue opened in December by Jonny Woo and friends and pretty much London’s only new queer space of late. It was sensational.

Hoyle and Woo were there, as were Bourgeois & Maurice, A Man to Pet and a New York contingent led by the legendary Penny Arcade and Needles Jones. Arcade is a compelling ringmaster, constantly negotiating a push-pull relationship with the crowd as she holds forth on the forces of urban blandification. A Catholic girl gone wild and wise, she’s been queering the gospel for years: Jesus, she points out, hung out with dudes and a faghag who washed his feet with her tears and dried them with her long, luxurious hair. “I mean, these were freaky people…” Rachel Mason, meanwhile, made for a powerfully prowling presence as she paced the main bar declaiming in trilby and clown-white maquillage.

With harmonious alternation of acts between the upstairs pub space and the basement disco room, this was the best performance use I’ve yet seen of the Glory. With a few rows of seating near the stage in each space, acts are visible to the whole room – not always the case with an all-standing crowd – and the vibe was, well, glorious. Freaky people make community where they find it.

Downstairs, Bourgeois & Maurice tore the place up with a set including We Want Love, their anthem to narcissistic withholding; Opinions, which asks us to choose between annoying blather and authoritarian control; and Knickers in a Twist, which is basically just a hilarious hook about online fuming. Upstairs, Needles Jones served gravel-voiced anthems to outlaw outrage that had the crowd chanting “No ‘No Homo’!” and “Needles!”

The ever-present spectre of gentrification and commercial redevelopment was felt though. Woo gave us a tongue-in-cheek piss-take of east-end hipster settlement to the tune of Oom Pah Pah, while both Hoyle and Arcade spoke out against the soulless takeover of urban spaces (“if you meet a property developer, stab them in the face”).

The subject came to mind again on Sunday, when Virgin Xtravaganzah – think Mary, Mother of God, by way of Clueless and RuPaul’s Drag Race, with a moustache – was hosting a Resurrection Xtravaganzah at the Black Cap. The Cap is a landmark venue that has experienced huge change over the past couple of years: on the one hand, it has enjoyed a wildly successful renewal of energy in its cabaret programming with performer-producer Meth at the helm; on the other, its owners, Faucet Inn, have charted a course that leaves its long-term future as an LGBTQ pub and performance space in doubt (see here and here).

Both sides were on show at the Resurrection Xtravaganzah. The crowd, as at most Cap shows these days, was young, mixed, friendly and up for it. Our hostess tried to mark the solemnity of the Easter occasion – “My son got killed. It’s fucking depressing!” – but was fooling no one. It was a laugh riot. Virgin herself is one kick-ass mother, rocking a sensational iconic look while demonstrating serious chops as host, comedian and singer. Her introductory Whitney Houston pastiche I Wanna Pray With Somebody (Who Loves Christ) was a particular highlight, quavering with barely suppressed horniness.

She programmes a great show as well, with a line-up ranging from Tete Bang’s insane nympho Barbie burlesque – complete with glittery dildo and inventive use of the mirrored wall by the stage – to Fagulous’s multimedia channeling of Judy Garland via video screen and lip-synch, and Aurora Galore’s high-octane fire-dancing act. Virgin also had another showstopping moment with the community-minded number Somewhere That’s Gay (reworked from Little Shop of Horrors’ Somewhere That’s Green).

I was looking forward to the finale co-starring Virgin and Maxi More but the show was cut short because – and there’s no nice way of putting this – an increasingly heavy stream of sewage had started dripping from the ceiling into the main bar area, eventually prompting the space’s evacuation.

Obviously that’s no one’s idea of a good way to end an evening. But this kind of infrastructural mishap is of particular concern when a venue’s owners’ commitment to its future as a space of queer community and performance is in question. (The ground-floor toilets have been dodgy for ages too.) How much do they actually care about the upkeep of the building, let alone the health of employees and visitors? What are their plans for improving the facilities? I tried calling the bar to find out more but they hung up on me. And I emailed the owners with some questions but they didn’t reply.

Anyway, the plumbers were in this week, so here’s hoping that particular problem is resolved. And Virgin Xtravanganzah is back at the Cap this coming Sunday with a revived and rebooted Re-Resurrection Xtravangazah. Just when you thought she was down – she’s up!

And that, surely, is the spirit of Easter.