Return of the 'Macho -Men'

After being drenched by a DJ's relentless, campy barrage of mid-'70s disco hits from the likes of the Bee Gees, the Andrea True Connection, Chic, Alicia Bridges and the Commodores, the newly re-formed Village People (five originals and one new guy) hit the stage with a charged, campy wallop. They reeled off a few hits, then posed some questions to the audience.

"How many of you came here tonight for the music? " asked the Indian, sporting a dynel Mohawk a la Sylvester. "And how many of you came here tonight for the dancing? " (Cheers, hoots, disco whistles) "And how many of you came for the bumpity-bump-bump? " asked the mock Native American as he lifted his codpiece and threw a few hip thrusts.

His third question wasn't the query I expected. I thought he might ask the question most of my friends barked back incredulously when I told them I was reviewing the Village People show. I anticipated the lightly oiled graduate of the "Solid Gold" School of Dance and War Paint to ask, "And how many of you came tonight to see how many of us are still alive? " That, besides a few snooty "my condolences, " was the most prevalent response I got upon announcing my jump onto the revival bandwagon celebrating the tenth anniversary re-formation and tour, of the Village People. I'm glad I let my curiosity get the best of me - because it was a celebration.

I first heard about the Village People in my high school art class from the one token queen of the campus, a true rebel who actually wore women's pumps during the final week of our senior year. Constantly taunted by the jocks, this student never squelched his effeminate tendencies, amplified dramatically by his statuesque 6 '2" frame. As he labored in class over his Nagleesque drawings of a woman he called Myrna, I'd ask, like any closeted, curious, open-minded liberal teen, about his social life - questions like where his friends hide, what they do for fun, if they get beaten up a lot, etc. In return he'd try to convince me of my gayness and then supply a few answers.

"We have wild parties! Always lots to drink and smoke. Just gay men, but some of us always dress in drag. I did Lucille Ball last time. We dance, too, to the Village People. They're a gay group who dress up like cowboys and soldiers and stuff. They're too hot! Have you ever done poppers? "

Later that year (for the last time), I went steady with a girl who actually played the Village People on her car stereo when we parked to neck. -It made for some pretty uninspired petting sessions, usually ending with her feeling rejected and me wondering where this Fire Island place was located on a map, not to mention what TY, my best buddy, was doing at that very moment.

That was almost nine years ago, a sobering thought that yanked me out of my reverie and back to the present. That same old best buddy is now a successful hairdresser in Dallas, Texas, with an undisclosed sexual preference. I thought of a few things he used to like, wondered if he ever thought of me, blinked and stood there gazing at a stage beaten by strobe lights as members of the Village People filed on one by one with a kick here, a flex there and finally a firm group. pose.

"Fire Island" was, coincidentally, the show's opener. Written ten years ago, this homage to a popular gay resort area sparkled with a reckless sexual enthusiasm we now have to suppress - The song's tawdry vivacity gushed forth, unhindered by the momentarily forgotten AIDS epidemic. In spirit, Fire Island was located on the stage of the SF Stone that night, and no maps were necessary to find it. Six gutsy guys in uniform captured it all a decade ago and shared it with us tonight, along with the chorus' famous words of advice, "Don't go in the bushes." This was by far the show's finest moment.
The rest of the group's short set included my all-time personal VP fave, the positively epic "San Francisco, " a tribute to our stomping grounds, including a short ode to Hollywood. "Macho Man" definitely got the biggest crowd response, mostly from the- large straight-looking male contingent up front. The majority of the gay men in the audience remained seated, undoubtedly awaiting the subtly exquisite choreography of the "Pantomime Gym" suite, a perfect match of physical expression for the movement entitled "YMCA."

Also included in the set were two well thought-out cover tunes. "Living in America," the James Brown song from one of Sylvester Stallone's movies, was a brilliant choice simply because I'm certain Stallone would hate to know this was happening. Tina Turner's "We Don't Need Another Hero" was the other cover, undoubtedly chosen by the Indian to showcase his capable Turneresque intensity and make us all wonder if he's ever done her in drag. Even better were the other members, who showed stylistic inclinations towards ad jingle singers, a bar-, barbershop quartet and, ultimately, ,a feeble gospel group.

Costumes and the VP's general appearance presented a mixture of small surprises and lackluster inadequacies. For instance, the said cowboy didn't look cowboy enough to mop the floors of the Rawhide 11. Also, wasn't the lead singer supposed to be a cop? Where was his stick? He looked like a cabin steward on a cruise ship.As for the Indian, his provocative getup needs some authenticity, not to mention some letting out.

However, his dancing was good, proving my mother's theory that chubby men are always the best dancers. Mr. Construction Worker scored megapoints for his bracelet made from a can of Bud, his silver UZI belt buckle and his tool belt, the sexiest garment/accessory a man could ever wear.

I had a monumental change of mind while watching this show regarding the often asked question, "Which one is your favorite? " I used to prefer the construction worker, belt included, because his role was the most blue collar of them all. That night at the Stone, the leather guy captured the title. A walking temple of silver chains and black cowhide, his movements were always in sync, mechanical and unexaggerated, as if he were thinking to himself, "I'm too butch for this." The staid qualities of his facial expressions suggested sarcasm and a butch-as-hell composure that seemed to say, "You're next, buddy. His regular sidelong glances -and our prolonged eye contact had me wondering if I was his favorite, too, destined to maintain his flawless leathers for the rest of the tour.

In the past decade, there have been few acts comparable to the Village People, a pop music oddity, an outfit you'd think the industry wouldn't touch and the nongay, record-buying public would never accept. But they did! Looking like the cast of a William Higgins Fantasy Video Pac - while singing anthemic tributes to geographically gay hot spots - amassed a curiously large nongay audience for them

Perhaps the Village People were interpreted by many as a sort of working man's disco band, representative of Native Americans, craftsmen, cattle ranchers and members of the armed forces, especially sailors. Maybe somewhere in the Midwest, a tough-as-nails, heterosexual, truck-drivin' man is cleaning his-rifle at home, listening to the Village People's Cruisin' LP and C.W. McCall's CB-radio -trucking saga, "Convoy, " back-to-back. Maybe when he's on the road, he lingers at the rest area men's room a little longer. Maybe. Maybe the Village People shouldn't go back into retirement.