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JIM BAILEY, THE MASTER ILLUSIONIST - By Lawrence Christon (taken from The Los Angeles Times)
Los Angeles- The best drag queens have always made an extravagant show of plumping up the icons of their affections, such as Katharine Hepburn, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Tallulah Bankhead and Carol Channing, and then standing aside to turn out those images in gaudy camp display, as though they were there to outdo the originals.
Jim Bailey walks a finer line. So fine, in fact, that his exacting replication of a small repertoire of great ladies, Streisand, Judy Garland and Peggy Lee, takes him beyond the drag genre and into one of the central enigmas of our time, particularly as raised by Barry Humphries Dame Edna Everage and the movies Paris Is Burning and of course The Crying Game- the question o what constitutes sexual identity.
Bailey is appearing at the Roosevelt Hotels Cinegrill this week, having opened as Peggy Lee on Tuesday and Wednesday, then playing Barbra Streisand tonight and Friday, and finishing with Judy Garland on Saturday. If the normal frission of watching a female impersonator is to know that within the costumes and makeup and lights and attitudes, theres basically a man at work, however self-repudiating, Bailey takes his act to another level where its the illusion thats paramount, not the semi-transparent sexual disguise.
doesn't use his high-profile viragoes for pent-up gay comic relief (which
can be a hoot when done by Charles Pierce or Randy Allen). In fact,
none of his women are very funny, which can throw you off balance if
youre expecting a fusillade of campy zingers. He thinks of himself
as an actor (in conversation he compares himself to Hal Holbrook ding
Mark Twain). What he is, really, is a miniaturist who has worked himself
up to full-scale, and with such an exactitude that he has taken his
act to Carnegie Hall and the London Palladium. With him, the frisson
isnt about sex at all, but about celebrity style.
Younger visitors would know what it was like to hear one of Americas great saloon singers who was once right up there with Sinatra in her ability to swing in front of a big band, or get up close and personal to evoke the feeling of being alone and sleepless in the middle of the night, and mission the one who goat away. And hearing songs that had seeped into the American cultural vernacular as one of its enduring forms of poetry, impervious to the unending revisionism of Top 40 charts. Brave, bluesy, melancholy, spirited numbers such as Just For A Thrill or Hey, Big Spender or It Never Entered My Mind or Is That All There Is?
Bailey has Lees physical moves down, the suggestion of minimalist Southern languor, the diminutive twist to bump a lyric along, hands pulling a note apart like taffy. And hes a precise vocalist. You hear Lees dry laconic open notes, her soft consonants, the sport she made of bending lines into quarter-tones, like a horn player.
Jack LeComte plays drums, John Smith is on bass, and Sean Gulf is the pianist for Baileys act, which in Peggy Lees case, ended without a show-stopping climax-much in keeping with her easygoing style.