I regret that I am not old enough to have seen a proper burlesque show, although I have done my homework on the subject. I have studied the writings of the late Ralph Allen, who did for old burlesque sketches what the Brothers Grimm did for folk tales. I’ve read accounts by burlesque habitués and sons of habitués. I have decided that my seventh grade math teacher, a nutty old man who frequently used the exclamation “cheese and crackers!” probably learned that term from Billy “Cheese and Crackers” Hagen, a top banana who frequently appeared at the Troc, Philadelphia’s last burlesque house. The Troc is still there but with bands, not bananas.

When I was in my early 20’s I was privileged to see Ralph Allen’s contribution to Broadway, the 1979 burlesque tribute show Sugar Babies, whose aging stars were the long-legged MGM tap-dancer Ann Miller and her short-legged and absurdly talented MGM counterpart Mickey Rooney. It was the fashion amongst my arty-farty friends to poo-poo the performances of these icons, but I loved every song, sketch, blackout, and variety act. I even enjoyed the strip teases, sanitized for Broadway though they were. (Back then, I would have appreciated more skin but today I appreciate more subtlety.)

What do I remember about a show I saw nearly 30 years ago? I remember tiny, round Mickey Rooney wearing an absurd wig at the top of a tall judge’s bench. When the female defendant sat down at floor level and crossed her long legs, “Judgie” disappeared from the top of the bench and instantaneously slid down through a trap door to leer at the woman at skirt level. I remember marveling at the impossible number of taps per second that Ann Miller, a woman just old enough to be my grandmother, seemed to be able to generate from legs that would have come up to my neck. I remember the comical pitch of the candy butcher, who attempted to sell a souvenir package filled with exotica but who wound up distributing free packages of Sugar Babies candy to delighted audience members. I remember the variety acts: wonderful “new vaudevillian” juggler Michael Davis and astonishing “old vaudevillian” iron stomach man, Chaz Chase.

Fortunately, there is a YouTube clip of Miller and Rooney doing a part of their next-to-closing medley from Sugar Babies. As far as I know, this isn’t the sort of thing that appeared in a real burlesque show, but it was a fitting tribute to a pair of performers who had tremendous careers.

A few years later during my grad school period I thought I’d write a critical review of a so-called burlesque performance at the live nude show adjacent to the TKTS line (on the Howard Johnson’s side). What I found when I walked up the rickety flight of steps and paid the ten dollar cover was a garishly decorated room with a thrust stage and a scattering of old men. Porno films played continuously on a large projection screen. Various absurdly dressed women stopped by and asked if I wanted a private performance. I said no, I was waiting for the show. After an uncomfortable wait, a loudspeaker announced the next performer, a pleasantly zaftig woman who entered, quickly removed her three articles of clothing, and did something several notches more graphic than the bump and grind that tantalized my forebears.

One of the ladies sidled up to me and asked what I was writing.  I told her I was taking notes for a grad school paper. This mystified and fascinated her, and upon reflection I can see why.

“Broadway Fred” appears every Wednesday.

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