I get really, really nervous, and making small-talk with strangers is completely terrifying and draining for me. I have this joke with the guys in my band that every single time I’m asking, “Why do I do this to myself? Why do I do this to myself?” Įven after all this time of performing and stuff, I still feel that way. It’s when I’m walking onto the stage, and usually even then, I’m still a little terrified. At what moment does the switch happen for you? You’re a self-described “social recluse” backstage at comedy festivals, which is a stark contrast from your delightfully open and big on-stage persona. It’s pretty amazing, but it’s one of the nastiest hangovers you can have, I’m pretty sure. So, really I guess it was a precursor to how I make my living now – I just didn’t know at the time.Īs a party trick back in college, I used take a swig of sambuca and light it on fire while it was in my mouth. It’s basically what I do now, except without the paycheck. I’d crawl on top of the bar and rip people’s shirts off. There was this really fun bartender, and they would light sambuca on fire for us. I’m not really a chorus girl, and I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, but I would go to this karaoke bar right around the corner from my house every Sunday night for, like, seven years. And I was going to these equity open calls and trying to get jobs. It wasn’t as obsessive as it is in DC or New York. When I was Arizona, I was doing karaoke wherever I could find it. If there’s a karaoke league and I don’t know about it, then I’m upset. Where you doing it as part of a karaoke league? Did they have those in Arizona back then? It was a perfect match for me, and it’s really where I got my footing in being an all-in singing maniac. People loved it! Some people there think karaoke bars are the end of the earth, and maybe they are, and that’s probably where I belonged. Those are my three favorites.īasically, when I was living in Arizona for a long time – I went to school there – the only singing I ever got to do was the National Anthem at spring training games or karaoke. They are “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette, “Piece of my Heart” by Janis Joplin, and “Lovely Day” by Bill Withers. I know you’re a trained singer, but I read that karaoke is what got you into performing cabaret. Her record, Pound It, is out now on Beavertails Music.įirst things first: Let’s talk about your love of karaoke. I’m looking forward to doing something with her.”īridget Everett performs at Howard Theatre’s The Uncivil Union: Comedy for Equality on Thursday. Kamau Bell, Chelsea Shorte, and Rachel Dratch, of whom Everett is particularly fond. I spoke to Everett on a rainy evening in early June, prior to her performance at this Thursday’s “The Uncivil Union: Comedy For Equality”, a benefit in support of marriage equality and DC’s LGBTQ youth. Backed by her band, the Tender Moments, she marries the musical chops of a formally trained vocalist with the oversized stage persona of history’s great, glamorous rockers: Freddie Mercury, Bryan Ferry, David Bowie-as-Ziggy-Stardust – all, of course, with a strong dose of sexual liberation, female empowerment, compassion, and plenty of white wine. The New York City transplant has developed a cult following in her adoptive hometown’s LGBTQ scene and well beyond thanks to her raucous performances. As the New York Times recently put it,”Her curves are part of an arsenal of eye-catching props.” But this openness is about more than easy laughs: “I share a bit of my body, and I hope it’s an inspiration for people to feel a little bit better and a little bit looser.”Įverett is a sharer in all facets of expression. The cabaret singer – who, in her words, “just happens to be funny” – is not one to bury her physical endowments under excess fabric. “I hate it when people are so locked up and freaked out about their bodies.” “They’re just tits!” Bridget Everett exclaims, letting loose the slightly melodic laughter of an opera singer.
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