Shed Your Towel of Indifference. The avant-gay dance troupe known as the Dazzle Dancers come from some odd pixie-glitter realm between modern dance and performance art. They're a little bit Mummenschanz, a little bit La Cage Aux Folles and a lot Oh Calcutta! As far as movement is concerned, they are not about highly complex choreography or flawless execution. Nor, thank heavens, do they bid for irony. No, if they could effect all that they essay, they would; it's just that the Dazzles are comprised of both dancerly and un-dancerly bodies. Which is the point.
Their ranks are quotidian, omni-corporeal—from the classically sculpted to the outright flabby. And so what one member will try and not quite achieve—an arabesque, say, or a high kick—an adjacent member will pull off sans souci. In the disconnect lay the funny. But there's revelation here too. (They reminded us just how much time we once wasted at the behest of an ex modern-dancer friend. Us failing, though in earnest, to decipher plot and meaning from all her insufferable Sprocketry.) It took one Dazzle Dancers performance to finally come away with a real appreciation for what professional dancers can do and the rest of us can't. It took a second performance to realize that dance captain Cherry Dazzle (nee Cary Curran) is possessed of a killer singing voice and formal stage presence and will likely be snatched up by the first film director with his head screwed on crooked.
The Dazzles are a coed group. They tend to perform mostly at the gayer venues, which is a shame since hetero audiences could probably dig their act, too. As to their habit of concluding their routines smack-ass naked? Well, that does not bother us even a little.
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