Ms. Black’s work-in-progress, My Life for a Song, was a beautiful train wreck. Wreck, because the song selection was truly bizarre, often frightening (think Shatner)—from a lengthy-operatic rendition of the Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby, to a half-crazed Bowie cover, to a god-awful Jesse (Roberta Flack), to yes, a faith/fate-ful encore of Send in the (don’t bother, they’re here already). That, preceded by a full-TILT, off the rails moment of her portraying a coke fiend screechin’ a 1920s delta blues number, Cocaine Jane, in a padded wiferly housedress. Messy, but Ms. Black has never been known to shy away from. She infuses every pore of her being into the material with layers upon layers of depth and meaning (known exclusively, though not even fully, to her). She attacks the evening gusto forte with a bravado that any adoring fan is only too glad to squeal—at times cringe—in delight and follow.
In other words… it’s Karen Black. She can do/sing whatever she wants. 170+ films later, with three or four in pre/post production, this working actress has played brilliantly with the best (Nicholson, Hopper, Rafelson, Schlesinger, Hitchcock, Altman)—though struggles to hold her due place among them—maintains a sizably loyal cult following (by way of, Airport 1975, Trilogy of Terror, House of 1000 Corpses) on display at Suspect Video and last night’s sold out run at the Gladstone (where it repeats this evening). The show, in its present sketchy form, weighs-in far more heavily (intentionally?) to her “camp” camp than her fading star legacy. Her estimable talents deserve a finer-honed vehicle.
The Q&A? Sadly, D.O.A. Bruce LaBruce wanting to share all HE knew about the films/directors Karen was in, and a prompted Ms. Black vaguely recalling ANY of the facts/fictions he raised. She just wanted to tell us her stories and—when she could—they were wonderful (though, I could’ve happily left after the first half satiated).
_____
