Chick Cashman Offs Himself

Sequined glam burlesque Countrypolitans are to be no more

A fine-boned brunette with a flapper's mien moves gracefully on and off stage revealing enough flesh and cheek to ensure the bow of the stage is crammed with boys and girls. Odessa, a lovely Mediterranean near-contortionist, maneuvers the inside of a cage and exposes an odds-on ability to reach each orifice with her mouth. The crowd of 300 that fills the club's bar area and main floor hoots appreciatively.

A sugar/noise trio of randy pop-tarts called the BLT's -- led by Cashman's fiancée, Paula Hedder -- puts an oddly alluring rap bit over triads of punk chords.

Al Foul jumps up and does a rousing version of his classic "Spank My Ass," despite the fact that his bass player is a no-show.

Cheap essential scenery: Odessa shows off her new pedicure.
Paolo Vescia
Cheap essential scenery: Odessa shows off her new pedicure.
Chick Cashman:"Limp wrists? Me? Then whaddya call this between my legs?"
Paolo Vescia
Chick Cashman:"Limp wrists? Me? Then whaddya call this between my legs?"

For the second half of the three-hour show, Cashman leaves only to return sporting a slut goddess persona with a grace that transcends the masculine borders of his rock 'n' roll shtick, the triumph of his female side. Wearing a Hoover-era girdle with fake breast implants, a Christian Dior bra, red fishnets and giant platforms, he gets his ass pinched numerous times en route to the stage.

It takes a real man to be a sissy.

"I did have on a pair of pink granny's panties, control-top granny's panties. I had to do a lot of shaving," says Clif Taylor, the ex-Cashman.

Control-top panties or no, Taylor decided to kill off Chick Cashman when it was still something that he considered worthwhile.

"I tried to push as many little buttons as I possibly could. I tried to hit every obscenity code. And the show was a good cross-section. But it was a stinkin' fun run. I don't think it was anything before its time; it was just entirely of its time."

Taylor's new band is called The Cocksmen and is rumored to be as much about show-bizzy overflow as CC and the Countrypolitans but armed with a rock 'n' roll purism.

"Tucson is ready to rock -- and I hate to use that word -- but they're ready to be entertained.

He tells me that tonight Hotel Congress is like its former self. "People came out of the woodwork. It was such a weird walk down memory lane."

Does that mean he's feeling nostalgic for a time lost? Didn't he call that kind of longing retarded?

"It was a perfect way to end," he continues. "I am just hoping someone will take the ball and say, "Okay, let's fucking do it.'"

On the way out of Club Congress, I learn that Cashman isn't the only one who offed himself. Starting mid-June, the club is discontinuing live music. Too bad.

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