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Tribal Drag and Dancing on the Bar at the Pyramid Club
Dancing on the bar at the Pyramid Club was a semi-regular gig for me for a while in the mid-80’s. Since I bartended at 8BC, another East Village club, on Fridays, Brian Butterick, one of the people who ran the Pyramid then, would usually call and ask if I could dance on Saturday night. I’d almost always say yes — it was a good gig, $50 for three hours. You had to be on at midnight, so around 10:30pm, I’d pack up my gear — corset or pointy black lace bra, black rubber mini-skirt, spikey black high-heeled ankle boots or even spikier black heels, a jangly bag of cheap, tangled Madonna-esque bracelets, necklaces, and enormous hoop earrings — and walk the six blocks from my Avenue B apartment to the Pyramid at 101 Avenue A. Through the long front room with the bar, down the narrow stairs to the low-ceilinged basement, to the dressing room in back. Usually some of the other dancers would already be there in front of the mirror — their make-up took more time than mine. Plus they had wigs, where I only had to pouf my hair out as big and messy as possible. If Ethyl Eichelberger was there — and she usually was — she’d say hello, friendlier than the rest, and sometimes she’d squeal “Ooooohhh Jordan’s here! Better break out my Double D’s!” and wave her biggest pair of fleshy falsies at me.
