The Untalented Take to the Stage and Shock
The First (and perhaps last) PCV Talent Show
One of Andrew Horowitz’s greatest accomplishments as a Peace Corps Volunteer, aside from scoring the highest level of Wolof of all time, was to have the intuition to never refer to the Thursday evening before WASTE as a ‘talent show.’ Instead, by introducing the event to Senegal as a friendly “Open Mic/Photo Contest,” the former Gambian volunteer kept expectations low. Thus, to no one’s chagrin, the evening‘s entertainment hosted performances and photography good and not so good, mediocre and fantastically wretched.
Granted, time has passed and wounds are healing, but we at the Sabaar thought compelled to remember the awes and the awkwardness of such an outrageous evening.
The night begun as most Senegalese events do, to the dim-witted lyrics of Akon. However, performed acoustically by the evening‘s front-men, host Andrew Jandhal and coordinator Andrew Horowitz, “Sexy Bitch” was the perfect warm-up for the smut and vulgarity to come.
Many of us, just to enter, had to yield to expatriate couples, twirling and shuffling in what appeared as a Thursday night Salsa class. Arame, representing the Peace Corps Staff was perhaps, also, representing that same class. After shoving us a few sizzling Cuban hip-thrusts, it surely appeared she was fresh from a lesson.
.No one was as famished for the spot-light than showman Byron Lee, who by the night’s end, treated us to three separate appearances. Dusting off his tap-shoes for the first performance, he whirled around the stage, supplying both the words and the foot-work to a slick show tune. He then returned with a poem, hammering us with it as if he was about to lead a coup. Howling a poignant version of the Peace-Corps blues, Byron made us realize, articulately, Senegalese and Americans are different.
By the very last act of the night, when the spotlight seemed just about saturated, Byron, for a third time proved that it could still reflect off his silky thighs. At first, seeing Byron, we grumbledreally again. However, frisking forward, toeing his latest experiment Alex along, he lit up the room yet again. This time, however, he really proved his testicular fortitude, yanking us in with a an art-form never before seen--the “Booty Gram.“
As the strip teasers skirted around a giggly Margaret, the sudden deviance had the Senegalese wait staff running to Touba for repentance and David J running to City Sports for his own pair of red spandex.
In between the Byron show, there were in fact other acts, albeit a few of them cheesy. One, surprisingly an exception, was Annika’s. Somehow, singing a song solely devoted to cheese, her act proved to be the least cheesiest of the bunch.
Somewhere during the night, I too tested my talent against the erratic stage lights--juggling occasionally. Exhausting my tricks early on, I relied on what I had learned from the young villagers. Stick as many filthy balls and rotten fruit into your mouth and everyone will be happy.
Jessica Scates, it appeared took stage impulsively. Asking Andy to provide the melody, she plodded through a Miley Sirus song unknown to mostly everyone. Her singing voice, not exactly ethereal nor epoch-making, still carried an undertow of sweetness-- onto which every stray note pulled our hearts deeper and deeper .
Nate chose a favorable strategy among stand-up comedians: self-deprecating humor. But in his version, where he lumbered through topics like masturbation, body imperfections and relationship problems, he tweaked the routine a tad. He instead, tackled intimate, rather provocative topics about himself without humor, leaving the audience a bit… uncomfortable. When he left stage, many onlookers were actually concerned.
Encouragement, so it seemed, proved more the appropriate reaction than laughter.
Nate’s performance then again was important; a seminal example that told all other stand-up acts to come, ‘punch-lines are not necessary.’ Adrian, the next ‘comedian‘, appeared as he would for most of WASTE: scruffy, sort-of drunk, and within eyeshot of Claire.
Dragging and directionless were his sentences, the intended ribaldry was never quite conveyed. But he too, served his purpose, preparing us for the evening’s most unrehearsed diatribe, mouthed by Aaron Cohen, of which the staff at the Sabaar wishes not to remember.
Dragging and directionless were his sentences, the intended ribaldry was never quite conveyed. But he too, served his purpose, preparing us for the evening’s most unrehearsed diatribe, mouthed by Aaron Cohen, of which the staff at the Sabaar wishes not to remember.
In spite of the dips, the evening ended on a high-note. Andy and Andrew returned to stage, bringing renewed energy to a fading, horrified audience. The vibrancy between Andy’s beat boxing and Andrew’s drumming confirmed the synergy that would make this year’s WASTE another wild success. In this respect, the Sabaar thanks the Andrews for their outstanding commitment to fun and invites them back for a fourth next year (which, remarkably, would be still one shy of Peter Treut who, in shorter swim trunks than me made this year his fifth appearance).
In closing, although there were great wisps of talent, I want to be fair and say the next American idol is not in the African bush. And if your name is not “Marissa” you unfortunately had little to show in the photo-contest. But nevertheless, thanks to the carefree headline, the event turned a blind-eye to talent--sort of like most things do here. Talent or no talent, once it‘s back to site, we all steal the show.
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