She bad-ass. She skanky. The unstoppable, quaking, tremulous Christeene Machine is talking some, and for those who don’t fuck off two songs in, the rewards are many.Paul Soileau’s Southern trans menace is fuelled by a righteous indignation, as much as a desire to provoke.Between song chat is a furious call to rainbow loving and respecting all holes, however and wherever they are filled. It’s like a deeply sardonic ‘hands across the globe’ moment.Best of all, you can finally hear those wonderfully scabrous lyrics.
Rump shaking, thunderous classics like Fix My Dick grind up nicely against newer songs which are redolent of the industrial titillation of Ministry/RevCo; and insiduous electro pop which feels like a more subversive lick of Gaga’s lollipop.It’s more gig than live art this time around, with all adoring acolytes front and centre.
It’s also a more complete proposition- the beautiful backing ‘boyz’ are given more to do- they preen and strut like melted Jean Paul Gaultier models, coy and sassy. The make-up (disco Pharoah and slaves in UV eyeshadow) and costumes are bigger- it’s all slicker, but ultimately the refusal to compromise remains Christeene’s ace.