JACK PIERSON’S
SILVER JACKIE looks like nothing much: a rickety little postage stamp of a stage, just a raised platform made by the artist himself, and he says he’s no carpenter. (“Those early stage pieces I did myself and I’m not a woodworker so they have a real slapdash quality.”) Behind the stage, there’s a silver Mylar curtain that I can’t pry apart from my memories of 1970s Christmas decorations. It looks cheap; the materials are cheap. This sort of bedraggled, taped-together curtain and stage feel appropriate to those venues that one comes to with few expectations. The best one might expect would be trash of the John Waters sort. The chanteuse wouldn’t be Anita O’Day; more likely, a drag queen lip-synching to Judy or Dusty, maybe to Madge. When