At Least It's Pink

The most wonderful and perhaps even the funniest thing about Bridget Everett's on stage persona in this self-proclaimed "trashy little show" is not that she's porno-mag raunchy. It's that she's happily, hilariously unashamed about it. Stripped down to fishnets and a too-tight thong, she can belt out a tune about a drunken Internet hookup gone wrong with what feels like uncomplicated candor and glee, and there's not a trace of righteous anger nor a subversive desire to shock in it. No matter how graphic she gets, she's smiling and warm...at least on the surface - just a small town big-boned blue collar gal who's telling you the score. Even her potentially humiliating stories are given a cheerful wide-eyed gloss: this is not an example of the gal who comes to the city only to be robbed of her dignity; this is a gal who proudly didn't have any dignity to begin with so it's all good. It is a testament to Everett's freshness that she brings to mind the bawdiness of early Bette Midler, the comic faux-earnestness of vintage Sandra Bernhard, and the unique skills of half a dozen other ballsy comediennes, and yet the result is something original and unique. This unabashedly filthy, fall down funny 80-minute show, which she wrote with Michael Patrick King and Kenny Mellman, features a dozen original songs and there's not a show-slowing bummer in the bunch. At Least It's Pink is a howl from start to finish.