15/06/2025
“A blazing reclamation… a love letter to the female form.”💋 Club Burlesque lit up the stage with sass, sequins, and serious power. Bold, brilliant, and a little bit cheeky - this review by Access Radio Taranaki 104.4 FM says it all. 🔥
💋 A RIOTOUS RECLAMATION OF POWER 💋
REVIEW: Club Burlesque
Taranaki Arts Festival | Right Royal Cabaret Festival
Reviewed by Taryn Utiger
There was glitter. There was fire. There were tassels, talent, and teasing. But more than anything, there was power.
Club Burlesque wasn’t just a show, it was a full-throttle reclamation of sensuality, storytelling, and feminine force. A joyous, high-octane celebration of bodies, burlesque and badassery, it served up sequins, champagne, and s*x appeal with a side of unapologetic feminism.
There was something quietly revolutionary in watching each performer take to the stage as their most powerful, embodied self. Every act was rooted not just in sensuality, but in agency. These weren’t women being gazed at, they were the ones controlling the spotlight, the tempo, the narrative. They teased, commanded, and invited the audience into their world on their own terms.
Whether it was through fire, feathers, hoop, or heels, each performer radiated a form of feminine power that was unbridled, unapologetic, and electric. This wasn’t performance for approval, it was performance as reclamation. The kind of sensuality that celebrates rather than objectifies. You could feel the liberation in every hip flick and heel click: this was a show where the female form wasn’t being tamed, it was being unleashed.
From the moment the feisty and fabulous Miss V (Verity Johnson) struts onto stage in sparkly sneakers and a s*xy, figure-hugging red outfit, the tone was set: cheeky, clever, and unashamedly bold.
She was part emcee, part social commentator, and part feminist cheerleader. With biting wit and blistering charm, she poetically poked fun at monotonous monogamy, five-minute mediocre missionary s*x, and the absurd expectations placed on women. She commanded the room with charisma, bending over like it was an Olympic sport and expertly putting hecklers in their place, almost dominatrix-style.
She heralded the arrival of a string of phenomenal dancers, tantalising and teasing and turning up the heat before each act burst onto the smoky stage.
First up was the phenomenal Kiki Kisses. An award-winning icon of burlesque, Kiki was draped in silk and lace and used her giant feathered fans to seduce the audience into her world of Hollywood glamour and sultry charm. Her first act, full of fluid lifts and poised sensuality, was pure vintage pin-up perfection, ni**le tassels included. Later, she delighted us by returning for a second act. This one was a cheeky, clever, layered strip with a Chaplin-esque twist, proving her a true artist of the tease.
Then came Miss Cherry Bomb, who lit the stage (literally) on fire. A high priestess of flames, she was hypnotic. Sinfully good, in fact. With searing control and supernatural poise, she danced with fire like it was her native tongue. Flaming hot, fiercely skilled, and completely captivating.
Nicole Marie brought a playful country flair with her blue sequins, red mane, and assless chaps. Her act was a high-energy mash-up of Shania Twain and These Boots Are Made for Walkin’, bursting with jazz, line-dancing and contemporary edge. Her technical skill and performance presence had the crowd hooting.
Then came aerial dynamo Ruby Rebel. This firecracker was a pint-sized powerhouse who took to the hoop under moody red light and smoke, and twisted, curled, and contorted herself into an airborne siren. Her aerial burlesque was daring, liquid, and luscious. Part flexible pipe-cleaner, part temptress, and all talent.
And yes, in the spirit of equality, we were blessed with one male act: Mister Kalani. His preacher-turned-pleasure-seeker number was a holy revelation. When the corset and sequined briefs were revealed — followed by an explosion of champagne from his mouth — the audience erupted. Well, most of them. A pack of fragile men fled to the bar, unable to handle a little sparkle on a male body after an hour of female st******se. One beside me even shielded his eyes. The irony? Delicious.
And then, Miss V finally danced. It was worth the wait. Closing the show with a sultry, high-energy routine to Proud Mary, she brought the house down.
If there’s one critique, it’s that Club Burlesque deserved a final full-group number — a glittery, unified climax to match the night’s wild spirit. But even without it, this show was a riot. A sensual exorcism of prudishness. A celebration of power in all its feminine, fluid, fiery forms.
Club Burlesque wasn’t just a night of sparkle and skin, it was a blazing reclamation. A love letter to the female form, to joy, to pleasure, to bodies that jiggle and shake and take up space.
It lit a match under the tired scripts of shame and modesty, and let the whole damn thing burn.
In its place was laughter, liberation, and the riotous reminder that when women reclaim their power, the stage isn’t just a platform, it’s a battleground, a playground, and a throne.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to buy sequins and set fire to the patriarchy.
