Seeing Red, Part 2

Exploiting the sinister mystique of Soviet-era paranoia makes for riveting courtroom drama…and a sexy literary haven.


Location: KGB Bar
Date June 25, 2006
Cost: FREE
Bohemian Factor: Yes, But On Their Best Behavior (Hipsters do not dare act cliquish at KGB)
Geek Factor: Low

The menacing aura of Societ-era intrigue -referenced in the Keen Company's most recent play- is put to far more glamorous use at KGB, a 23-year old fixture in the East Village that is also a beloved arty enclave for rising literary talent. At the season’s conclusion of their Sunday Night Fiction series, authors Scott Snyder, Anthony Giardina and Kathryn Weber, read chapters from their recently published work, and - despite the raucous and intrusive noise of a theatre performance going on in an adjacent space, the cramped standing-room only density of bodies, and the less than stellar miking - it demonstrated once again that these readings are far and above more engaging than your standard, explicitly commercial bookstore readings. Although the Sunday Night Fiction series resumes in the fall, there are diverse literary events at KGB throughout the summer (An August 9 event offers judaica + erotica. I love New York!) Suzanne Dottino does an excellent job of curating the series: the voices presented by all three were so uniquely distinct from one another, that differences in their narrative styles were heavily pronounced. (They also recently launched their own literary magazine, as well)

Appropriately, enough the space use to be a Ukrainian Labor Home. Soviet-themed paraphernalia and all red walls reinforce the speakeasy-ish feeling, and imbues the space with an intimidating sense of history, even if feigned (it was founded two years after the USSR’s collapse in 1993). The guy sitting on my left mentioned he had come in the early 1990’s, and he was pretty sure “that the bartender is the same guy.”

Yes, the crowd is self-consciously arty – chances are the people next to you know one of the authors, and/or are writers themselves. They will ask you which one of the writers you know; but they are just as amiable if you tell them you are not.

And what beats a reading where the crowd is full of old acquaintances rather than fawning strangers? They know when to push the speaker’s buttons, whether something is truly funny or expected, and when a line of dialogue is truly surprising. Such allegiances tend to turn a rote one-way performance into a two-dialogue. Young-ish, early career writers suddenly feel the need to justify their artistic choices to their familiars, forging spontaneous moments that would clearly not be happening at your nearest Barnes & Noble. Earlier this spring, an up-and-coming young writer of a new collection of short stories paused upon a phrase he wrote to describe a self-loathing, religious gay man’s capitulation to his carnal impulses. Suddenly self-conscious, he interrupted himself about five seconds into the next passage to muse over his choice of words: “That’s a rather creepy phrase isn’t it?‘ Non-vaginal warmth.’ I don’t think I realized that until hearing it out loud.”