The genius of the ever more popular burlesque scene is that it’s a strip-tease that middle class people can watch without feeling guilty.
The argument is that the women with tassles on their titties don’t feel exploited, because, erm…
They’re enjoying it! They’re dancing to music from the 1920s! It’s ironic! It’s art! It’s a bit French. It’s bright lights and sequins! It’s cabaret! Old chum!
We’re told that burlesque is about good old fashioned glamour: sequins, stockings, heels, corsets feather boas, satin gloves, velvet capes and vintage clothes… Whether or not the women on stage take them off or not is immaterial.
But, then, try to imagine a burlesque show without the boobies: a bit of juggling, a bit of jazz piped over a ropy PA, a dwarf.
Who would pay to see that?
Interesting. I don’t think middle-class guilt, or its absence, is the main reason for burlesque’s sexy resurgence. Is it, perhaps, just a matter of aesthetics?
If we assume that (most) men enjoy looking at novel pairs of boobs and that (some) men enjoy the experience enough to pay for it, then all that remain are questions of presentation. Burlesque has suceeded by offering an environment in which to present boobs that stands in contrast to the bland corporate environment that prevails down your local Spearmint Rhino.
In contrast to the glossy sheen of high-street strip joints, burlesque shows takes pains to appear authentic. The sequins, feather boas and second-rate jazz are important signifiers of that authenticity in the same way that checked shirts and chunky retro specks are essential bits of kit for your favourite cool band from Williamsburg.
In conclusion, attending burlesque shows is the equivalent of enoying indie music. Middle class? Certainly. A reason to feel guilty? Never.