SEXY YUPPIES

Article by Kestrel Farin Leah

Sexy Yuppies, fronted by choreographer Lia Haraki, debuted at the Rialto Theatre in Limassol as part of the Cyprus Choreography Platform in November, 2020.

We are only dancers, and this is only fantasy, they tell us.

Maybe this is why, from the moment the keyboardist crosses the stage in a platinum wig and plunging neckline, giggles already surface amongst the audience.

They clumsily paw at their instruments, they clownishly fumble with cords.

Anxiety is a punchline that is played several times over.

We are only dancers, and this is only fantasy.

The music erupts zealously. It’s raucous, catchy, and punky. Each musician gives a parodic “intro” solo, leaning into rock star archetypes with iconic poses and exaggerated gestures. I see the choreography of stage swagger through dancers’ eyes. Though of course, all this must not be done too well.

It’s done well enough—well enough that I’m hooked on the chord progressions, the ruinous bursts of vocals colored with Haraki’s signature word-play and para-linguistic mash-ups, the ukulele player’s Robert Palmer-girl frostiness. The music is building a myth that we were told not to buy into, but Haraki won’t let it be long-lived.

If we thought this was her fantasy, apparently, we’re wrong. This is the fantasy of Barbara, a wealthy British Cypriot character she’s masquerading behind and who she offers as our frontwoman. And Barbara can’t stop telling us she’s so happy to be here, living her dream. And Barbara rented this theatre, tonight, and paid all of us to be in it, and wants us to be her dream audience.

We are only dancers, and this is only fantasy. You can’t blame us if we’re bad.

Barbara roars with shocking power, for a nervous socialite, about her high-rise lifestyle on the Limassol promenade, merging with Haraki as punk-protester raging against the absurd rate of luxury development that’s transforming her city’s landscape—and culture. I want to be a part of her rebellion, but my body needs to feel rebellious, too. I want the forbidden ritual of being in a crowd. Seated, masked, we clap our hands, but Barbara stops playing and demands we stop. It’s not how she imagined it.

The rock star is an ultimate egoist. Barbara is sort of a hapless narcissist, but no less worthy of being sent to the slaughter right before us. Just as Barbara is at it again, apologetically basking in the afterglow of the last song—it’s just SO AMAZING to live this dream—out of nowhere, from the audience we hear

WHO CARES???

The theatre is at partial capacity due to the pandemic, and I turn to see the lone culprit, flanked by empty seats, stonily slip his medical mask back up over his mouth. I soon realize that Haraki’s look of terror is actually Barbara’s, that the creator has turned on her creation. Whose dream is being shattered here, just as it begins? If Haraki has dreamt Barbara’s dream, she’s built in an executioner to make sure no one else gets to shatter it first.

What follows is a farewell death dance of “outro” solos, beginning with the keyboardist, who sort of implodes, ending up wigless, shirtless, and writhing, followed by the ukelele player’s cooing I loooooove liiiiiiiife as she melts to the ground. The performers are conduits for a physical tension-release, reminding us that

We are only dancers—

and they will transmit through their bodies, first.

Will the Yuppies revive their teen spirit? I see a repeat performance in Nicosia a few days later—same bits, with a few improvised variations. Is this band a conceptual performance, or is it a living, breathing thing? There’s an inherent sincerity in music that is always fascinatingly at odds with parody or satire. Haraki may think the band is a joke. Or, perhaps she’s telling us it’s a joke so the joke won’t be on her. But how many other punk acts out there are talking about Limassol’s disturbing onslaught of foreign money? How many scrappy, female-led punk acts are out there right now, period? Some of us are into it. Seriously.