Pole Dancing with the Gods: Norse Mythology for Adults

I didn’t know what to expect from a show at HUNGR, listed as So You Think You Can Strip, but a Norse fairy tale told through interpretive exotic dance was not on my list of possibilities.

HUNGR is a Tallinn bar and performance spot in Lilleküla on Tulika. It should have been easy to find. However, Google Maps has the entrance marked on the wrong side of the old factory complex, which led to a dozen of us wandering the industrial premises of cracked concrete and graffiti, wondering where the cocktails were. Once we returned to the main street and found the pizza place and signage for Club 9/11, the route to the venue became obvious, and luckily, we had plenty of time before the 21:00 start.

HUNGR is known as a fashionable queer-friendly club, but I wondered if I might be out of place as I approached an iron door lined by spray paint, even though the club advertises itself as “for everyone and your mom.”

As we crowded into the concrete-walled bar area, I felt considerably more on the “mom” side of that statement, veering hard towards “grandma” even. I was the oldest member of an eclectic audience, that ranged from Instagram starlets to start-up bros in button-ups, including everyone in between. I barely had time to get a cocktail before we were shepherded into a performance space filled with folding chairs. The stage consisted of a rickety-looking pole on a platform, rather like an Old Town restaurant outdoor umbrella stand, minus the umbrella. Blue and red lights lit piles of brightly patterned fabric on either side of the pole platform and the curtains hanging on the back wall. Estonian, Russian, and English voices bounced off of the brutalist walls. On the right side of the stage area was a velour sofa, neatly marking a perimeter. A chic couple sat there comfortably but warmly welcomed a stranger who asked to join them.

A few minutes later, an apologetic host let us know that although we were ready for the show, it would still be an hour before the metaphorical curtains would rise and gently suggested that we might want another drink at the bar.

The show was meant to be mysterious, but the host suggested we check out the texts decorating the walls for a bit of background. As music I can only describe as whale song meets sonar thumped through the room, we squinted in the darkness at the pages taped to the walls which offered snippets about Norse mythology.

The small space continued to fill, the late arrivals clearly trendier than us early-birds. A dark-eyed man in a black robe strode confidently through the crowd to nudge an elven-eared girl, who reluctantly followed him backstage, which was a room off the bar area, as the stage curtain only covered more rough concrete. A group of three women in short black skirts and thigh-high black boots arrived late, that is to say, right on time for the show. The sofa was now tightly packed with four people seated and a fifth sprawled on the arm and along the back.

Someone wearing a sheet over their head topped by a pair of antlers slipped towards the stage. The specter carefully polished the pole and disappeared again.

The crowd hushed as three women entered the stage area: the elven-eared girl and two others in less identifiable costumes. Was the leather-clad dancer with the pixie cut Freya? Were the angel wings meant to signify a Valkyrie? Each took a turn dancing in front of the pole and then on it. The pole quivered but held steady, even when one woman made it to the very top.

Although I had feared I might regret giving up my front-row seat in favor of a Tom Collins, I was relieved that I was further back once the show began. Even with one row as a buffer in front of me, some moments felt a bit too up-close and personal.

Each woman had her own style and type of dance, and the sheet-covered antlered person cleaned the pole between performers. It was all over too soon, but the host reassured us that this was just the intermission and plenty would come soon. He recommended, again, that we read the text on the walls.

As the clock ticked (22:34, to be precise), the brutalist bohemian space turned into a sardine tin. Behind me, a couple attempted a precarious balancing act on a single bar stool, which, miraculously, did not collapse. Nearby, a man loudly explained to a redhead with sharp cheekbones that he was a software engineer. She did not appear to care. He did not appear to care that she did not appear to care.

The sheet-clad antlered being entered the room again, this time inexplicably half a meter taller, to polish the pole once again. She lost her way trying to navigate through the crowd and flipped up the sheet to find out where she was, much to the confusion of the man sitting right in front of her. She found the gap in the crowd serving as an aisle and disappeared as a black-robed figure entered.

He shrugged off his robe to show off his tattooed chest, and a woman behind the sofa shrieked, presumably in delight. He threw a devilish smile in her direction and began to dance. This was Loki, made clear by his appearance and the music chanting his name. He swung around the pole lasciviously and then retreated as a woman wearing strategically placed rabbit fur entered. Loki edged closer, and they circled the pole with looks of longing, which led to an artful demonstration of their passionate mating.

When they broke apart, a new woman crawled onto the stage from the shadows, pulling a shimmering green scarf tightly over her head. She pressed her face against it and rolled on the floor until even the more slow-witted members of the audience (by which I mean me) understood that she was meant to represent the birth of Loki’s child. If you’re familiar with the stories of Loki’s six children, this could actually be considered rather tame. In mythology, Loki had six children but just one daughter in human form, Hel, who was youthful and beautiful on one side of her face and old and decaying on the other.

The dancer, to be fair, was beautiful on both sides and even on her undersides, which I can say with some confidence after her pole dance. Loki-the-dancer watched even as she experienced a wardrobe malfunction. Professional to the end, she tugged the bikini top into place and finished her dance.

The other dancers returned to the stage, all six circling the pole in some type of mythical Mayday dance. Each had a moment for a solo dance and bowed to raucous applause from the audience. I clapped along. It was a brave and intriguing take on storytelling, even though I wasn’t sure what I had just watched.

I have to say, I was impressed at the diversity of the dancers. The women came in all shapes and sizes and were confident and comfortable with their bodies. Short, tall, wide, small, long hair and short, and even the elf ears seemed to offer versions of what a woman could be. Screams of enthusiasm from the women in the audience showed just how appealing pole dancing can be when it celebrates different body types rather than focusing on the male gaze.

The dancers blew kisses and mouthed hello to individuals in the audience. A man in jeans and a t-shirt was dragged from his seat on the floor to take a bow, with no explanation as to who he was or what we were applauding. Possibly I was the only one who didn’t know, as the cheering went up another decibel before fading. Our host took to the stage one last time to tell us that our fur-clad lover of Loki was the creator of the performance piece. She returned to the stage for another bow. I stood and applauded with the others, genuinely impressed by the woman who decided she wanted to tell a story of Norse mythology through exotic dance. Bringing this to the stage was an accomplishment, and honestly, why does one go to Tallinn Fringe if not to have one’s horizons expanded?

Was it burlesque? Was it mythology? Was it a fever dream brought on by too many shots of aquavit? One thing is certain: it was pure, unadulterated performance art.

Keep an eye out for events at HUNGR, a welcoming space to experience Tallinn’s underground culture. The So You Think You Can Strip events are slated to continue, with more storytelling and special shows to come.

Author: Sylvia

Sylvia Spruck Wrigley obsessively writes letters to her mother, her adult daughter, her accountant, as well as to unknown beings in outer space. Only her mother admits to reading them. Born in Heidelberg, Sylvia spent her childhood in California and now lives in Estonia. You can find out more about her https://intrigue.co.uk.