By DOUGLAS MARTIN
The performer who used the stage name Pepper LaBeija as a glamorous queen of the Harlem drag balls immortalized in the 1991 documentary “Paris Is Burning” died on May 14 at Roosevelt Hospital in Manhattan. She, as she preferred to be called, was 53.
A woman who answered the telephone at her mother’s home but who would not identify herself said the cause of death was a heart attack.
Miss LaBeija (pronounced la-BAY-zha) appeared proudly in luxuriant female garb that was often golden and shimmering, and referred to herself in feminine terms, her friend Marcel Christian LaBeija said.
Marcel’s given name is Herman Williams, but the last name of LaBeija is used by all members of the House of LaBeija, the group of performers Pepper led.
When Pepper LaBeija was not onstage, she was William Jackson of the Bronx, who sometimes dressed as a man.
Pepper was the last of the four great queens of the modern Harlem balls; Angie Xtravaganza, Dorian Corey and Avis Pendavis all died in recent years. These four exuded a sort of wild expressionism that might make Las Vegas showgirls seem tame.
“This is the end of the golden age,” said Brian Lantelme, a photographer who has covered the balls.
The House of LaBeija was one of the first houses, founded in 1970. The female impersonator who first led it thought the name LaBeija seemed glamorous. Pepper took over in 1971 or 1972, Marcel said.
Pepper LaBeija was called “mother”; the house’s younger members were the “children.”
“A house is a family for those who don’t have a family,” Miss LaBeija said in the movie.
Marcel LaBeija and Mr. Lantelme said that Pepper was also survived by a son and daughter, but did not know these survivors’ names.
Miss LaBeija had diabetes, which had led to the amputation of both feet, and had been bedridden for most of the last decade. She last performed at a ball in 2001, when 30 attendants delivered her on a litter to the crowd’s jubilation.
“Her specialty was the Egyptian effect,” Marcel LaBeija said.
Pepper LaBeija was a legend to the members and patrons of the Harlem ball scene, a world of extravagant make-believe that crosses sexual boundaries and that was chronicled in “Paris Is Burning,” directed by Jennie Livingston. In an interview, Ms. Livingston spoke of Pepper’s “glamorous bravado” that stood out in a flock of Marilyn Monroes.
The public also glimpsed the ball scene in a Madonna video that featured voguing, a highly stylized and posed dance form used in the balls. Voguing was also featured at the Love Balls, which were held at Roseland in 1989 and 1990 and drew top fashion industry figures.
Though men have long dressed as women for many reasons, the modern institution of the Harlem ball began around 1960, said Marcel LaBeija, who is writing a book on the subject. The idea was to give gay blacks and Hispanics a place to dress up and perform. An earlier circuit for drag performers had been geared to white people, and black performers had sometimes whitened their faces to fit in.
The new balls did more than add racial justice. They set up changing categories within which to compete; these sometimes included Town & Country types, military personnel, corporate executives, schoolgirls and schoolboys and fashion models.
Trophies were awarded to those who best achieved “realness,” or resemblance to an archetype. The paradox was more bitter than sweet: performers strove to become the very people who would reject them. The best won trophies; no one won more than Miss LaBeija, who took away around 250, mostly for extravagant takes on high fashion.
Like many such performers, she had surgically implanted breasts. But she did not want a sex-change operation, explaining that women don’t have it so great.
The drag ball scene, as portrayed in “Paris Is Burning,” had its sad aspects as well. One man says that the biggest “realness” a man can attain is to be convincing enough to make it home on the subway without getting beaten up for being in costume.
For most of her life, Miss LaBeija’s world was the balls. Marcel said that Pepper supported herself by producing them and by teaching modeling.
In an interview with The Village Voice in 2000, Miss LaBeija said her life had grown more ordinary, and called herself an “old-way legend in recovery.”
I haven’t watched this movie in a while.
It was summer 1996 right before my senior year of high school back when my curfew was 10. I spent a Saturday with C who was at a UCLA summer camp. While hanging out in her dorm room and traipsing around Westwood Village, I ended up buying a used copy of Stabbing Westward’s Wither, Blister, Burn and Peel at the Wherehouse. “What Do I Have to Do” was played quite a bit on KROQ, and while I thought it was NIN-lite, I couldn’t deny how catchy and good it is.
I got home a bit late, around 10:30, and that was when I had the worst fight with my mom. She had gone to bed early and woke up when I went to the bathroom. Naturally she asked where I was and didn’t believe me when I said where I was or what I was doing. I kept telling her that I was just spending the day with C at UCLA, and she insisted that I wasn’t. I could only imagine what she thought I was doing. I wondered what I did to make her not trust me — I didn’t drink or use drugs; I was a good student in AP classes. At this point I had only started smoking cigarettes for several months. I listened to dark music. I liked to hang out at coffeeshops with my friends. I had horrible self-esteem. I was loud and angry with role models being Howard Stern and Roseanne. I knew I wasn’t perfect, but I didn’t think I was off the rails.
How do you communicate this to a mother with just as bad of a temper as you and who refuses to believe you?
It was getting late, and I wanted to go to bed. My mom didn’t want to end the argument. As a 17-year old, I didn’t know what she wanted from me. I knew I was hiding something big, and I had no intention of ever telling her. But my mom kept yelling at me saying I wasn’t telling the truth. Then I blurted it out.
“I’m gay.”
Fuck. As those words came out, I knew it was a fucking mistake. I knew nothing good was going to come out of this and that this argument was not going to come to an end anytime soon. Predictably, my mom went even more berserk perfecting every melodramatic beat from Korean dramas.
I knew I had to just stand there and take it. Then she said it.
“If you ever bring this up again, I will shoot you and shoot myself.”
Everything blurred after that. I knew I was never going to get my mother’s love, that no one was going to be there for me. It definitely explains the relationship I have with my mom, and it probably explains why I have never been in a relationship or see myself ever being in one.
Since then whenever I listen to Stabbing Westward I think about this night.
All of this to say that I did go see them Friday night as they promoted their re-recording of Wither to celebrate its 30th anniversary along with PIG, Acumen Nation (celebrating the 30th anniversary of Territory=Universe) and 16Volt (celebrating the 30th anniversary of LetDownCrush) as a part of Cold Waves LA. It was a great show of reliving the 90s guitar industrial metal and seeing bands I didn’t get to see back in the day. Hell, PIG even played “Juke Joint Jezebel” which I guess you could call a KMFDM cover even though Raymond Watts was the original featured vocalist.
As I cursed my aching 47-year old feet and back standing for hours at the Pacific Electric, I did think back to that argument 30 years ago and wonder what other climatic moments the people around me had. What traumas are the guy next to me exorcising as he is screaming out the lyrics very much off key?
Around 1 am they finished the set with “Save Yourself,” and the house lights turned up. Sure, I’m still carrying all of that baggage, but at least I got to shake my ass a little and enjoy myself a little, pain be damned.
The only reason I really look forward to my birthday is that I get time off from work and that I usually rent an Airbnb out in the middle of the desert in the Joshua Tree vicinity with a pool, hot tub, and no one around for 5 acres. So here I am in Landers (or a bit away from it really) whose claim to fame was that it was the epicenter of a 7.3 earthquake in 1992 just hours before a separate 6.5 earthquake centered in Big Bear hit on a Sunday morning. Wild stuff.
I arrived here yesterday, and on the way had to stop to get gas. Since this stupid fucking illegal war with Iran has driven gas prices sky high again, I’ve mostly been back on public transit again because, fuck that. There I was at the Arco station jaw agape as the $30 went to $40 and on up until it landed at $72 for 13 gallons of gas. Yes, the “cheap” gas.
I’m going to be spending most of the time in or around the pool trying to finish Schattenfroh by Michael Lentz. I’m at around page 604, so I have about 400 more pages to go. I’ll be honest — I have no fucking clue what’s going on in the book. It’s a slow, slow read and demands your attention but not in a painstaking way. It’s a very enjoyable read, but I honestly don’t know how we get from one part to the next. Instead of trying to make sense of it, I’m just riding the wave, going where it’s taking me and try to make sense of it later.
I’ve started working on a couple of things with myself and hope to get better at as I begin my 48th year on this planet: I have started to journal more. It’s the most mundane scatterbrained thing. I hope it doesn’t cause someone’s head to explode when they go through my journals after I’m dead. (How cute. I think I have any importance that people will actually read what I write rather than just dispose it like they should.)
I need to curb my YouTube addiction. I don’t watch tv shows. I don’t watch sports all that much. I don’t use TikTok. I only doomscroll through Facebook at 3 am after I have woken up to take a piss. I am no longer perpetually online. But I will sit down and waste hours upon hours watching YouTube videos. I really need to get that in check.
That’s all I’ve got. Overall, I’m not happy, but I’m not completely depressed. Let’s just call it nonplussed. For someone who feels like a stranger in his own country, I guess that’s about as good as we can hope for.