CHRISTEENE: The CHRISTEENE Machine

It's late in a small, sweaty cave somewhere in the Underbelly. A figure is carried, moaning, by two henchmen who push and hustle their way through an increasingly uneasy crowd. CHRISTEENE is deposited on stage, garlanded with two balloons which she sets free, removing the strings from her anus, where they are anchored. The music begins—all thick bass and heavy beats—and as she sings, we see the whites of her eyes and swathes of flesh through the shreds of her home-made clothes.

A bewildered punter might be forgiven for leaving at this point. As an opening gambit it's aggressively sexual, and deeply discomfiting – all shock aesthetics with little substance beyond a compulsion towards nihilism. And to be sure, CHRISTEENE and "the boyz"—a pair of backing dancers whose chubby, sweating bodies and lace knickers are unlikely to appear on MTV any time soon—don't shy away from destruction. Gender normativity is smashed; religion and government are spat at; she rails against consumerism and apathy.

Except it's far too simple to dismiss this as inchoate screams of anger, for at its heart the CHRISTEENE Machine is driven by intense creativity. Imaginatively, CHRISTEENE treads wildly unfamiliar territory – a monologue about growing sexual and gender awareness, for instance, takes a personal experience and transforms it into a universal metaphor with its exhortation to "go explore your own woods". Technically, it is a performance of real polish, with shape, texture, and military-tight choreography. It's truly subversive – and, on an energetic Saturday night, it feels dangerous.