BAMBI LAKE
- August Bernadicou
- Jun 5
- 9 min read
Updated: Jun 8
COCKETTES, ANGELS OF LIGHT, PERFORMER
Bambi Lake (1950-2020) was a chanteuse who sprang out of the Cockettes, the radical, gay, hippie performance troupe, and the Angels of Light, the free-theater child of the Cockettes. Off and on, for over
50 years, she performed in San Francisco at the biggest, smallest, cleanest, and dirtiest clubs. When I asked her what her greatest talent is, she said, "making people cry."
She was sculpted by those who glance at her, finely chiseled by her music, poetry, and mystery. Forever a pioneer, she paved the way for transgender women, women who would normally be forced to succumb to the internal isolation outsiders can’t describe. The same isolation that visionaries overcome to attain their status.
When I was 18 years old, I read Bambi’s book The Unsinkable Bambi Lake and knew that I had to find her. I searched and searched and searched. In my quest, when I mentioned her name to people, I would hear gasps and, often, be asked to leave.
One day that same year, I found her on the street. I had her book in my backpack. I saw Bambi again at Carl’s Jr. She had a home, and she was sober. Poetry spilled out of her midnight coffee, "There is a whole world of beautiful people under the beautiful American Dream.” To me, she is one of the great, unsung San Francisco street poets and performers. She had overcome it all, homelessness, drug addiction, a life day by day, if not minute to minute.
The rumors that cloak her legacy are not always true, but they helped build it. One time when I was walking around with her, someone stopped us on the street and exclaimed, “I found Bambi Lake! I can’t wait to tell my wife.”
At the end, Bambi spent most of her days alone. She had always been alone. She would tell me that she should be traveling to Europe, performing all around the world. It should be her. I would tell her that without her, so many trans people wouldn’t be able to perform.
She was too much, too out there, too early to have the life she longed for. She pounded the pavement, and, to this day, her songs are performed worldwide. Like her hero, Joni Mitchell, said, “The reasons artists live to be quite old is because they are children… that never put their crayons away.” Bambi was forever chasing fame in a circle outlined by crayons. When she resumed performing, she consistently sold out two-hundred-seat theaters.
Sometimes you meet someone, and they stay with you. You see them where they aren’t and hear them in silence. Bambi Lake is one of those people.
You can learn more about Bambi Lake in Devour Me, Again, a Bambi Lake poetry anthology published by NightBoat.
— August Bernadicou, Executive Director of The LGBTQ History Project
“The first play I was in was Brigadoon at Sequoia High School. I grew up with Kenny Ortega, and we went to high school together. When we were both sophomores, he got me into the original Broadway production of Oliver at the Circle in the Square theater. He later choreographed Dirty Dancing and is now a big-time choreographer. He directed High School Musical.
When I was a child, I was very into fairies and fairy tales. I actually believed in fairies until I was about 26 years old. There is a 1910 photo book called The Scottish Fairy Book. It was a big thing because it made everyone think fairies were real. Houdini, Arthur Conan Doyle, who wrote Sherlock Holmes, and all these people were involved with it.
One day, I showed it to my friend Angel Jack, who was the boyfriend of Hibiscus, the founder of the Cockettes, as we walked down Polk Street. Jack just burst out laughing because somebody clearly edited the photos. Jack and Hibiscus cut out pictures of fairies and put them on the Angels of Light posters. The book looked like an Angels of Light poster. I realized at that time fairies weren't real.
The year I was up for the draft was the year they installed the lottery. There was a time when if you missed the eight o’clock ballet class, they would drop you from school, and you would go straight to Vietnam. If you weren't in school, you would get drafted fast.
I went to the Oakland Induction Center and went through all the mazes. I wrote “I AM GAY” in giant letters on my paperwork. My mother was so ashamed, but I just wasn't going to go. It wasn't until I lived with Hibiscus that I felt some kind of Gay Liberation spirit, even though the Cockettes weren't political.
I was in the theater all through school. It’s all I’ve ever cared about, and I didn't have much interest in anything else. I finally got a lead role when I graduated and did The Boyfriend.
One day, I was hitchhiking to this theater at a junior college, and Peter Mintun picked me up in a 1932 coupe, a fabulous little gangster car—he was my age, had a tape deck, and played a tape of his own piano playing. He later became the piano player for the Cockettes.
Now, Peter is the toast of Manhattan and has been for many years. He only plays for the wealthiest people in the world. He plays for Donald Trump—he used to play in Nob Hill after the Cockettes. He is just a fantastic person.
He came to my rehearsal for The Boyfriend, and he played for a couple of shows I did in college. I met him a year and a half before my time with the Cockettes. One day, he invited me up to meet them at a rehearsal. I wasn't gay at this time—this was in 1970, I was 20.
I already knew about San Francisco because I did all my shopping up here. I got all my school clothes here. Before I knew it, I transitioned from a Leave It To Beaver suburb into the Angels of Light commune.
The newspaper called the commune “A Hotbed of Screaming Faggotry.” It was beautiful. I lived with Beaver Bauer and Martin Wong from the Angels of Light. Beaver was the head mother and later became a famous costume designer with the American Conservatory Theater.
We lived near Mission High School, in between the Mission District and the Castro. It was a big house full of artists. They just don't happen now. If you can imagine, we were paying 50 bucks a month. Fifty dollars a month to live! We had two people in a room, and even though there wasn't much to eat, everyone pooled their food money. Instead of $1,000, you could get a gorgeous vintage gown for 30 bucks! Housing was available in these times, too.
In 1973, I went to Europe to perform with the Angels of Light in The Enchanted Miracle. One of the Angels of Light, Sister Ed, a hilarious person and one of the first people to do nun-drag, had inherited $50,000 or something from his grandmother. Hibiscus was already there, and he took Beaver Bauer, Rodney Price, and me to perform at the Roundhouse in London. We thought it was going to be at the Roundhouse, but it was at the Ovalhouse. Everyone was like, ‘Oh, the Roundhouse, the Roundhouse, the Roundhouse!’ But no, it was the Ovalhouse. It was off in the fringes. We did get written up in Time Out magazine.
People came to see us. Lindsay Kemp, the British dancer, came. I remember running off to see Camden Street. I loved London so much that I just had to stay. Just to be a dishwasher was wonderful. We just did one show for a couple of weeks, and then it was pretty much dishwashing all year.
My friends Gregory and Chandra—Gregory was gay but married Chandra to live in London—we all lived together in an attic room. It was at the time of Bowie and Roxy Music, and it was an excellent time to just be in the streets. We went to Dingwalls’, a very Amy Winehouse place in Camden. It was the coolest rock and roll club you could fucking imagine. They are just slick when they go out at night. You just can't beat them. They are well-dressed, great musicians; they are just cool.
Writing poetry came a lot later. In school, I couldn't spell very well, and I flunked English. I never thought of myself as a writer until spell check came around. In the late 1980s, John Doe and Exene Cervenka from the band X, and Henry Rollins from Black Flag, did their spoken-word tours. That started to flow out there, and so did I. All of a sudden, there were poetry readings everywhere you went. It was a part of the culture. One of the first poems I wrote was Golden Age of Hustlers.
In 1988. I met this woman named Danielle Willis, who was the author of Dogs in Lingerie. She was the person who told me how to do it. There was the Cafe Babar before me, but I started going to readings at the Paradise Lounge and the Chameleon. You would get ‘features' at this time. You would go to an open mic, and they would invite you to be a featured performer. You've got to talk for 20 minutes, and maybe they will give you 15 bucks. It was started by Henry and Exene. They did it in 1984, at the same time as Madonna. They would make fun of Madonna. They were ahead of the curve. Henry turned millions of little skater boys into poets, which is a great thing.
I guess my greatest talent when I perform is making people cry. I don’t know exactly why. It’s usually my song Golden Age of Hustlers.
Certain singers are just better at sad songs. I spent a lot of time learning how to sing. I’m doing little things that people don’t realize. I have a lot of technique. I believe in the power of the voice. I don’t have a rock & roll voice, I have a Broadway voice. My voice is a velvety, watery sound that draws people in. All of a sudden, I can get very, very loud or all of a sudden very, very soft. It’s manipulative. When you study voice, you learn how to do a lot of vocal tricks. My talent, well, I'm stuck there. It feels unnatural to talk about how good I am. I can't really.
I wrote that San Jose Johnny the Libra was the most beautiful man I have ever seen. I have been trying to define him for a while. He was a real person, and if he would only show himself, it would be great. He ended up moving to Texas to be a fisherman. He was simple and an enigma. He was an Okie with the cutest, butch way of talking. He lost all his teeth from doing drugs, and he was a master thief. He had grown up in jail. He didn’t have the slightest bit of menace to him. We met at a time when we both couldn’t judge each other. He knew what a queen was and how to respect a queen.
He didn’t turn tricks. He never looked at anyone else, not even at other girls. He only looked at me. We lived in a cheap motel room and listened to classical music at night. We made love. He was in love with me when he was with me. With him, it was different; he was special. He was sweet and romantic and the love of my life.
Golden Age of Hustlers affects people so much because I'm not proud of it. I didn't enjoy it. The song has that context. It’s not something I recommend people do. People get shocked by that because it's right on my sleeve. I've watched people destroy themselves. It has a very sweet melody, so you don’t quite recognize it. It hits you as you get into the song. It’s talking about speed, actually, crystal meth, how there were boys with really good bodies, and I visibly saw them deflating.
This gets into an area that I simply don't want to talk about. My speed problem was just ugly, and I don't like to talk about it. That's what this is getting into. It’s just— there's a line. I don't like people to think of me in those terms. It's more powerful than people realize.
I have to stop here because I don't know how to say any of this. I just don't know. I think that's enough, especially for today."
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