Russel Taylor sits on a vinyl red couch at Studio Red in Nob Hill.
He wears a plain sweater and orange Nike sneakers, and seems unaware of the white face paint that masks his identity. His head and face are shaved, and black paint covers his eyebrows. On the right side of his cheek is a wavy squiggle that meets his mouth and transforms into a straight line on the left.
“I was intrigued by the anonymity painting your face creates,” Taylor said. “I would like the way I would paint it on my face in streaks, and it became a canvas.”
He’s been painting his face since 1988 for his stage persona, Satori Circus, an all-around performer who sings and acts in various personas — sometimes in drag, sometimes dressed as a child, and other times in a tuxedo.
To get lost in Satori, however, is to completely lose Taylor, the not-quite-a-clown clown.
“I am not always in the makeup,” he said. “I have a 9-to-5 job, and it chews up your face. I like seeing eyebrows once a while. I like to see that five o’ clock shadow ’cause then I know I am a man.”
Perhaps Taylor’s most puzzling aspect is his calmness. In one YouTube video, he wears only a diaper. He’s also got a large pacifier with what looks like a paper plate attached to it, and he’s an explosion of energy. He croons and waves his arms, and, as he said in an interview, sweats quite a bit.
That’s not quite on display as he talks about the origins of Satori, from the band Bahaus’ song, “Kicked in the Eye,” which in turn is a reference to the Jack Kerouac book Satori in Paris. Without the paint, it would be hard to guess that Taylor is Satori.
But that’s the biggest problem between the stage performer and persona. One is not the other. Taylor refers to Satori in the third person in news releases and when he’s talking about upcoming shows. He is not Satori.
“The Russel Taylor that works the 9-to-5 job rarely comes out when Satori is out,” Taylor said. “He never rears (his) head.”
Yet Satori sometimes sneaks into Taylor’s life. Sometimes it takes the form of Taylor planning an upcoming event for Satori, but at other times it’s less subtle.
“At work, Satori Circus sometimes pops up when no one is around,” Taylor said. “I’ll get onto Facebook and say, ‘Satori Circus says daaadeeduh.’ It’s just a thought that’s killing me.”
Russel is in more control than he leads on. He makes conscious decisions about what acts to use, where he’s going to perform and even notes his audience’s reaction.
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“You want to pick the pieces that are going to be crowd-pleasers,” Taylor said. “Even though once and a little while I go, ‘No, I really want to be real artsy. I don’t want them to understand me at all. I just want to sit on stage for 10 minutes and not do anything and call it art.’ You can’t do that.”
And most importantly, he’s Taylor before going on stage.
Backstage, he visualizes his transformations. He does a 15-minute stretching and exercise session. And then he sits alone for two minutes, just trying to calm down.
Then he’s on stage.
“There’s no turning back,” he said. “And before I know it, the show’s over with it. And you’re like, ‘F**k, wow, I can’t believe it.’”
In moments like these, Russel morphs into Satori. He speaks in a higher pitch and exaggerates his motion and claps his hands.
He talks about his girlfriend, who is happy with his performing, his past performances and the way he’s almost been beaten up, or hit on by gay men. He talks about audiences who loved his acts, and those who didn’t, and why he likes an audience who’s a bit more riled than a complacent one.
He slips into character periodically throughout the interview. The shift is always disarming, but then it is gone, and Taylor, cool and collected, is back as though Satori was never there.
“I am an adrenaline junkie,” he said. “The johnson doesn’t come out, but I’ll show my ass until the cows come home. And my boobs. But when my makeup is off, it’s a different thing.”
