A personal history of Chokehole, the traveling anarchist “drag wrestling” troupe
An intimate look inside the New Orleans-based performance art and party collective. Words by LEO HERRERA Photography by DANIELLE POWELL NEW ORLEANS, 2018. “I wanna get fucked up somewhere crazy,” my out-of-towner friend pleaded through a mouthful of gas station fried chicken, holding a daiquiri the shape of a rooster.
Careful what you wish for, I thought, as I flagged the taxi. We sped away from the tourists of Frenchmen, down a dark street with a dirt sidewalk, to a dilapidated warehouse.
It was missing half its roof and its walls were shaking with music and cheers. We paid a cheap cover and walked into chaos and body heat around a wrestling ring.
A huge projection above the crowd played a jerky, cable access-style video welcoming the mistresses of ceremonies: a green goblin named Gorleenyah, a space witch with three noses (“possibly three sets of genitals”) and a buxom blonde named Visqueen in a futuristic S&M rubber suit.
