Blood, puke and Foucault

To the Roundhouse last night for Kleinkunst II: The Pleasures of Brutality. This second collaboration between the venue and Central School of Speech and Drama had the thoroughly creditable aim of bringing the performance and academic communities closer together, this time around ideas of disgust, brutality and the grotesque. The results were mixed but intriguing, underlining the importance of the dynamic between cabaret performers and their audience, in this case mostly pensive researchers rather than pissed-up revellers. In the words of Ophelia Bitz – who, with her new band the Tijuana Bibles, delivered a stonking new song about disappointing sex with gorgeous men – "You guys are dry!"

Several performers hit the grotesque and/or brutal nail on the head. It's always a pleasure to see Scottee sicking up in the direction of whatever audience member finds herself unwittingly pinned to him via makeshift tablecloth (see pic) - apologies for head blocking view, though it is Marisa Carnesky's. Carnesky gave a run-down of her recent work highlighting the long history of extreme body-work in European sideshows and carnivals, insisting that whereas some contemporary performers cite exotic ritualistic foundations for their piercings, brandings and the like, "in the Western tradition, it doesn't 'mean' anything." Owen Parry, who as a performer and PhD candidate personified the evening's intended link, delivered a paper on the importance of embracing the essential ridiculousness of performance (it being so ephemeral and all), comparing it the adoption of the term 'queer'. Holding to academic form, he frequently referred to Adam Ant as 'Ant', which was great, and gave a performance involving baby oil, milk, a wet jumper and a ladder that I couldn't make head or tail of. And Marawa, moonlighting from La Clique, hula'ed and discussed her research into Josephine Baker.

Probably the most successful element of the evening was Lucifire's contribution. Her performance with her husband Dave Tusk – nipples pierced and tweaked, blindfolds pinned to faces, blood extracted, shaken with vodka and necked – was not the kind of thing I'm especially partial to. Unlike the camera operator who fainted halfway though, I don't mind it, it just doesn't speak especially loudly to me. But the presentation she delivered afterwards, rivulets of blood caked on either side of her face, was terrific: drawing on 15-odd years of experience, she articulated insightfully but without jargon 'the cathartic process of releasing the inner beast' from outer beauty, the value of the body in the digital age and the consoling fact that "audience adulation is a most effective analgesic".

Impressively curated as the programme was by Central's Jay Stewart and Andrew Lavender, the cabaret night and the symposium didn't always overlap harmoniously – rounding the night off with a timed workshop discussion rather than an invitation to the bar was probably a mistake – but the underlying impulse seems vital. Perhaps next time round a way could be found to improve what Stewart endearingly called "the Foucauldian technology of the space" and encourage academic presentations with elements of performance, or performances showcasing the fruits of research, rather than maintaining a division between the two. Less dry, perhaps.

Heart-fisting at the V&A

Big fun last night: Making a Scene, the sprawling queer performance evening at the V&A planned by Tim Redfern – aka Timberlina, looking sharp all night in yellow-and-black polka dot blouse, weilding a clipboard. George Chakravarthi's queer, black moving-image take on Manet's Olympia set the tone at the grand main entrance; then you prowled the museum-turned-venue in search of the riches distributed throughout (not always easy with the V&A's maps – there were one or two spots marked on the programme that we failed to find).

Best use of the space was the one-on-one art cruising: you were given a hankie and instructions to eye up matching potential performers. I got lucky in the Sacred Silver section. Benjamin Sebastian unbuttoned his waistcoat and opened his heart: a red PVC one on his shirt with an elasticated sphincter. Working my fingers then forearm in, I eventually reached a piece of folded paper containing an anecdote about sexual ennui, read it to him as he looked into my eyes, then left, feeling satisfied and sad.

Other highlights: David Hoyle giving a drawing class in the sculpture hall; Chris Green delivering Oscar Wilde's lecture to art students in character; Dickie Beau shedding his outer clown for his inner activist. And getting distracted by the fashion gallery, which should surely include the fantastic full-body number pictured.