Cynthia Albritton, more famously known as Cynthia Plaster Caster, used to come, occasionally, to these queer punk rock events that I stage managed. One night we were chatting a bit – I, probably moony-eyed from interacting with a rock n roll legend, and she, perhaps a bit self-consciously, aware of the importance I was placing on the exchange. Eventually, we wound-up swaying to the music of the band together. A few songs in, we looked at each other at exactly the same moment & nodded our heads in unison, an acknowledgement of the perfectness of that minute in time. It’s one of those super cool life experiences that I’ll never forget.
For Cynthia, in all her humbleness, deserved my awe in those precious seconds. She was truly a guiding light for anyone who wanted to live their life against the ordinary curve. While my parents were working their way through college and forging an unheralded, not entirely successful path, into suburban small-town normalcy, she was happily hanging with musical icons like Jimi Hendrix and Wayne Kramer, making unconventional art of their anatomies. With inspired creativity, she essentially reinvented music fandom, turning groupie enthusiasm into high art – a singular accomplishment.
Thus, she has been heralded as an icon, rightfully, in the press since the news of her death, at the age of 74 (on April 21, 2022). But what those laudatory reports haven’t always highlighted is her emotional importance to all of us tiny town dreamers and future freaks. She gave us a worldly gift, immeasurable by any standards that I know. By making those legendary molds, she also showed us there was a way to break out of them, as well.
Until the next time, SWEET love & pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan