Vaudeville is the lowbrow phoenix of the performance world. A showy, ribald mishmash of comedy, stunts, and music, the genre has repeatedly peaked, immolated itself, and smoldered in ashes before bursting into a new incarnation. The current revival--with twists of bawdy Dada, punk, and do-it-yourself aesthetics--has been picking up speed lately, with advertisements for burlesque acts and circus-themed events popping up like little huckster dandelions all over town.

Carnival Reverie, the latest and perhaps pluckiest of these new offerings, will go up on April 27 as a benefit for Coffee Messiah. Reverie promises another anarchic chapter in the rebirth of vaudeville, and frankly, I'm pumped.

Organizer Christine DiTolvo says she has more acts than she knows what to do with, but will cram the floor with as much diversion as possible: clowning, juggling, burlesque, drag, music (experimental and otherwise), magicians, escape acts, fire-flinging, arm-wrestling contests, and a midway with games like Throw the Molotov Cocktail Through the White House Window. I can't wait.

Though vaudeville's roots lie in 18th-century French street theater (voix de ville), the itinerant armies of American vaudeville flourished between 1880 and 1930, before the spread of economic depression and movie houses strangled the genre.

The 1960s saw a burgeoning of live fringe performance as Renaissance fairs and theater festivals began to attract the new vaudevillians for freshly minted counterculture audiences. On the West Coast, the Flying Karamazov Brothers, Reverend Chumleigh, and others hawked a new brand of psychedelic vaudeville, featuring old favorites like juggling, rope-walking, and escape acts--but with more drugs, lefty politics, and hair.

These performers are still around, but they, their acts, and their audiences have aged, leaving psychedelic vaudeville a little stale. The successes of clowns like Bill Irwin and his grittier counterparts in Circus Contraption and the macabre Shockheaded Peter indicate a hunger for new, old-fashioned variety entertainment.

Enter DiTolvo with her carnival zoo--soaked in nostalgia for the old school and interpolated with the vitality and creative urgency of punk, DIY, and other cultural benefits from the intervening decades.

Some attribute the rebirth of vaudeville to a simple need for novelty. "People get tired of seeing the same old shit," said Jimmy the Pickpocket (of Reverie headliners the Bad Things). "Guitars, drums, bands just standing there looking cool. People want different instruments, like banjos and accordions--they actually dance at our shows, which is something you don't see a lot of in Seattle."

Others point to more revolutionary, world-historical causes. "Original vaudeville came out of depression and war, and sadly, we're entering a renaissance of poverty and violence," said Reverie participant Reverend Bubba Levi Greenacres (of the Bubble Mimez and the annual Volunteer Park Bubble Rally). "Its resurgence comes out of a scarcity of resources, and a desire to speak out in creative ways."

In this case, it is also a chance to aid Coffee Messiah, a local coffee shop and hub for some Capitol Hill artists. Whether showcasing live music and open-mic poetry or offering its walls as a gallery space, Coffee Messiah has been a network and center for artists, who are now grateful for the chance to give something back.

According to Coffee Messiah owner Opus, the business has always scraped by. "We've dedicated ourselves to being a community house," he said. "We usually lose money on our evening music shows, but we'd like to keep doing them." A barely profitable business plan and a serious cash theft four months ago have left the coffeehouse teetering on the brink of existence.

"A lot of us have performed or shown work in Messiah," said DiTolvo. "Losing a venue like that would be a very, very bad thing for the local arts scene."

DiTolvo has been overwhelmed by the level of interest in Carnival Reverie. "It just snowballed," she said. "I've been floored by how many people want to help dumpster-dive for props, or are like, 'Yeah, I have a unicycle in my basement.'"

With some luck and a good turnout, DiTolvo and company hope to make Carnival Reverie an annual benefit for nonprofits and small businesses--like Coffee Messiah--who find themselves in hot financial water.

"Next year, it will be a piece of cake," said DiTolvo. "And four times bigger."

Carnival Reverie, Sun April 27, 6 pm at the Capitol Hill Arts Cooperative, 1621 12th Ave. $10. All ages (bar w/ID).