Bleeding Neon

It’s odd that I don’t go to more comedy shows. Comedy in all forms — sketches, stand-up, parody — is actually one of my favorite things. I spend hours watching clips online of all of the above, I’ve been known to rent/own the occasional stand-up DVD, but I think in my entire life I’ve seen less than a dozen live comedy shows. And most of those, let’s be honest, have been media comps over the last five or six years.

Such was last night’s visit to Brad Garrett’s Comedy Club at the Tropicana, a space with which I’m pretty familiar, because for years before the gargantuan funnyman’s name adorned its marquee, it was known as the Comedy Stop (which recently moved south on the Strip to the Sahara). The revamped club opened just this week, with Garrett as the first headliner. Not much has been done to the space, which retains its old-school Vegas adornments — dark wood, sight line-blocking pillars, giant, ornate chandeliers — though rumor has it Garrett had the ceiling above the stage raised to accommodate his 6-foot-8-inch frame. Though he’ll obviously not be in the club all the time, it’s the only place in Vegas to see the Emmy-winning comedian for the next two years.

Last night’s show was pretty good, the room packed with a mix of paid attendees and invited guests, including poker star Annie Duke, a friend of the poker-loving Garrett. But she was about the only person immune to Garrett’s roasting of the crowd, from the unfortunate folks seated front row to the ubiquitous Robin Leach, who, unbeknown to Garrett, threw quite the temper tantrum when his party arrived late to the club to find their seats unavailable. To be fair, we arrived a few minutes before showtime and already there were almost no seats left, but we didn’t have an entourage of questionably sourced young blonde vixens, nor a grating English accent with which to berate the Tropicana’s president.

But despite that nonsense, a good time was had by all, as evidenced by the nonstop, riotous laughter throughout the room. Garrett, humorously mean the whole while, took out the time to answer audience questions after his set, encouraging an interactivity that really made the whole night feel more like a big roast for good friends rather than just a trip to the local comedy club.

One major complaint — and this may be sorted out after the Tropicana’s extensive transformation into a South Beach-style resort is complete — is that Garrett’s club is damn hard to find, hidden behind a labyrinthine series of executive offices, salons and hallways on the casino’s upper level. Signage is iffy and vague, and even though I’ve been to the club a few times before, it was still disorienting to say the least. But maybe that’s part of the charm, the last vestige of that Vegas “insider” feeling guests boasted back in the “old days.” Or maybe Garrett and his rotating lineup of wise guys just want to make the yucks at the end of the journey worth all that much more.

One of Las Vegas’ most in-demand photographers — and one of the nicest guys I know — is Erik Kabik. In addition to being everywhere in town, shooting red carpets and VIP events for wire photo service RETNA, Erik is also the house photographer for the Hard Rock Hotel, a post he’s earned thanks to years of shooting live music. I’ve been lucky enough to have Erik’s concert imagery accompany multiple features I’ve written for HRH magazine.

To celebrate 20 years of shooting concerts, Erik’s favorite concert photos will be on display at the Mandarin Bar on the 23rd floor of the Mandarin Oriental hotel at CityCenter on Monday, May 17. If you get a chance, stop by the reception from 6 to 8 p.m., where long-time Vegas DJ Shoe will be spinning the tunes while Ty Ku provides complimentary cocktails.

Erik’s subjects on display will include The Grateful Dead, Jay-Z, Kings of Leon, Dave Matthews, Madonna and much more. If you’re a fan of music or photography, I highly recommend checking out his work.

I think this may have been my one of my first appearances on a nightlife photo website, just before it became a regular thing for a bizarre period of time. That’s Martin Stein with me, then probably one of my editors at the Las Vegas Weekly — or possibly by then defected to the dark side of PR — but now editor at David Magazine. I believe we’re at Empire Ballroom (R.I.P.), though for the life of me, I can’t recall the occasion. It was mid-2006, if I recall …

Look at how bare my upper arms are! Man. Time flies.

Photo by Erik Kabik/RETNA.com/erikkabik.com

Seriously, I was going to write a semi-review of last night’s opening night performance of Dita Von Teese’s limited run with the Crazy Horse Paris at MGM Grand, and I got about four paragraphs into it, and then I realized IT SUCKED BALLS, like everything else I’ve done today, so … I scrapped it.

Instead, I think you’d be much better off reading the article I wrote about Von Teese in this week’s Vegas Seven. It does not suck balls. I did the interview with the lovely burlesque icon via phone last Friday, but that’s not how it was supposed to be. My original plan was to do an in-person interview with her at the Crazy Horse this week, and to actually observe and report on the interaction between Von Teese and the insanely beautiful Crazy Horse dancers. It was all lined up for Monday, but as things go in the world of entertainment journalism, dates and times were shifted and crossed, and in order to meet the deadline for the paper, I had to switch to a phoner and realign the focus of the story.

The conversation with Von Teese was relatively brief but chock full of goodies. Unfortunately, a lot of the topics we discussed didn’t make it into the article, lest it run way over word count and lose all focus. But it’s a shame to see it go to waste, so I’m going to share with you an excerpt from the “outtakes” here. I asked Von Teese what differences she perceived between European and American approaches to sexuality. Here’s part of what she had to say:

I have to say in America in the 1940s, everyone knew who Gypsy Rose Lee was. She was a huge household name, and she did exactly what I do now. It’s hard to imagine why things have shifted so much. Josephine Baker received honors in France for what she did, and she was butt naked, there are streets named after these people. [In France] everyone knows what I do, children know what I do. People aren’t embarrassed of it or afraid of it. Showgirls are a part of Parisian culture. I don’t know why it’s so taboo in America. My life’s work is to change people’s mind about what a stripper is, and how strip tease can be artful, and how it can be an important part of America’s entertainment history.

There was more, but I’ll probably save that for the collection of unabridged interviews I’m assembling for future publication. A few people have indicated they’d be interested in reading such a thing. Would you? A book featuring full interviews with celebrities, politicians and other interesting people? Let a brother know.

Film producers put out dozens of films. But rarely are their works compared to each other, or expected to live up to a standard established by its predecessor. So why do we do that with Cirque du Soleil shows, specifically their Las Vegas creations?

Oh, sure, the first wave of original, non-linear, mega-circus productions such as Mystère and O feature trademark vibrant costumes, mind-blowing artistry and awe-inspiring sets, all wrapped in a sense of whimsy and wonder orchestrated by their creator, director Franco Dragone. Dragone left Cirque to form his own entertainment group, and since then, the company’s subsequent shows (such as Kà and Zumanity) have diverged from what the general public perceives as the established Cirque status quo, when in fact, they’ve diverged from the Dragone standard.

Since then, Cirque has entered into collaborations for its Vegas shows that have been of, well, questionable success. With The Beatles LOVE, the company produced a much-loved, critically lauded show that even spawned a Grammy-winning soundtrack album. That show stays true to the “traditional” spirit of Cirque du Soleil, never letting either the vague biographical story of the Beatles or the circus performances feel forced. Of course, maybe the Beatles’ eclectic music was always destined for the circus.

On the other hand, Criss Angel: Believe has been … less enthusiastically received. Blame the lack of magic, blame the creepy rabbits, blame Criss Angel’s own lack of charisma and general douchebaggery — whatever it is, Believe proves that not everything graced by the Cirque du Soleil name turns to gold. Or even bronze.

Hence, we come to Cirque’s latest collaboration, Viva ELVIS, which — in case you couldn’t figure it out or have been held hostage from the internet lately — loosely tells the story of Elvis Presley’s life through song, dance and trampoline tricks. On its own, ignoring the Cirque du Soleil name, Viva ELVIS is an adequate, enjoyable musical, featuring an integrated, energetic live band performing along with Elvis’ vocal tracks, enhanced by live singers. It’s a whitewashing of Elvis’ career, of course, leaving out all the ugly parts about drug addiction, affairs and, oh yeah, getting fat and dying. And it’s narrated by an actor portraying Colonel Tom Parker, Elvis’ notoriously manipulative and corrupt manager who, here, appears as a genial carnival barker.

So what makes it a Cirque show? There are kitschy, giant set pieces, such as a blue suede shoe, a guitar and a wedding cake, and acrobats performing feats of derring-do upon them. There is a fun but totally out-of-context trampoline segment. There are aerialists and colorful costumes and creepy plastic Elvis wigs. But unlike The Beatles LOVE — and yes, I’m going to compare here, because these are both Cirque-spawned shows based on the music and lives of giant rock stars — Viva ELVIS lacks that, well, certain je ne sais quoi that makes LOVE so fantastic. There’s no emotional investment. No build-up. No surprises or small, touching moments. It’s just all flashy showmanship, all the time, and even then, some scenes went on too long and could not maintain entertainment value.

Viva ELVIS feels more like the Broadway version of Hairspray, if you removed characters for whom we care about, a storyline we can follow or a genuine feeling of nostalgia. If you just purely love Elvis’ music, and dig musical theater, it may be right up your alley. But if you’re expecting the otherworldly, transcendental experience of earlier Cirque shows, your money’s best spent on a discounted ticket to Mystère.