My first time there, finally, was a few months ago to attend the opening reception for local artist Steven Spaan’s “Trash=Art” show at the P3 Studio. Yes, that’s right: The Cosmopolitan’s plan to draw local aesthetes otherwise uninterested in nightlife or gaming to a Strip resort worked. This place was definitely designed with hipsters in mind, from the underground parking structure’s graffiti-art walls and the pool tables in the common areas to the Art-o-Matic vending machine and the nameless, hidden pizza joint that serves PBR. I liked it enough, though when the girlfriend and I tried to find somewhere to eat that wasn’t too fancy but wasn’t pizza, it became a bit of a challenge, because we’re simple people and the menus of even the tapas and Mexican-Chinese fusion places were a bit challenging.

When I returned to the Cosmopolitan on a lazy-ish Saturday afternoon to do my reporting for this week’s Vegas Seven article on Kidrobot’s summer takeover of P3 Studio, I found myself warming up even more to the place. After spending some time in the cool little Kidrobot store and chatting with Frank Kozik in the studio, I headed down the escalators of the Chandelier Bar to grab a drink while I reviewed my notes. The bar was mostly filled with a mix of people (though mostly under 30), but I grabbed an open spot between an old man and two young women. The bartender, a younger guy himself, had an old-school charm, seeming genuinely interested in the welfare of his patrons. He made me a perfect drink, checked in on each of the other customers and made some weak attempts at flirty humor with the girls next to me. He asked about what I was writing and how the interview went. It was … nice.

I know that the Cosmopolitan’s inviting nature to decidedly non-gambling 20- and 30-somethings hasn’t helped it’s bottom line much, despite being insanely popular (read this excellent feature in VEGAS INC for more on that), so my enjoyment of the space without being inclined to empty my wallets doesn’t help them much. But I can dig what’s going on there, and the attention put into the little things. Like a well-crafted cocktail. A friendly bartender. Or a store full of vinyl toys chomping cigars.

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.

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.

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.

Muse + Silversun Pickups, April 10, Mandalay Bay Events Center.

Consider my mind blown.

Man, has it been three years since this picture was taken? Can that even be possible? I guess so. This time around we have me in possession of a mallet during “Gong Karaoke” at Mist Lounge inside the Treasure Island Hotel and Casino. On the right is Brian Henry, one of Las Vegas’ favorite visual artists, and one of the co-conspirators in the dead-but-never-forgotten techno-noise-hip-hop act Side Project 7. I believe I wrote about the entire experience here, and there may be some related video over here.

Holly Madison, Josh Strickland and Shoshana Bean will star in the sequel to Peepshow, "Threesome." Not really. (Photo by Erik Kabik | RETNA | erikkabik.com

Things you should know about Peepshow, the topless revue now playing at the CHI showroom inside Planet Hollywood:

• Despite the top-billing, advertising face time and press coverage given to Holly Madison, who replaced Kelly Monaco’s role in the show, the real star of Peepshow is Shoshana Bean, formerly of Broadway’s Wicked, currently occupying the lead singing/dancing role abandoned by former Spice Girl Mel B. Shoshana is funny, charming, spunky, cute and can sing the hell out of anything.
• Though the show’s title and sometimes-topless cast of dancing beauties would lead you to believe good ol’ fashioned boobies are the draw of the show (and, specifically, the artificial ones supported by Madison’s tiny frame), the surprising truth is that the singers steal the show. At least for me, they did. Led by Bean, a few non-stripping female singers, male lead Josh Strickland and the occasional topless rapping hottie belt out tunes with such chutzpah you’d swear you just hear a subway train rumble past.
• Aside from a few slow spots (notably the opening number featuring the show’s eponymous theme song), the 80-minute production buzzes by quickly with mercurial energy. It balances well the erotic, the humorous and the silly. A particularly creative number involves three nearly-nude women inside a giant glass vat filled with “milk”; another features a particularly buff dude performing slippery antics on a suspended cable above a bathtub.
• As with almost every other striptease-type show I’ve seen, an “audience participation” segment breaks up the bouncing bosoms of the show with some well-placed light comedy. I put that in quotes though because, like many “volunteer” situations, the audience participants are plants. I don’t have a problem with that practice, it’s entertaining, and I like comedy. Just sayin’.
• The biggest disappointment? Madison. I said it. Holly Madison is adorable. She is down-to-earth, unassuming and very considerate. The character she plays should be perfect: An innocent, shy girl looking for love. But Madison is completely uncomfortable on stage. Actually, you can tell she’s even a bit awkward in front of the camera, too, but that’s a discussion for another time. Madison distractingly plays with her hair, tugs at her robe and stumbles around for most of her limited appearances in the show. And when it’s time for her to come out of her shell, after being prodded by Bean’s character and seduced by buff bathtub guy, the excitement over her spotlight performance has nothing to do with her dancing or acting — it’s more like an elevated sigh of relief that FINALLY, HOLLY IS NAKED. But the odd thing is, despite her Barbie looks and perfectly crafted breasts, Madison is just not sexy. Especially not in comparison to the caramel beauty who rocked the hell out of “Brickhouse” or the cat-like redhead who practically made love to a car. No, Madison tries hard to shashay and work her fluffy, white boa, but especially put next to the professional entertainers surrounding her, she comes off looking as if she’s the lucky hottie drawn out of the crowd at random to join the cast on stage for one night.
• Given the last point, Peepshow still ain’t bad. It’s naughty enough to work well for a bachelor (or bachelorette) party, but polished enough for a guilt-free date night. And I didn’t fall asleep during the first 20 minutes, unlike a certain show starring Madison’s ex-boyfriend Criss Angel.

Photo by Erik Kabik | RETNA (www.erikkabik.com)

Last night was the opening film, opening party and opening ceremonies of the 2009 CineVegas Film Festival. The film, Saint John of Las Vegas, was also enjoying its world premiere at the CHI Showroom inside Planet Hollywood Resort, Hotel, Casino, Film Location and Mall. I won’t attempt a review of the Steve Buscemi-starring indie movie. It was good, funny in the right places, though not great, but my buddy Josh Bell can tell you more about what did and didn’t suck (though he may have missed the allusion in the story to Dante’s Inferno).

I was invited to the opening night festivities (including the after-party at Prive nightclub), but unlike the last few years, I opted not to get press credentials for the festival. This is no slight against CineVegas, but rather an indication of how limited my time is right now: I have just enough to maintain the level of output musically, journalistically and, uh, comic book .. er … y (?) as I have been for these past few months with a little wiggle room for TOP SECRET PROJECTS. But, y’know, that doesn’t mean I’m going to turn down an invite from my peeps at CineVegas.

The premiere of Saint John was attended by most of the cast, director Hue Rhodes, the usual crop of Vegas headliners (creepy-ass Carrot Top, future Peepshow star Holly Madison, a bunch of unrecognizable dudes presumably from song-and-dance shows featuring the music of the 1950s/60s), CineVegas royalty (i.e., Dennis Hopper) and, um, me. ME. And a lot of rubberneckers mobbing the velvet rope outside the red carpet.

I didn’t stay for the after-party. It’s been a long week and I wasn’t feeling it. Plus: I have another CineVegas party to attend on Friday, so I will gladly drink their free booze then. And I will also gladly eat and drink sin dinero at First Food & Bar on Friday for that grand opening. Oh, and maybe enjoy a Foster’s or two tonight at the Rio’s Voodoo Beach, where Cracker is playing one of those free show things. Yeesh.

Also, in between all the event moochery, I found time to write a new article for your consumption in this week’s Las Vegas Weekly. It’s about long-time local band Cherry Hill, which, in what is either marketing genius or idiocy, is releasing its brand-new album at a show this Saturday billed as the group’s “final performance.” I know, right? Read all about it, kids.