Vintage Jimmy in Boca Raton - from YouTube.com
Buffett fans assemble while batting balloons.
The volcano at Margaritaville. It's no Mirage, but still ...
I expected flip-flops out of Jimmy Buffett. He sings about them, having blown out one on a pop top, so I thought he’d wear them last night at the MGM Grand Garden Arena. He didn’t. Buffett traipsed out in bare feet. I’ve known two other artists to have walked onstage sans footwear: genre-defying guitar great Ottmar Liebert, and the late Ronnie Van Zant of Lynryd Skynyrd. But it’s a safe bet neither wore bright-orange T-shirts and tangerine-splashed, dark-blue beach shorts to any gig they headlined.
Buffett did. No wardrobe changes for the star, either, even during the 15-minute intermission of a 2 ½-hour event that was equal parts beach party, rock concert and (for thousands of fans) costume contest.
It was then I started to get the Parrotheads, the self-dubbed pirate ship of fools -- ahoy! -- who populate Buffett’s concerts. The MGM Grand Garden Arena was just about packed last night, brimming toward its 14,600-seat concert capacity. Before the show, I’d already encountered dozens of Parrotheads at Flamingo’s Buffett-owned bar and grill, Margaritaville, observing insurance salesmen and real estate agents and, yes, Vegas casino execs donning homemade grass skirts, coconut bras and parrot hats made of felt. They kicked it up at the traditional block party, risking life and skin to dance and imbibe in the 100-degree heat while Tommy Rocker & Conched Out churned out Buffett-ized mood music. Inside the crazy-busy, 5-year-old restaurant, patrons shouted food and drink orders while old Buffett videos blared his hits. The volcano erupted, too, on schedule, spitting colored light skyward and water to the ceiling. We got dripped on. So what.
The show itself at the MGM Grand Garden bounced with beach balls and balloons. If you’re surprised that many in the audience got high, maybe you forgot that “Reefer” is in the very name of Buffett’s band. Most stood throughout the show, as Buffett played nearly every “riot” song. I call his hits that, because guitarist Mac McAnally said there are 17 or 18 songs that, if not played, “there would be a riot.” I wonder what kind of riot that would be? A conga riot? A riot where the rioters take breaks en masse to toss back tequila shots and do the hula? As it was, the only song in the Riot Collection he didn’t play, inexplicably, was “Pencil Thin Moustache.” But he played the rest, which I shouldn’t need to list for their familiarity, warbling about cheeseburgers and margaritas, wading the waves on an inner tube or cutting the tide in a sailboat. During “Fins,” I looked out on the audience, and nearly everyone on the floor was swaying in perfect unison, their arms joining over their heads as to mimic land sharks. I was impressed at the choreography, given that a good measure of the audience was probably more than slightly tipsy. Or stoned.
By now I’ve seen dozens of shows at the Grand Garden Arena. I’ve watched as U2 and Paul McCartney brought audiences to tears. I’ve man-bonded, like the boys in “I Love You, Man,” during Neil Peart’s drum solo at Rush concerts. Madonna’s laughably over-the-top production, the mirrored cross and mock crucifixion, was definitely worth the trip; The Rolling Stones’ mobile, auxiliary stage that moved to the middle of the floor for four songs was a blast. But I’m not sure I’ve experienced the type of untrammeled joy brought on by Buffett. The man never stopped smiling, and if he’s having fun, how can you not? He also maintained an ongoing dialogue with the audience that was so warm and real, repeatedly thanking them for attending his “summer school” session, that I was hoping somewhere Britney Spears was taking notes. Someday she’ll be 60. I can’t be confident she’ll be filling arenas by then, not with this “Circus” show she’s fooling fans with today.
As I left the hotel, I stopped in the restroom near the MGM Grand lobby. Four guys in grass skirts followed me in, and they were the only Parrotheads in the room and caused a bit of a stir. I spun around and laughed, saying, “Nice work, guys.” One guy, the leader of the Grass Skirt Brigade, asked if I’d been to the show. Yep. He asked why, then, I didn't wear a skirt. “Next time, I’ll have a skirt,” I promised. He shouted back, “Yeah! That’s how we do!”
That’s how we do, in Parrot Nation. Count me in.
Note medley
A pirate looks at 44: It was Dave Kirvin’s birthday yesterday, and he celebrated it pirate-style, four rows in front of me. Again, I say, ahoy. … My plus-one for this one was Tricia McCrone, completing the Circle of Vegas Life. Tricia, a friend for more than10 years now (whew!), is the sister-in-law and publicist for Wayne Newton, who brought Mac McAnally to Vegas for McAnally’s first trip ever here, in 1977. While a session musician, McAnally played on a Newton album at about that time. … Rick White of the Hilton was among those spotted seated, or not, on the floor. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him so happy. … On the way from Margaritaville to the Monorail, I bumped into Flamingo President Don Marrandino. He had a funny Vegas tale, and I’ll share it now: Marrandino dined with members of Human Nature, the new Motown tribute quartet headlining at I.P., at Rao’s at Caesars last week. Also there was convicted racketeer and former Crazy Horse Too owner Rick Rizzolo. Marrandino goaded the guys into singing in the restaurant, “singing for their dinner,” is how he put it, in a scene pulled from “The Sopranos.” … These adult beverages sure make adults act like children, eh? … Buffett is back in October, incidentally, for those planning ahead.
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