We have casinos themed for everything from outer space to France in this town, so where is my punk rock-themed casino? Of course, there was a time when such a sellout would've infuriated me, but I've seen MTV, I know it's too late and now I want my damn casino. I don't just want Sid Vicious slot machines, I want Iggy Pop video poker and blackjack dealers dressed as Glen Danzig.
For now, we have the Roadhouse, a low-slung, Prohibition-era bunker out on Boulder Highway that hosts shows a few nights a week.
If it wasn't for the neon sign, you wouldn't even see it from the road; the only real design feature of the building itself is a sign explaining all of the establishment's "Rules and Regulations" tacked by the entrance (No. 4 forbids us to have weapons in or around the property).
Inside, it's basically one large room divided in two. One is the bar proper, with Marlboro-esque horse 'n' cowboy silhouettes painted on the walls, pool tables and a Simpsons pinball machine. The bar, decorated with a 3-foot-high golden cowboy boot, has sloe gin in the speed rack. But it's mostly beers and shots, poured by a blonde in a stretched-tight "outlaw" T-shirt who managed to call me "sweetheart" three times in the service of one drink and never dropped her animated discussion with a ponytailed regular as to whether a couple of their mutual acquaintance should get back together.
About a third of the space is painted that dark red that denotes "nightclub" and has a small stage framed by dusty drapes where the aforementioned bands play. On a Saturday, it might be Agnostic Front—they were old when I was a sophomore in high school, man!—bringing out the always-fun skinhead contingent, who behaved in their usual warm and polite manner. Weeknights are more for up-and-comers like Isis, an underappreciated, Melvins-esque metal outfit heavier than Acme's biggest anvil.
The bar and concert area are divided by a split-rail fence with a small opening for an ID checkpoint. Herein lies the major problem: You can only consume alcohol on one side of the fence, but the band is on the other side.
But whether it's the side where the drinkies roam free or where the doggies are penned, people still act out in the time-honored ways, whether it's flailing civilians in the mosh pit, falling off of chairs or having sex next to a Dumpster in the parking lot. (After all, nothing says "I don't want to see you anymore" like screwing in the backseat. Well, actually, that's what I was saying. The bourbon was saying "Punch him," the vodka was saying "Get laid," and the Jagermeister didn't give a damn what I did after the glass was empty.)
So, while I like to imagine my punk-rock casino as glossy and goofy as possible (all the cocktail waitresses wearing black electrical tape over their nipples like Wendy O. Williams), in truth, the Roadhouse is probably just about what a punk-rock casino would be: battered, temporal, noisy, located out on that stretch of Boulder Highway between Vegas and Henderson—a no-man's-land of trailer parks, gun shops and package stores where, no matter what time it is, random humans of all ages, creeds and colors are running full-tilt along the road, to or from who wants to know what. A friend theorizes that this is the other end of the dimensional hole that opens in Area 51. One minute you're walking across your cow pasture, then there's a blinding light, an anal probe and suddenly you're running past a laundromat at 1 a.m. Of course you'll stop in the bar.
Lissa Townsend Rodgers learned to make a martini at age 6. E-mail her at
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