Sunday, May 14, 2:30 p.m. It bears mentioning that the difference between one Vegas party and another can be literally night and day. Forgetting for a moment my recent visit to the Red Rock's Cherry Nightclub on a clear, breezy Wednesday evening, I returned on a Sunday afternoon for its pool party.
Night and day.
It appears that the water is on pause, with not a ripple on the slick surface. Cherry's pool deck is dotted with torsos, nearly all tattooed. With Gucci sunglasses and Ed Hardy hats, they arch back, exposing their full faces and chests to the sun, sipping idly at sweet cocktails. Occasionally, a throaty laugh lifts up from one of the many bronzed bathing beauties roasting languidly on the circular beds. From his shaded booth in the corner, DJ Skribble sends the sun worshippers positive house vibes while above the palms sway and creak, testing their restraining lines. The overall effect is straight out of a Miami hotel, though not during the madness of the Winter Music Conference. The week after, perhaps.
At midday, the heat is silencing but delicious and molten, like the gooey center of a warm chocolate dessert. Hours slowly flow by, marked only by the rise and fall of Skribble's beat and the welcomed arrival of dripping bottles of water or other frosty bevvies. Each bead of sweat is articulated in the peaks and valleys of those stretched out around the pool. Were I close enough, I'm sure I could see the bass reverberating in each droplet.
I'm soaking up the shade by the cabanas, but I occasional dart out of the safety of SPF Infinity to fetch another mango margarita, say a quick hello to one of the industry glitterati, or just show off (if only to myself) my newly discovered summer body.
The sun arcs well past noon, and after six, will disappear altogether behind the casino. What will they do, this assemblage of solar-powered souls? "Just wait for it," Adam Ward tells me. He installed Cherry's digital Funktion One sound system that extends out from the club into the pool area so I assume he's spent a fair amount of time on the patio. Wait, he tells me, until about 15 minutes after the sun dips out of sight.
Meanwhile, five women scheme and gather suspiciously on the far side of the pool. Within seconds, the idea spreads around the pool that something is about to go down. Digital cameras appear from everywhere as the girls arrange themselves shoulder-to-shoulder. Three, two, one! In a move straight out of a Mentos commercial, the ladies elegantly hang midair for just a split second before crashing indelicately through the pool's mirrored surface, sending waves far and wide, angering some, delighting most.
Shortly after the sun does its final dance on the waters, the music, drinks and even the crowd seem to lose some of their luster. For all its elegance, beauty and style, it seems this party, at least for today, has concluded.
"Wait for it," says Ward.
Standing—well, let's be honest—posing by the water and talking to a cute bartender, I notice a warmth on my arm not inspired by His Hotness. A beam of sunlight is trained right on me. In the next few moments, that light spreads like a prism across the deck, bouncing off the hotel's golden skin, illuminating the deck like a little boy with a magnifying glass. The revelers are revived by this odd second sun now making its way ever so slowly across the deck. Game on!
Skribble, who was just beginning to pack up, is reinvigorated, too—deep, soul-stirring progressive house again blares from his corner.
He's not the only one to find his second wind. My attention shifts to a preppy fellow armed with two bottles of champagne. His polo shirt collar sticks up as straight as the finger he uses to punch the air in time with the tunes. He passes a bottle off to his buddy and I sigh as they take up positions around the pool, being sure to vigorously shake their bubbly weapons before releasing the corks. We all know what comes next and I can't help but smile at his boyish energy in this mini Ibiza. Who am I to burst their champagne bubbles?
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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