Wednesday, April 11, 1:05 a.m.
Though every table in the joint is poised and ready for service, the action is centered in just two places—the dance floor and the VIP balcony. I'm stamped, but history has taught me that one never knows what it will ultimately take to make VIP muster. A stamp? A band? My first born? Sure!
As with past weeks—the grand opening and the live performances by Paul Oakenfold and Scooter — Lavelle most notably—the VIP balcony is a wall of bodies. Important bodies, influential bodies. It's not just a night for stroking the egos of the much-spoiled industry A-list—valuable VIP real estate is offered to restaurant and bar staffs in addition to the requisite nightclubbers and ultraloungers. Were a flu bug to invade this opulent little space, Vegas would simply close for business this weekend. Bottles would stay snug in their cases, the glasses unpolished, the velvet ropes untouched.
One cannot move from one end of the curved, red leather bench-lined section to the other without booking a meeting, coffee, lunch or drinks. Business is being done with a toast and a wink to seal the deal. Tonight, while slightly sparser than past weeks, is no exception. With Johnny Vicious, Slaughter and partner Matthew Wurm hope to bring a little of the original 54 to its Vegas incarnation. Vicious is a New York legend, having done time at Limelight, Tunnel, 54, Roseland, Avalon and Exit. To add a modern pedigree, he's Diddy's house DJ of choice.
"Welcome to a higher state of consciousness," the Josh Wink song booms. "He's the pinnacle of classic acid house," Ducky shouts above the beeps and bass. "It always make me think of R2D2 having a fit!" With his barrel chest and long ponytail, Johnny doesn't look particularly vicious, though his beats are pretty fierce. The next song features a female voice asking her man to "freak" her ass. "I'm gonna freak your ass," he confirms, and the song continues like this for some time while I giggle and hold my sides.
At 2 a.m. on the dot, two ladies are lowered down from the rafters. They sport black fuzzy wings and pink cone bras à la Madonna, and proceed to do things you never did on your tire swing growing up. Below, go-go dancer Jalles is either buttoning or unbuttoning his pants; either way we're all the better for it. The doyenne of each VIP table presses up against the glass railing for a better view, something that would have been impossible before Studio 54's renovation last year.
Oblivious to the crowd upstairs, the dance floor offers plenty of excitement for the paying tourist crowd. The lights go wild as they writhe in the ebb and flow of Vicious' energy. Two stripper poles have been placed on the dance floor and the ladies—and many men—queue up for their chance to be a panting, spinning sex goddess.
Shot glasses in hand, ashtrays balanced on laptops, VIP hosts crowd around, and the party moves down to the DJ booth, the ultimate VIP section. Vegas' DJ Eddie McDonald just flew in from spinning at Atlantic City's Murmur nightclub and raced over to see his old friend Vicious, who will play an encore set at McDonald's birthday at Jet Monday night. The cameras come out, and at 3:30 a.m. so does the trance. "Same shit, different DJ," one guy's T-shirt reads. Posing for a picture, he pulls the velvet rope around himself like a boa, and Vicious throws down more grinding electronica before dropping the beat. The white lights explode, searing the moment into both our minds and Studio 54 history.
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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