Sunday, January 28, 9:50 p.m. Omigod. She's wasted!" The Body Art Ball's founder/owner/producer Candy Smith, emceeing onstage at Rain, appears to have enjoyed the sponsored Tuaca a bit too much. "OOOOeee!" the Texan squeals from her barstool, fanning herself with her notes, losing her place. I, too, keep forgetting about the artists, I'm having so much fun watching her ad lib and vamp before bringing out the artists and performers.
We arrived at 9 p.m. to find 15 artists dudding up 17 performers in body paint and glitter with just the thinnest shards of clothing over their unpaintables. The Tuaca Body Art Ball is advertised as a private event, but tickets can be purchased online or, as the advertisements encourage, you could snuggle up to your friendly neighborhood barkeep to score a sweet gig as arm candy. According to the website, the event sold out in Dallas for four years before going on tour; the Smith sisters bring their show to Vegas annually, so that gives you one year to get on your local Tuaca rep's "nice" list.
As the artists put the finishing touches on their living creations in the VIP bar, the judges—including Jada Fire (see Beyond the Rope)—take their places of honor. "I demand only two things from you," says Candy from her perch at the front of the stage, "open your minds and give me a rrrrreally rrrrrowdy crowd!" One part runway fashion show and one part talent show, the Ball brings those designs to life.
"Boogie Woogie," the bugle girl, is immediately recognizable from the website, as is the intricate orange and black "Butterfly." Making reference to the artist Gigi being "all that and a bucket of chicken," Candy brings out "Disco," an aptly named bulging hunk of body-painted man wearing nothing but skintight briefs but seemingly rocking a silver shirt and bronze bellbottoms with his 'fro. "Supafly" sports a similarly painted purple pimp suit with his cane and hat, and both give distractingly good dance performances.
The females pose a different sort of distraction. Maybe it's the times, maybe it's Vegas, but it is a bit unsettling these days seeing un-enhanced female breasts bounce around during the performances of "Music Box," "Drum Majorette," "Eve" and the "Candy Bandit" (picture Cindy Lauper on Jose Cuervo with a hula hoop and you're almost there). I've been desensitized into thinking that breasts should stand their ground, as in the performances of the "Queen of Sheba" and the "Spanish Dancer," in which a hot flamenco dancer with painted blouse and corseted belt doffs her real flowing ruffle skirt in favor of a painted one. No one complains.
"The Gangsta of Love" throws us all for a loop with his unbelievable pop 'n' lock routine, not to mention his perfectly painted red-and-black pinstripes. Justin Timberlake's "My Love" never sounded so good! "Oooh, child, I wanna smell your hat and get your pheromones," heaves a randy Candy. Wait, where is Candy? Oh, she's lying on the stage, literally smelling his hat.
Sobering up just long enough to accept a Best Boss Ever award from her staff, Candy brings on the final entrant. A sexy Marilyn Monroe sings "I Wanna Be Loved By You" before spinning around to reveal her darker side, Marilyn Manson. Split down the center, her hard-thumping rendition of Manson's "The Beautiful People" is disturbingly genius. I would argue the same for Candy Smith, whose performance tonight nearly rivaled that of the dancers. At 11 p.m. she announces the Gangsta/Marilyn tie and herds the party to Moon, sober as a judge. Now who's all that and a bucket of chicken?
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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