Thursday, February 7, 11:45 p.m.
Do goths ever have to do a load of whites, or is their laundry all dark?” I ponder this silently from my stool at the end of the dance floor. Intentionally abrasive and discordant music, antique-y clothes or studded jack boots, the acrid smell of fresh black hair dye and clove cigarettes—ah, I love goths. Especially the ones who take their gothiness really seriously. They’re just so ... entertaining.
I’m not being mean; I too have a fair supply of leather, pleather, chokers and red crushed-velvet dresses in the back of my closet. In college I briefly dated a borderline vampiric 30-something grad student. He had an impressive collection of armor, toys and candles. But my fascination with these dark (or wannabe dark) people was fostered long before that via nearly two decades of theater involvement. Actors—now there’s dark!
Entering Goodtimes on East Tropicana, I want to go to the right, but that would take me to the bar, the very gay bar. To the left (sinestre: left, or sinister!) is the nightclub. Not quite gay, it’s “gay-friendly” on Thursdays when Club Cyanide takes over and proudly serves up “ethereal, darkwave and deathrock” music generously interlaced with the requisite ’80s stuff by The Cult, Depeche Mode ...
The room is a tiny black square with a metal dance floor, a large screen and two TVs. The DJ lords over from an elevated box in the corner, and a small bar is (wo)manned by a perky girl in a preppy green polo shirt. The bar is peopled by goths drinking gothic things like Coronas and wine—excuse me, wyne. I’m stunned to find two photographers snapping pics of smiling goths, like a twisted, darker version of NapkinNights.com. Two disco balls spin almost regretfully as little groups form in the ring of black-covered cocktail tables. There are four—yowza!—stripper poles, but they are largely ignored. On the walls, images of dancers look rather like chalk outlines of dead bodies. It’s a nice touch.
Mohawks, kilts, fishnets, leather, gladiator breastplates—hell, it all works. Extra points are awarded for bustles, minimizing corsets and anything extreme. Here’s how it goes down: The “right” song comes on, tinny and ambient. They take to the floor to dance in solitude (apparently there’s no partner dancing), contorting in a crossed-legged pee-pee dance with an imaginary ball of energy. (“We’re so misunderstood,” they think.) I’ve seen that dance before at raves, only then, there’s usually a drug of some sort involved.
The really serious dancers hang back on the side, waiting for their song like break-dancers. Movements can be fluid and quite beautiful, like that of the guy in the long dress and man-corset. Reminds me of a tae kwon do kata. Or they can be militant and angry, like the spiky-haired guy in the Doc Martens who seems to be exorcising (or exercising) his demons, playing angry hopscotch to a tune where someone is clearly attacking pipes with a hammer. I’m tapping my foot ... depressedly, of course.
Next, Garbage’s Shirley Manson sings, “I will burn for you/Feel pain for you/I will twist the knife and bleed my aching heart, and tear it apart.” On the screen above the dance floor a keening redhead in a cloak rows a boat through fog while goth-rockers play a medieval castle engagement. When I met my goth guy, he too was wearing a cape, smoking a pipe and assembling chain mail. I really should have run. Instead I bought him tea and had to spend all of sorority rush week in a turtleneck.
Goth doesn’t seem to have changed much since I dabbled. Everyone still wears black and gathers at a bar or club for weekly group therapy, as if to say “I know what you’re going through, Willow/Morfran/Phil.” Once established, any goth night is a good gamble, though in Vegas the scene is pretty small—lots of weekend warriors amid a core of lifestyle folk. The 2-year-old Sanctuary goth party at Krave Lounge gave its final death rattle last week, so Club Cyanide’s St. Valentine’s Day Massacre party should get an extra boost in attendance. Plus, Black Roses, Poetry & Death are performing live ... er, dead.
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at [email protected] and visit thecircuitlv.com to sign up for Xania’s free weekly newsletter.