Monday, March 10, 11:30 p.m.
Throwing off convention like a diamond-studded and tasseled bra, Ivan Kane and his tiny eponymous Forty Deuce nightclub are showing us that the b in burlesque is for boys. They’re everywhere—hanging from the ceiling, orbiting poles, dancing onstage, flexing pec after pec for gaggles of screaming … guys.
Contrary to my first impression of Kane’s new show, which was that Forty Deuce was venturing into Chippendales territory with a Thunder From Down Under-type show or something akin to American Storm (wrong-o, Xania), Stormy Mondays is aimed straight at the heart—or rather the crotch—of the gay community.
In the wake of his successful Royal Jelly rock revue, Kane has once again enlisted the help of choreographer Tovaris Wilson to assemble his troupe of buffed and bootylicious guys. From the ruggedly scruffy to angelic and baby-faced, there’s something for everyone. Except me, of course. But my gay friends are pleased as punch!
It starts at the door, where the strapping lads display their beefiness with the mannequins in the boutique window. Even the staff gets in on the act, substituting skin for uniforms for the night. I never did like the boxer-briefs-with-sneakers look, but then I don’t think Curtis wore it for me; he makes bedroom eyes as he works the main-stage pole. At the changing of the guard, the sweaty men take five while a new group of fresh bucks climb into place to gently paw the poles. I’m just glad no one is wearing a thong. Athletically inspired shorts are perfectly tasteful, and admittedly, watching the men leave, I’m feeling rather athletically inspired myself.
At this, my boyfriend exclaimed on opening night, “You don’t need to dance with a phallic symbol when you have a phallus.” I clearly did not bring him back this week for the Advocate magazine party. The crowd is late to show up, but when they do, it’s in droves—cast members from big Strip productions.
Onstage, DJ Vegas Vibe is kicking more ass than many DJs could do in this setting, keeping focus on the house tracks and party anthems despite the chaos around him as the pole gets removed for a performance and stage parts appear out of nowhere. His shirt quickly comes off, too.
The go-gos take the cue and head backstage, while two of the dancers, in black hoodies, try to blend into the crowd. When the music starts they leap onto the tiny stage for an edgy little rock duet that gives way to a more hip-hop one once they pull their friend onstage. Soon, all three are in candy-colored American Apparel briefs, black knee-high socks, leather Chuck Ts (I want!) and studded dog collars.
In the hour we hav e to kill before the next show, I assume the role of pimp, attempting to hook up my friend Johnny with a blond version of himself named Jason. “Jason, you look just like my good friend Johnny here. Are you two related? No?! Well, [suggestively] would you like to be?” Who was that girl? I fear the hours of spying male buns from eye level may have gone to my head.
At the start of the next show, the men enter from backstage dressed in hastily chosen but easy-to-rip-off shirts, suit pants and vests, like Usher but in more of a hurry. They grope the wall for a good while before the inevitable shirt- and tie-doffing. Their pop choreographed moves are solid enough to set any TRL-watcher’s heart aflutter. Where they lose out is on facial expressions. At this close proximity, they sometimes can’t help but crack up. They’re also not too shy to make a jungle gym out of the stage, hanging from the pipes on the ceiling and from the pearl-strand stage curtain while girls and guys scream.
The ladies’ screams must have thrown off a pack of guys at the door. Just as I leave, the frat boy-ish Australians saunter through the door and disappear into the club. “They’ll be back,” I say, imaging them catching an eyeful of Curtis in his lime-green and fishnet briefs, mounting his attack on the pole and fluttering enviable eyelashes at Ginch Gonch model Benjamin Bradley as he services his VIP tables. In less than 30 seconds they come crashing back out, looking stunned as caged rabbits. “Have you guys ever been to Jet?” I ask, escorting them to valet. “Or Prive?”
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.