One Night at the Cooler

Never mind what the cool people say—there’s life in the Vegas music scene

Michael Toole

Shit, I'm running late. I'm trying to catch The Lords of Altamont, an LA band scheduled to go on at 11:30 p.m. at the Cooler Lounge, it's already 11:15 and I'm still a few miles away. Luckily, this show has five acts on the bill and someone's bound to run late, so I probably won't miss them.


I roll into the parking lot at 11:25 and make my way through the crowd inside, 50 or so, moderate but not too packed.


I haven't been to the Cooler, off Decatur and Lake Mead boulevards, for a few months, but everything looks in place: lacquered band posters on the wall, tattered couches with uneven legs, a South Park pinball machine covered with spilled alcohol, a vending machine carrying almost nothing but chips filled with that dehydrated orange cheese that sticks to your fingertips, and the wafting odor of secondhand pot. Yep, I've always found the Cooler to have a certain charm.


I was right: Lords of Altamont singer Jake Cavalier and his mates are still getting ready for their set. I find a stool at the bar next to an insouciant couple. She's an immaculate blonde with haunting blue eyes, he's a bald, stocky sort with an Aussie bushman's mustache. They're decked out in black, from her fingernails to his Doc Martens. Goth's answer to Grace Kelly and G. Gordon Liddy.


"I'm a little late," I say to her. "Did I miss much?"


"Just a couple of local bands," she replies coolly, blowing a perfectly circular smoke ring.


"Anything else?"


"A costume contest," he utters. "It was no great shakes."


Throughout our exchange, local outfit Thee Swank Bastards, decked out in dark suits, starchy white shirts and narrow ties, revs up the stage.


I point to the band. "Don't you think these locals are pretty good?"


The couple shrugs. "I guess, if you like surf music," she says dismissively.


Well, yeah, I do like surf music, and you know what? These guys can play, especially guitarist Jesse Del Quadro, who is doing a good job of channeling the heroes of his music, dudes like Dick Dale and Link Wray. As a band (Shaun Coleman on bass and Eric Schauert on drums), they have a raffish enthusiasm, best illustrated when Jesse jumps offstage to saunter with a patron on the dance floor.


I glance at the couple, note their stiff indifference.


When the Bastards are done, I ask to take their photo and they oblige, cutting up for the camera with the playfulness of school kids on a tetherball court. Shaun is the most animated and slap-happy—it's a safe guess that his pitcher of beer has something to do with it—and he accidentally blows suds on me. "Oh, I'm sorry," he says sheepishly as I wipe off my glasses. He makes a gesture to help.


"No worries," I assure him. "I've had worse spat on me."


Meanwhile, the Lords of Altamont are finally setting up. "We have to really truncate our set, trim it to 40 or 45 minutes!" Jake tells me. He's disappointed, sure, but still eager to get going. He loves playing Vegas and has been looking forward to this gig for weeks.


A week ago, visiting Burbank, California, I struck up a conversation with a tall, lithe guy standing outside of a music store called Primitive Sounds. Jake. When he heard I was from Vegas, he told me he sang for an indie band that loves to play my town.


"Whenever we tour, we always play Vegas last, because it's a nice way to go out. Our band has played in cities like Madrid, Tel Aviv, Mexico City and Seattle, and Vegas is right up there."


Uh, Vegas? No-great-music-scene Vegas?


"They're so loose and unstructured there," he said. Places like the Double Down, the Cooler, Beauty Bar: I love the feel that there's potential danger at your fingertips and that anything can go wrong. I'll never forget one of my first gigs in Vegas. My old band, the Bomboras, we played the Double Down. No PA system, no stage, they just moved the pool table, that was the stage, it was so f--kin' raw, and what a great show!


"It's just so cool that there's this scene of off-culture in Vegas. It's like parallel lives. Sure, you've got the recent LA nouveau riche types buying up property, or the retirees hanging out at the neighborhood casinos, but there's a few of you who step over the bullshit and seek stuff out."


At the Cooler, the Lords go on at about half-past midnight. If you're not familiar with them, here are a few of the songs they got started with: "Born to Lose." "Dementia." "Glue Sniffin'." The sound: hook-laden garage rock that's brief, punchy and ready to kill. The look: dark denim biker gear.


Jake—gaunt frame, arms saturated with tattoos, eyes hidden behind imposing shades—is rockin' out on his farfisa organ (it can be done), tossing the damn thing all over the place. Their go-go dancer, Kina, is in such constant motion that the fringe on her red miniskirt blurs into a solid pattern. Even the casual cats at the bar drop their manufactured detachment, get off the stools and shake their asses.


The set can't last forever, and it doesn't. "We want more," the crowd screams, but it's almost 1:30 and the Lords have to head back to LA.


But the music isn't over. Hearing a sharp "Excuse me," I turn to see a guy clad all in red pushing toward the stage with his Hammond organ. Scott Wexton, a.k.a. the Voodoo Organist, is an LA musician who was supposed to go on before the Lords, but, as the gig gods would have it, isn't going on until now.


I chat with his wife, Lisa, a perky, attractive brunette. "He's not thrilled to be going on at this hour, but he actually plays better when he's irritable," she says cheerfully. She hands me a complimentary CD. "I hope you'll stay, he's really very good!"


She's right. Best voodoo organ I've ever heard. But by 2:25 I'm done. Like the Lords, I have to be in LA the next day. By noon. So I get on Interstate 15, thinking about tonight, trying to place it in the context of Vegas' easily vilified music scene. You know what I mean: the constant closing of used-to-be cool venues (The Enigma, Legends Lounge, Cafe Roma, The Huntridge); overpriced tickets ($150 for Depeche Mode?); overzealous security guards who jump on you for dancing in the liquor line when you're just moving your foot. Even those who leave here to make it big trash our "moribund" music scene—check out the interview with The Killers frontman Brandon Flowers in the latest issue of the music-industry mag Music Connection.


Valid points. On the other hand, I had a ball tonight. Places like the Cooler and the Double Down might not constitute a "scene" as they know it in, say, Portland. But tonight's show proves that there's great music to be found in ground-level Vegas if you look for it, that performers will always find an outlet. It may not be an act you've heard of, but being willing to take a chance on up-and-comers is how you build a scene. Even The Killers once performed at Café Roma and the Huntridge. Nights like this are where it begins.


Tonight, my shirt and hair reek of cigarette smoke, I've got beer spit on my glasses, a giant headache and I'll end up sleeping in my car in a Jack in the Box parking lot in Baker, California. And it's been worth it. Can't wait to do it again.

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