Sunday, July 16, 11:35 p.m. "DJ Laflizzle just went on," Body English's Promotions Manager Adam Nixon says with a smile, opening one of the heavy wooden doors to the Parlor for me. Huh, what? "Jack!" he says, referring to Jack Lafleur, an indisputable darling of the Vegas nightlife community, though one so humble he hasn't figured it out yet.
Just inside the doors and to the left, "Laflizzle" is getting warmed up with some mellow background trance, working with both actual vinyl and MP3s off his Mac laptop. In this town of two seasons (summer and January), the arrival of Jack's notorious mullet and my Victoria's Secret swimsuit catalog are the harbingers of Vegas' spring. But—quelle horreur!—he is freshly shorn and fuzzy! I ask, and am allowed, to touch; he is forgiven.
The Parlor's rules are simple: you must know somebody to get in. Or buy a table. Over the course of the evening, velvet rope duty will be split by Nixon and Chad Saunders, who also periodically feed the DJ shots of Patron. Sunday night's Deeper party began in late '05 with a bet (that Lafleur has overwhelmingly won) that there was an untapped crowd seeking an intimate, house-music experience without having to leave the comforts of its favorite Sunday night haunt.
While partiers elsewhere might not arrive for their reserved VIP booths until the wee hours, they come early to Deeper, eager to put the night into motion. Three wide, square banquettes are each lit by medallion chandeliers clinging to the low ceiling. The faux-wood grain wallpapered walls of the tight, rectangular space is dotted with sconces. But all this is destined to change in the fall when the Parlor receives furniture more conducive to smaller groups, as well as eight more speakers and three new sub woofers. "The Mortons were very particular and I don't believe the Morgans will be any less particular," Lafleur says of the Hard Rock's outgoing and incoming owners.
Behind the Parlor's one bar, Sean Charsley is a drink-slinging machine. Tie tucked neatly into his white, collared shirt while he serves up ultra-luxury vodkas to the modern-day aristocracy, he is the quintessential bartender, looking as if he just stepped out of a handsome belle epoch poster. Out in the crowd, local industry folks are enjoying Charsley's efforts. Among them, hosting company Vegas VIP's Michael Tomes and Alex Inda, DJ Mikey Swift, and Cherry Nightclub's Chance McDaniel and Nicole Hegger.
With each opening of the doors, the sounds of the hip-hop and mash-ups bleed through. But with the doors closed, the dance floor, visible through the long wall of limo-tinted glass, appears to be moving to Lafleur's beats. For only the second time ever, Lafleur throws down Gustavo Santaolalla's "The Wings" off the Brokeback Mountain soundtrack—apparently it incited a frenzy the last time—and sure enough, it's met with whistles and whoops.
A pack of women in schoolgirl costumes—complete with pigtails and lollypops—burst into the room, wielding the complimentary glasses of champagne their attire earns them. A diva swishes through the door, sashaying three steps in time with the outside hip-hop beat and looking as if she's on a catwalk. Her hand arcs over her head, delivering a sharp snap as she poses and turns to face the rest of her group. Damn, I gotta learn to enter a room like that. With the men, there's a surprising amount of kohl eye liner and the highest number faux hawks I've ever seen in one room.
"Deeper has an incredibly loyal following," Lafleur says, scanning the crowd of 100 to 150 bodies, some of whom fly in every weekend for this party. With house music not (yet) the main draw in Vegas, Lafleur uses house to create a deeper connection with his followers, hence the party's name.
By 2 a.m., the music has intensified. At 2:30, the night careens wildly towards its apex with the first beats of Bob Sinclair's anthem, "World Hold On." Fists pummel the warm air, feet stomp in time, and bodies grind together on the tops of the booths, people holding onto the ceiling for balance. "This is probably the best song ever!" DJ Swift definitively says. Hey, DJs know good DJs when they hear them.
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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