Oh my God!” screams a shrill voice as an ice-cold sensation runs down my jeans. I can instantly smell the vodka cranberry as it seeps into my socks. I’ve been inside Cleopatra’s Barge just five minutes and I’m already soaking in liquor. It’s not yet 11 p.m.
Local cow-punk band The Clydesdale has begun performing its second of four five-hour NFR-week gigs inside the Strip casino’s famous floating lounge. This night on the town is war. I’ve challenged the band to a battle of endurance. Which of us will break first? The cowboys and ’girls loaded up with guitars, drums and free booze? Or me, with my $12 gin-and-tonic and vodka-saturated pants?
11 p.m.: Lead singer Paige Overton and crew are off to a strong start. Their first half-hour sounds great. It’s the best I’ve ever heard them, and the weird crowd of rodeo freaks, lounge rats, Asian tourists and elderly folks is clearly entertained. The Asians even get up the guts to dance, causing the Barge to rock back and forth. I feel like I’m going to puke.
11:30 p.m.: The band finishes set No. 1. I rush to the bathroom, badly in need of cigarettes. I grab a pack, not realizing they’re cloves. My pants are still wet, and I’m not anywhere near drunk enough.
12:33 a.m.: Friends of mine randomly show up at the Barge. I give them some of my cloves, and we down a few drinks. The Clydesdale have moved from the grungy sound that opened the night to friendlier, Hee Haw-styled country for set No. 2. The audience loves it, filling the dance floor of the Barge with more than a dozen people. Everyone’s having a good time. My pants are almost dry.
1:30 a.m.: The Clydesdale launch into set No. 3, and Overton’s voice begins to crack and warble. No one cares. Between songs, she sips a mix of hot water and Drambuie scotch whiskey that makes my gin-and-tonics look prissy. Two slick-looking drunk dudes with spiked hair and button-down shirts creep out every single girl on the dance floor. Soon, Overton and drummer Courtney Carroll are the only women left on the Barge. The two predators attempt to get Overton’s attention, but in her semi-drunken state she’s concentrating on not forgetting lyrics. I’m getting tired.
2:10 a.m.: “I’m going to use you as my cock block,” Overton informs me during the band’s final break as we exit the Barge and the two scumbags begin following her around the casino. The band gets to go home at 3 a.m., and an exhausted Overton can’t wait. “My throat really hurts,” she says. “In the morning, I’m going to cut up a lemon in four pieces, boil it in chicken broth and drink it. It tastes like total shit.”
2:30 a.m.: Back at the Barge, the band visits with the few holdouts left in the lounge. I can take no more. I’m broke and tired, and I’ve got a stomachache. A sympathetic Overton wishes me well while Carroll relishes in their victory, playfully mocking me. The band starts up again, sounding as good as it did at 10. I can’t help but admire their masochism. Even if none of them had to play in a pair of vodka-soaked jeans.