Saturday, March 17, 10:15 p.m.
"Okay, Tim, you're gonna wanna get into the left lane—" but before I can get the rest out, we're doing some irreparable harm to the van's belly. "Shivers!" says Maz, the petite spitfire host of MTV Australia's Full Tank. By the time our screams have subsided, we're pulling into the Tao valet.
Having shared a near-death experience (the first of two that weekend, it would turn out) we are already functioning like a well-oiled, only slightly banged-up machine. Cameraman Jimmy can smoke a "ciggy" while filming and dancing in between puffs and takes. Tim captures the rest on a handheld camera, while production assistant Jolene keeps us on schedule. Add to these my partner in crime for the night, the Weekly's own Liz Armstrong, and we are quite the motley crew.
"I heart Las Vegas," Maz declares breathlessly, finishing up her date with Tao. Underneath their professional exteriors, I surmise, must beat the hearts of a bunch of party animals, and I pray I will get a chance to show them even a smidge of what Vegas' nightlife scene has to offer.
The transition from Venetian to Stratosphere is a little jarring to the senses, but Polly Esther's Nightclub, on only its second night open, succeeds as a shiny new showpiece to the venerable property.
Playing along with Polly Esther's intended romp through the decades, we begin in the '70s room, which shares its name with the entire 26,000-square-foot nightclub. There, in a Brady Bunch photo op, Alice has conveniently been left out so that Maz, Liz and I can pop our heads through and snap off a few shots. Before we can move on, a John Travolta look-alike boogies his way across the Saturday Night Fever dance floor to us and the Bunch's Barry Williams pays a visit to prove that he has turned out as odd as the rest of the show's cast. On stage later he will also prove that he can rap.
Through the curtains to Culture Club, the '80s room, and with the first twangs of the aggravatingly catchy "Footloose" we are drawn to the dance floor where, despite heels and a fresh pedicure, we launch into the full-on Kevin Bacon dance (you know the one). As if we were the most interesting thing in the room—after all, we are carrying microphones—a reality TV obsessed throng gathers to take in the spectacle. Out of breath and out of moves, I press on.
Only Nerve Ana, as dreary as the '90s themselves, falls a bit short, in my estimation. But it's not finished. They have plans, one of the clubs four main owners assures me, among those the eventual suspension of certain iconic cars from the ceiling. For the time being, the VW Beatle is parked outside the club while the DeLorean doubles as a bench in the '80s room.
Ah, sweet Suite 2000 and back to the present. Leaving Maz and the rest kicking their heels up, this time in the Suite's upper VIP section, Tim grabs his camera and we head to the hallway in front of Culture Club to see Tiffany. No, not an unexpected visit from a sorority sister, but the real "I Think We're Alone Now" deal. The night before, I watched a very barefoot Debbie—er, Deborah Gibson shake her love. It's a dream of a stage, to be that close to any act, though the acoustics there and in the other rooms can be spotty. Next week, I am told, Flock of Seagulls will swoop in, as will "some guy from Warrant."
The camera is angled essentially up our noses as we close out the show in front of the Stratosphere. Bidding Australia a fond farewell, we leave Maz with the faux Travolta and I head to Revolution Lounge for even more retro action. Groovy.
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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