Thursday, September 20, 12:30 a.m.
When the stripper pole comes out at Ivan Kane’s Forty Deuce, you know it’s Thursday. The tiny club is packed, and the crowd is fidgety with anticipation. Royal Jelly’s band—guitar player, bassist and drummer—take their places. Tonight they will play live, backing original vocals. With the first loud licks of “Welcome to the Jungle” there are already six girls dangling from the rafters like they’re tree branches. While the bar staff duck down and even sit on the bar floor to catch discarded clothing, the girls, in their metal and lame bikinis, hump the ceiling. Show me another club that has that!
Something for everyone. Though all are pretty, tall and leggy, amidst their ranks you will find an Amazon, a waif, a little retro and a tad modern. Tattoos are prevalent and fun to look at as their powerful bodies sweep past, dancing right on the bar to reach the pole. They are so close you might even get sweated on, and when the guitarist comes forward for a solo (likely sticking his crotch in some young lady’s face; yes, I was that lucky girl), you can almost hear his leather pants creak.
For “Sweet Emotion,” three of the troupe’s nine girls appear in stripey jumpers and military hats. “They’re so controlled in this number,” one girl who’s seen the show a number of times remarks. True, here, in this slower number, the power is in the dancers’ restraint. And not every move is dainty or attractive—but I know they were not meant to be. In another number, to “Another One Bites the Dust,” two girls perform an elaborately choreographed fight scene, complete with boxing gloves and silk robes. The two duke it out, it seems, for who has the best hairstyle, and then the touching begins and they’re making love, not war. I hear no complaints from a whooping, thrilled audience.
An especially high point for this Police fan is the reverse striptease dancer Carolyn Pace performs to “Roxanne,” starting out in just her bra and thong. Like a rag doll, she dramatically flops over at the waist, reluctantly donning fishnet stocking, high heels and finally a trashy red dress that she doesn’t even bother to zip up before stumbling, as the song says, “to walk the streets for money.” It’s a brilliant moment when the crowd catches on and enjoys the new take on the song.
Also brilliant is the costuming. I’ve lived in Vegas for six years, and in that time I’ve seen plenty of pasties, but skulls? Kissy lips? Pasties play a huge roll in the playfulness of Royal Jelly, the idea of burlesque being to bare it all ... almost. The caped girl crawling on her knees with hair flying Tawny Kitaen-style (thanks to two well-placed fans)—well, her pasties just make “Whole Lotta Love” sounds that much better. The show ends at 12:50, DJ Benny Black starts mashing-up even more time-tested rock anthems, and the dancers scatter to the four winds till they reappear at 2:30, this time, coming out of the ceiling.
The bodies are literally spilling over the railings in VIP when we hear helicopter blades and a white light appears from a missing tile in the ceiling that no one seemed to notice before. A rope drops down, and the sexiest girl ever to wear a gas mask lowers herself down, as do her friends. “We don’t need no education ...” In pleather jumpsuits they march. “We don’t need no thought control ...” The jumpsuits peel away to reveal electrical-tape pasties, suspenders and short-shorts, which the girls are more than happy to adjust for one another.
In stark contrast, one by one they reappear for “Walk This Way,” in candy-colored shifts with flirty metallic scarves befitting Aerosmith. One girl must have grabbed someone else’s dress, because she can’t seem to zip it up, but no one seems to mind; the dresses are destined to come off anyway. In Bowie’s “Fame,” a duet returns in trench coats and legwarmers, a happy little pair of party girls who undress one another. Yes, the conveyer belt of fantasy and fetish continues as Ivan Kane next presents us with the torture of pinstripe suits and little Avril Lavigne ties. These don’t stay on long, either (sensing a theme here?). I decide at this point that pleather corsets and sparkly silver pasties should be the new nightclub dress code for all women.
I look away for one second and turn back to find the dancers hanging upside down from the bead curtains. Honestly, I don’t want to give away the finale or the explosive climax, but let’s just say there’s panties involved, and you might want to cover your drink.
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.