Reflections on ... Voyage of the Rock Aliens (1984)

Recently watched: Voyage of the Rock Aliens (1984). Tagline: “the story of a guy, a girl and an alien... and one night they will always remember!” I’m using this period of enforced social isolation to explore the weirder corners of YouTube for long forgotten and obscure movies. (My boyfriend is accompanying me only semi-willingly).  

Incomprehensible. Stultifying. Bizarre. Botched! In the early eighties, former child actress, cherub-faced starlet and “triple threat” Pia Zadora reigned as the undisputed queen of bad movies. (Her filmography-from-hell includes crimes-against-cinema like Fake-out (1982) and The Lonely Lady (1983)). Enduring the 97-minute duration of misbegotten low-budget New Wave musical comedy Voyage of the Rock Aliens certainly justifies how Zadora earned that title. (Note: don’t confuse Voyage of the Rock Aliens with Voyage to the Planet of Prehistoric Women (1968) – an entirely different but equally terrible film starring that earlier queen of bad movies, Mamie Van Doren). 

Voyage was calculatedly formulated to promote Zadora as a viable pop siren in the vein of Madonna or Cyndi Lauper. In fact, it opens with an epic rock video for “When the Rain Begins to Fall”, Zadora’s hi-NRG disco duet with Jermaine Jackson. The video has that artfully distressed post-apocalyptic / post-punk look typical of the era (it’s hard to overstate the stylistic influence of Mad Max in the eighties). Seemingly tacked-on at random, the video bears zero relation to what unfolds next. How to explain Voyage of the Rock Aliens? According to Wikipedia, its scriptwriter conceived it as a deliberately campy tongue-in-cheek spoof hybrid of fifties and sixties b-movie genres. A postmodern mash-up of science fiction, beach party musicals, monster movies and rock’n’roll juvenile delinquent flicks sounds potentially amusing in more competent hands, but the conception and execution here is frankly - if cheerfully - inept. 

Zany hijinks, wacky misunderstandings and “what-the-fuck” moments ensue when a group of rock’n’roll-crazed aliens (styled to vaguely resemble Devo) land their guitar-shaped spaceship on earth and try to ingratiate themselves with the local teenagers of a town called Speelburg. Voyage’s tone is established with an introductory Beach Blanket Bingo-style musical number. The song is grating. The choreography is clunky. The weather is visibly overcast and chilly. Some of the “high schoolers” are seemingly well into their late twenties. To be fair, it does offer a time capsule of eighties fashion trends: it’s a veritable day-glo riot of ra-ra skirts, crimped hair, fingerless lace gloves and wraparound sunglasses. Dee Dee (Zadora) yearns to sing with her boyfriend Frankie’s band (Frankie and The Pack) at their high school’s upcoming cotillion. But surly delinquent hoodlum Frankie (Craig Sheffer) is such a selfish, insecure jerk he won’t let her. (This scenario reminded me of Lucy constantly wanting to crash Ricky’s stage show in old episodes of I Love Lucy). The leader of the aliens (Tom Nolan) develops a crush on Dee Dee and has no qualms about her joining his band, inciting Frankie’s jealousy. 

Proceedings are padded-out with some annoying sub-plots. Two homicidal killers escape from a high security mental facility. The eccentric elderly female sheriff investigates the town’s UFO sighting. (This surely represents an unseemly career low for Academy Award-winning veteran character actress Ruth Gordon of Rosemary’s Baby and Harold and Maude fame). There’s also a sea monster whose tentacle pops up at random and is never explained.  Storytelling coherence isn’t one of Voyage’s strengths: it frequently feels like some pages have gone missing from the script, or some crucial explanatory scenes have been accidentally deleted.   

Anyway, Zadora gamely tackles the acting, singing and dancing with more enthusiasm than skill. Frankie’s bandmates are played by a genuine Los Angeles psychobilly band called Jimmy and The Mustangs - a poor man’s Stray Cats, although it must be said they do provide eye candy in their mesh t-shirts and studded leather biker jackets. Speaking of which: pretty boy Sheffer’s Frankie (pouting as if his life depends on it) is filmed like an escapee from an eighties gay porn film, with a homoerotic focus on his sinewy torso and painted-on black jeans. (For which I thank you!). With horrible symmetry, Voyage concludes by reprising “When the Rain Begins to Fall” (with Scheffer lip-syncing to Jermaine Jackson’s vocals) with some of the most half-assed green screen technology ever captured on celluloid. Clearly the filmmakers had stopped caring by then. Problem is, you will have too! 

Voyage of the Rock Aliens is FREE to view on Amazon Prime. In the meantime, here's the trailer. 

Postscript: the last time I attended the Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekender over Easter 2019, my friend Kevin and I made a point of checking out Pia Zadora’s jazz revue at an Italian restaurant called Piero’s. In between sets, the lady herself pulled up a chair, joined us and hung out! We interrogated the effervescent Zadora about her wayward film career and trust me – she couldn’t have been more hip, knowing or self-deprecating. She's well aware that films like Voyage of the Rock Aliens were terrible and is able to laugh at them (and herself) now. Read more about this historic encounter here. 

 / Pictured: Kevin, Pia and I /

 

Las Vegas Grind! Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekender 2019

2019 was the year I learned that age is not just a number. I’ve been attending the Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekender off and on since 2003 and now – aged 49 – it genuinely felt like a struggle to keep up. (Plus - as I’ve written elsewhere - I've been suffering with ongoing intermittent nerve pain).

It didn’t help that this year I had a punishing epic flight via AeroMexico. It was the cheapest option available (travelling over Easter equals ultra-expensive peak prices), but it meant flying from Heathrow to Mexico City – about 10 ½ hours – with a painfully long stop-over in Mexico, then a roughly four-hour flight from there to Las Vegas. I never fully recuperated from the flight, my body clock never quite switched to American time and trying to manage the late nights (when the red-hot action was!) was a battle. Frustratingly and bafflingly, the organizers of this year’s Viva Las Vegas scheduled some of the best bands – the ones I most wanted to see! – at crazy times like 2:30 am (including Los Straightjackets and The Rip ‘Em Ups). There was no way I could stay up that late. Speaking to fellow VLV veterans who’ve also hit middle-age, I wasn’t the only one finding it a challenge this time. What was it The Rolling Stones once sang? “What a drag it is getting old!”

So rather than attempting to cram everything in, the emphasis was on simply hanging out and catching up with friends. Anyway, here is my wild, wild Viva Las Vegas round-up / scene report. I took significantly less photos than usual this year (my geriatric digital camera has pretty much bit the dust) and the ones I did take are desultory. And really, it’s taken me so long to cobble-together this post, my memory has gone misty (I suspect I’ve forgotten loads of stuff). This will probably read like disjointed bullet points.  For better or for worse, here is my Viva Las Vegas scene report.

/ That's me (in the black sweatshirt) checking-in at The Orleans. Photo by Sean Law, the mogul behind Vancouver-based independent label Rockin' Records /

I arrived on Wednesday morning and promptly crashed-out in my room at The Orleans. I wish I’d seen Pachuco Jose y The Diamonds – but they were on at 1:30 am and I just couldn’t rouse myself from my jetlagged stupor!

/ Sheilah, Kevin and Ritch and The Hooch'n'Smooch /

/ Sharon, Patrick and Natelle at The Hooch'n'Smooch /

By Thursday my friend Kevin from New Orleans had arrived (as per tradition we were splitting a room). The first official day of Viva always means Sweet Pea’s ice-breaking Hooch’n’Smooch shindig: the ideal way to ease your way into the weekend and an opportunity to greet everyone. Later that night: the premiere LGBT meet-up in the Deluxe Club. Kudos to my friends Jr and Andre from Los Angeles for doing such a brilliant job organizing and suavely hosting this soiree. This was the first official LGBT club on the Viva Las Vegas schedule: I’m one of the elites who used to go to them when they were informal parties in Jr and Andre’s hotel room! Anyway, the event was a triumph and it was divine to hang out and have a few drinks with some some queer “fellow travelers” on the rockabilly scene.

/ No idea what day this shot (of Kevin, Sharon and I) was taken, so I'm sticking it here /

We made a point of catching The Desperados. I’ve raved about this ferociously rampaging sexy young quartet from Santa Ana, California before. To me The Desperados neatly exemplify what modern rockabilly should be – they attack their songs with the fervor of a punk band.

 / Kevin and I /

Friday: Visiting the sublime Frankie’s Tiki Room when in Las Vegas is always de rigueur. We wound up having a nice long afternoon drinking session there with Canadian friends Sean, Natelle and Sharon (who smuggled in a Canadian delicacy unavailable in the UK: ketchup-flavoured Pringles. One bite was Proust-ian, instantly conjuring-up my 1970s Canadian childhood). Of course, I sampled Frankie’s impeccable signature Mai Tais – and then tried my first Sea Hag. My head was swimming by the time I emerged from the gloom of Frankie’s blinking into the sunlight. (We didn’t make it to The Golden Tiki this trip).

/ Above: my Mai Tai and Kevin's Two Dots and a Dash /

/ Sharon - with a Canadian delicacy! /

/ Above: photo by Sean Law /

/ Above: my first-ever Sea Hag /

/ Above: Kevin /

/ Sean Law and I (I'm always chewing a wasp, in every damn photo) /

Then, back to The Orleans for the first slideshow presentation of the weekend by undisputed Ambassador of Mid-Century Americana Charles Phoenix. (He always does two). Damn, Phoenix knows how to work the room (as a raconteur he ranks up there alongside John Waters) and his lovingly assembled slideshows are pure catnip for aficionados of atomic-era kitsch.  

Speaking of John Waters … the people’s pervert and perennial filth elder was one of the emcees of the Burlesque Showcase later that night. He received the rapturous hero’s welcome you would anticipate from the attendees of Viva Las Vegas. I wish I could have recorded or taken notes during Waters’ introduction, because the Pope of Trash was on lacerating form. Clearly knowledgeable and passionate about the history of burlesque, he had loads of hilarious and insightful points to make. Waters was especially eloquent reminiscing about The Block in Baltimore – the notoriously tawdry neon-lit district of East Baltimore once synonymous with porn shops, peep shows and burlesque houses. He recounted how lax those establishments were with checking IDs and how in the 1960s he and Divine used to routinely sneak in as underage teenagers, illicitly ogling iconic striptease queens like Tempest Storm, Lili St Cyr, Irma the Body and Baltimore’s own Blaze Starr. Inspired by Viva Las Vegas, he free-associated a soliloquy about rockabilly luminaries moonlighting as male strippers, asking us to imagine being “tea-bagged” by Elvis, Gene Vincent or Eddie Cochran. And everyone roared in agreement when Waters declared, “The best strippers are old strippers!” Which made me think of that great Peaches video featuring the likes of Satan’s Angel (RIP) and Kitten Natividad. The ensuing burlesque performers themselves were the absolute crème de la crème and sensational to watch, but I was keeping track of the time on my watch because I knew that Messer Chups were playing in the Piano Bar …

Look, I know it’s still painful to accept, but voodoobilly royalty The Cramps are gone and they ain’t never coming back. Lux Interior, Bryan Gregory and Nick Knox from the definitive line-up are dead. Now 66-years old, surviving member Poison Ivy is as reclusive as Greta Garbo and hopefully enjoying a serene retirement. In that spirit – all hail Messer Chups, heirs to The Cramps! Seriously – the time is now to embrace the Russian surf trio as the 21st century Cramps. Messer Chups were by far the biggest musical revelation of Viva Las Vegas 2019. Suffice to say, Kevin and I were both awe-struck.  The name had always been on my radar and I’d given some of their tracks a cursory listen online but seeing them in person was mind-blowing.  

/ Above: Kevin and I watching Messer Chups. Photo by Sean Law /

/ Above: the only decent shot I took of Messer Chups /

A brief history: hailing from St Petersburg, Messer Chups have been around since the early 2000s and undergone multiple incarnations. Their early work is more experimental, featuring copious Theremin and snatches of sampled dialogue from horror movies – interesting, but markedly different from what they do now. Present-day Messer Chups specialize in minimalist deeply twang-y, menacing surf-noir played with real aggression and imbued with a profound and impressive comprehension of old horror and exploitation movies and low-brow trash culture.  (Viva Las Vegas always features surf bands at the pool parties, but both were underwhelming this year. Thank god for Messesr Chups).

Full credit to exemplary musicians Oleg Gitaracula (guitarist) and Rockin Eugene (drummer), but the undisputed focus and breakout star of the band is impossibly magnetic and inscrutable ice princess bassist Zombierella (real name: Svetlana Nagaeva). Call it sangfroid or froideur, Zombierella positively exudes it from beneath her Bettie Page bangs and no one could tear their eyes from her. She even got to sing a few times (although you wouldn’t describe what Zombierella does as “singing”. She delivered the song “They Call Me Zombie” with frosty aplomb, shuttling between a hiccough and a shriek). Kevin and I were exclaiming, why isn’t this woman a star? Why isn’t her pin-up on every available wall? Weirdly, just as Kevin queried, “When is David Lynch going to discover her?” Messer Chups lashed-into their surf version of the Twin Peaks theme! (Their interpretation is entitled “Twin Peaks Twist”).

Saturday at Viva Las Vegas means the car show. Top tip: the car show is the my favourite venue for shopping, and you find more interesting bargains than at the pricey indoor vendors.  But what do I know? I’m usually hunting for black t-shirts with skulls on them. 

/ My t-shirt haul: Vampira, Siouxsie and Elvira! /

Later, Kevin and I made a point of watching some of Aileen Quinn & the Leapin’ Lizards’ set. We’d first encountered Ms Quinn in 2015. Yes, she is that Aileen Quinn – the former moppet who starred in the 1982 film adaptation of the perky musical Annie directed by John Huston. So she has major kitsch appeal. Which compensates for a lot: I’m trying to pick my words diplomatically – she takes a kind of suburban soccer mom approach to rockabilly, and her stage school jazz hands are still very much in evidence. But she radiates genuine sweetness and enthusiasm (and plenty of people in the crowd clearly loved her). And once again, when we ambushed her for a quickie photo session Quinn was the epitome of graciousness. And later that night Kevin and I re-visited another camp icon …

When I attended the Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekender in 2015 my friends Kevin, Mitch and I made a religious pilgrimage to see diminutive 1980s exploitation movie sex kitten-turned-credible and resilient jazz chanteuse Pia Zadora’s one-woman cabaret revue in an Italian restaurant called Piero's. It was a riot! Clad in hot pants, she belted jazz standards like “Come Rain or Come Shine” and “The Lady is a Tramp” in front of a Warhol portrait of herself. Zadora strode past our table several times that night pre-show, but never made eye contact and we never plucked up the courage to speak to her.

Flash forward four years later. When Kevin and I went to Viva Las Vegas again in April 2019, we made another trip to Piero’s, this time Pia did make eye contact – and the pictures speaks for themselves! She said hello, introduced herself, pulled up a chair, hung out with us – and was charm personified. The adorable Zadora happily consented to photos and even introduced us to her husband and son. I informed Zadora her old pal John Waters was in town and she gasped, “He is? He didn't tell me! I’m going to text him!” (Kevin pointed out it’s likely the Viva Las Vegas team flew him in and out just to emcee the burlesque showcase). She regaled us with anecdotes about the making of Hairspray (did you know Waters originally intended her for the part of Amber von Tussle?).

/ Below: Pia Zadora pouting through the pain in Lonely Lady (1983) /

Now a preternaturally youthful 66, Zadora has weathered the vagaries of fame (or should that be infamy?), the kind of bad press and horrendous reviews for her notorious flop films like Butterfly (1982), Lonely Lady (1983) and Voyage of the Rock Aliens (1984) that would devastate anyone else, shrugged it off and re-invented herself as a durable jazz diva. A truly wry, witty and self-deprecating tough cookie, whether joking between songs onstage or shooting the breeze with us, Zadora displayed impeccable deadpan comedic delivery. (Shame that quality was never properly exploited in a film). Anyway, meeting Pia Zadora was truly one of the highlights of the trip and I think I have a crush on her now!

/ "When I'm high, I am Odetta. Let's get naked and smoke!" Pia Zadora as Beatnik Chick in John Waters' Hairspray (1988) /

/ Liza Minnelli and Pia Zadora - together at last! Could it get more Las Vegas than this? Yes, Liza dropped by for a guest appearance the night we saw Pia. This is actually superstar female impersonator Sammy Gonzales, one of the featured performers in Frank Marino’s Divas Las Vegas revue. Don't you love how they coordinated their black sequined outfits? /

Sunday was, of course, the pool party. My expectations are always high for the Viva Las Vegas party – they’re usually a highlight. This one felt a bit tepid – maybe because the weather was overcast and the surf bands were disappointing. But I was just happy to stretch out on the Astroturf drinking Bloody Marys and talking to friends. 

/ Above: me at the pool party /

/ Above: Ejole and Chris /

/ Glamazons at the pool party on Sunday /

We split in time to see the second Charles Phoenix slideshow of the weekend (another killer set). The rest of the day was spent zig-zagging back and forth between the ballrooms watching bands. By Sunday night, I was ready to stop partying. After guzzling can after can of beer all weekend, it had become like aversion therapy and I literally couldn’t take another sip. It was time to go home!

/ Above: Charles Phoenix rocking the house /

/ Stylish couple /

/ Treasures at the vendors /

/ Last minute bargains at the vendors on Sunday! /

Monday: I flew back that morning – to do that agonizing AeroMexico journey in reverse!

Further reading:

Blogs from my previous Viva Las Vegas weekenders: 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2015 and 2017.

Las Vegas Grind! Viva Las Vegas 2015

To paraphrase Jake Gyllenhaal in Broke Back Mountain, “Viva Las Vegas – I wish I knew how to quit you!” I've been attending the annual rockabilly weekender off and on since 2003. This was my first time there since 2013. Every year I vow it will be my last. The cost is prohibitive.  The hours of travelling and jet-lag is grueling (Vegas isn't a major flight hub, so the plane tickets alone are ruinously expensive and there are no direct flights).  I've also gone so frequently over the years by now I can argue I've well and truly done the Viva Las Vegas experience and really should be exploring new unfamiliar cities. And yet – when the time rolls around again, I find I can’t resist the siren call of Viva Las Vegas. The bands, the pool parties, the car shows, the beer-fueled revelry, the garish neon-lit kitsch appeal of Vegas itself and its sun-drenched weather.  And best of all, reuniting with the American friends I've made over the years that I only see at Viva Las Vegas. It’s freaking irresistible!

Thursday 2 April 2015

I arrived in Las Vegas late Wednesday night (the night before Viva Las Vegas) and collapsed in my room at The Orleans Hotel and Casino (the venue for Viva Las Vegas itself. The rooms sell out a full year in advance). Arriving in Vegas it’s always intriguing to see the huge ads promoting the dimly-remembered washed-up pop acts headlining at the casinos: The Osmonds, Olivia Newton-John, comedians like Andrew Dice-Clay and Carrot Top. Vegas is a weird parallel universe where has-beens are still in demand and make a lucrative living.

/ My friend and “travelling companion” New Orleans-based journalist and bon vivant Kevin from and I at the Hooch and Smooch bathed in shocking pink lighting. Don’t we look just like Elizabeth Berkley and Gina Gershon in the ultimate modern Las Vegas movie, Showgirls? /

Thursday was low-key, catching up with friends at the Hooch and Smooch gathering in the Bienville Room. (The Hooch and Smooch pre-VLV shindig is organised annually by the vivacious Sweetpea, Seattle’s doyenne of rockabilly). VLV is people-watching heaven: you see the best and the worst of rockabilly looks (it’s a good reminder what a broad church rockabilly is in the twenty first century). At its best, imagine John Water’s 1990 juvenile delinquent musical Cry-baby bursting into to life. Striking tattooed Russ Meyer-esque super-vixens straight out of Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! stride past while the more generously-proportioned big girls evoke Ricki Lake as Tracy Turnblad or Divine as a young Dawn Davenport in Female Trouble.  One particularly striking guy we kept bumping into over the weekend was a cadaverously pale and wolfish Lux Interior-type clad in black PVC fetish wear. Afterwards Kevin and I agreed we regretted not striking up a friendship with him.

/ Dance-floor action with Sweetpea /



/ Mitch from NYC with the amazing steel-grey hair and I /



/ Fun couple: Natelle and Sharon from Vancouver /



/ Heather from Hawaii and Kevin (photobombed by Rich). We decided the platinum blonde Heather was a dead ringer for Karen Black in Day of the Locust /



/ Rich from Seattle and I /



/ My official "Vegas Face": for the record, I'm not wasted here - it just took ages for Rick to take the photo and then the flash went off in my eyes /



/ With Sheilah from Seattle at The Orleans' Mexican restaurant. Note the Tura Satana lookalike seated at the table behind her /

/ Glamorous redhead /

Wiped out by daytime drinking and the trans-Atlantic time difference, I was asleep by about 12:30 am.

Friday 3 April 2015

/ Three troublemakers: Coffee with Little E (from San Francisco), Sheilah (from Seattle. Check out her vintage bakelite bracelets) and Kel (from Australia) /

It’s got to be said – the vendors at this year’s Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekend were a bit disappointing.  One of my priorities was buying a new biker cap from My Baby Jo. I bought my current dark charcoal grey – almost black – one from them in 2013. This time I wanted a pale grey cap like Marlon Brando’s in The Wild One. The My Baby Jo stall wasn't even there this year!  On the plus side it saved me a lot of wedge! 

One of my best purchases was this Vampira t-shirt. Mysteriously emblazoned with the word “GET”, it features a blood-dripping self-portrait by morbidly beautiful 1950s horror movie hostess Maila Nurmi (aka Vampira) herself. Definitive glamour ghoul Nurmi (1922 – 2008) originally designed these and sold them at personal appearances in the early 1980s when her notorious Ed Wood Jr-directed 1959 film Plan 9 from Outer Space was re-discovered and she was being embraced as a cult figure by punks, Goths and psychobillies. Obviously this t-shirt was pretty hard to acquire in the first place and by now has long been out of circulation – until now! Lance Thingmaker has lovingly reproduced it and I was able to snap one up at VLV. 

/ Youthful Lux Interior of The Cramps (with Poison Ivy) wearing his original Vampira t-shirt circa the early 80s /



/ My new reproduction of the Vampira t-shirt /

It’s physically impossible to see all the performers who play Viva over the weekend. The best bands are the ones with interpretive skills who bring an edge or distinctive twist on rockabilly. God save me from “musicianship” or tasteful blues rock or too many guitar solos (or drum solos. Or bass solos). Particularly disappointing was The Chop Tops playing their last-ever show at Viva. They’re not a band I’m terribly au fait with but after twenty years together their farewell performance was obviously a momentous occasion. Perversely The Chop Tops opted to pad-out their set with lacklustre special guests. Mario Valens (brother of Ritchie Valens) and Chantilly Lace Vincent (granddaughter of Gene Vincent) definitively demonstrated that charisma and musical talent aren't inherited genes. Bobby Brooks Wilson (son of the late soul legend Jackie Wilson) had earlier proved that separately as well.

My personal favourites this year spiked proceedings with a snarling, hungry punk edge: Little Mo and The Unholy Four. Nashville’s Hillbilly Casino. Werewolf-sideburned Liverpudlian teddy boy trio Furious. Sean Coleman and The Quasars – the front man’s feral rasp sounded like he was gargling razor blades.

All of us who saw Hillbilly Casino Friday afternoon were blown away. It felt like a genuine aggressive punk gig overlaid with a white trash trailer park aesthetic. (Bizarrely, the VLV schedule summarised Hillbilly Casino as "Where Elvis meets Van Halen"!). At the end their stand-up bassist (a burly guy with a tattooed neck) urged us all to buy their new CD: “I have four children – and they need cigarettes.”

/ Nic Roulette of Hillbilly Casino /



Hillbilly Casino’s wired, roaring front man Nic Roulette looked like he’d stepped out of a vintage Athletic Model Guild beefcake photo shoot and was totally commanding onstage. But what a piece of work! Some background: for years Viva’s main sponsor was Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. More recently it’s sponsored by Budweiser instead. Onstage Roulette angrily gestured at the gigantic Budweiser backdrop behind him, went into a tirade about how much preferred Pabst and made a big display of cracking-open a can of Pabst from his own personal stash and swigging from it in defiance. A day later I bumped into him in the men’s room (I was coming in as he was going out). I made the mistake of saying how much I liked his set. Roulette glared at the can of Budweiser in my hand and sneered, “You liked it? And you’re drinking that can of shit?”  I was taken aback by his rage and was waiting for him to say he was joking – but he wasn't. Lost for words, I shrugged and said, “Yeah, but Bud is cheap!” Roulette screamed, “Pabst is only $2.00!” and stormed out. Kevin pointed out later that in fact Pabst wasn't even on sale at any of the VLV bars all weekend – the only reason this guy was drinking it was because he’d snuck in his own. Anyway – what a wackjob. But that doesn't stop Hillbilly Casino from being my favourite new discovery of VLV 2015.

/ Kevin, Rich and Sheilah /

/ King of Kitsch: The Charles Phoenix Vintage Slideshow is always essential. You can't see it from this shot, but he's on roller skates here /

/ The suave Patrick and I /



/ Patrick and beehived friend /



The kitsch curiosity of VLV this year was an appearance by former child star Aileen Quinn - the erstwhile curly-haired moppet who played the lead role in the sugary 1982 musical Annie. Now in her forties, in recent years Quinn has apparently re-invented herself as a redheaded rockabilly chanteuse, backed by a band called The Leapin' Lizards. We all made a beeline for her set at Brendan’s Irish pub. 

Quinn couldn't have been sweeter or more gracious when we ambushed her for photos before she went onstage, but it’s got to be said that – in spite of her powerful belting voice - she seemingly doesn't have much feeling for rockabilly and her grizzled veteran musicians weren't terribly engaging. We split after about three songs. 

  

/ Gingers unite! Aileen Quinn and I /



/ Aileen Quinn onstage with her Leapin' Lizards. Photo by Sheilah /

/ Rafael and Lisa: It was great having a reunion with Lisa, who's re-located from San Francisco to Los Angeles since I've last seen her /

/ Lisa, Rafael and I. I had misgivings about this low "double chin special" angle Kevin was taking in this shot. He said he was going for a Cramps-style vibe /



/ Lisa (channeling Veronica Lake) and Patrick /

Saturday 4 April 2015

/ Prime kitsch for sale at car show vendors /

The day of the car show equals instant sunburn. I was quite literally a redneck for the rest of Viva Las Vegas. I’d be lying if I claimed to know anything at all about vintage cars, but they sure are pretty. The VLV car show is probably the biggest and best in the world and the impeccably restored titty pink (sorry, Jayne Mansfield pink) Fifties convertibles with sharp fins exert a mesmeric attraction.

/ Elvis impersonator at the car show (performing wedding ceremonies!) /



/ More car show kitsch: Mexican Day of the Dead Elvis /







/ This baby doll customised with Dolly Parton tits is just so wrong /



/ Cadaverous hand peeping out of car at car show: someone called CSI: Las Vegas! /

/ Grotesque Marilyn Monroe mannequin with her arms seemingly wrenched out of their sockets /

/ Me knocking back a zombie in the gloom of Frankie's Tiki Room /

After the car show Kevin and I jumped into a cab and headed downtown. For me, cocktail lounge Frankie’s Tiki Room has always been heaven on earth and virtually worth the cost of the plane ticket to Vegas alone. Visiting it is always one of the highlights of the Viva Las Vegas trip. I love the exquisite atomic-era bamboo Tiki decor, the dim mood lighting (so dark it takes your eyes a moment to adjust when you first enter), one of the hippest jukeboxes in the world (think mondo exotica, surf instrumentals and punk) and potent tropical cocktails. My blood pressure instantly lowers just thinking about Frankie’s.

/ My zombie /



/ Kevin's Three Dots and a Dash /

/ Bamboo Tiki decor at Frankie's. I didn't capture the painting very well: it depicts a devilish Vincent Prince knocking up a sinister cocktail /

Feeling considerably refreshed (I drank a zombie and Kevin had a Three Dots and a Dash), we weaved blinking back into the sunlight to unsteadily explore downtown “old Vegas”. After years of neglect, the neighbourhood has had an injection of cash and a pretty dramatic face lift.  Hip little bars and restaurants have suddenly proliferated and it feels lively and thriving. We kept it old school by eating lunch at the historic El Cortez Hotel and Casino, the oldest continuously-operating casino left in Vegas. Considering how keen Vegas is to erase every last vestige of its history it’s miraculous the El Cortez has escaped the bulldozers (it’s been intact since 1941. At one point one of its owners was Bugsy Siegel).  With its slightly threadbare decor, slow pace and hushed, preserved-in-amber old folk’s home vibe, the El Cortez is far more interesting than the huge, soulless modern casinos.  As we split the El Cortez, we glimpsed withered senior citizens and aggressively tattooed twenty-something hipsters drinking and gambling side-by-side – very much the ambiance of Old Vegas now. I approve!

/ Downtown Las Vegas /

Re-visiting Atomic Liquors and Cocktails for the first time in years was less rewarding. From my first time at VLV in 2003 onward I always used to swing by for a few drinks when in town. (Back then you had to ring the buzzer to gain entry – to keep the crackheads out). The sixty-year old bar shut in 2011 when the owners retired – but then re-opened under new ownership in 2013. Glad as I am to see it operational again (and that the spectacular original neon sign is intact), sadly the new management went way too far renovating the interior.  What used to be a seedy, hard-boiled dive bar straight out of an Edward Hopper painting or a Charles Bukowski novel is pretty anonymous, generic and atmosphere-free now. I wish them luck, but think I prefer to remember Atomic Liquors the way it was.

/ I took this shot of the original grittier Atomic Liquor and Cocktails in 2006 /

That night Kevin and I (accompanied by Mitch) went off-site again for Pia Zadora’s one-woman cabaret revue "Pia Reloaded" at Piero's Italian Cuisine for an evening of unadulterated old-school Vegas show biz schmaltz. The 61-year old queen of terrible, terrible movies beloved by John Waters belted and purred jazz standards clad in tiny black leather hot pants (she wrapped herself in a feather boa for “The Lady is a Tramp”). Virtually every song climaxed with a triumphant Shirley Bassey-style fist-in-the air finale. It could have been the compulsory two-drink minimum (my Negroni sure packed a kick), but Pia’s between-song banter was hilarious and so, so wrong. Surveying the plush surroundings of Piero’s, Pia rhetorically asked, “Doesn't this place take you back to the Old Vegas of Frank, Dino and Sammy?” Um – no? In fact Pia never missed an opportunity to drop Frank Sinatra's name. "Many women have opened for Frank, but I actually opened for him in concert!" she giggled. She invited us to drink up – “don’t worry; Bill Cosby didn't mix the cocktails!” Reflecting that The Riveria casino is the latest casualty to face the wrecking ball, she admitted, “How could I not admire an erection that’s lasted sixty years?”  Pre-show we spotted the compact, kittenish and apparently ageless Pia wandering around the restaurant greeting friends and conferring with Piero’s staff, looking distracted. Kevin had brought a DVD cover for her to autograph (and even his own Sharpie). All three of us were poised in a state of cat-like readiness to pounce for a red-hot photo opportunity with her. Sadly the hoped for post-show meet and greet with Pia never materialised:  her set just seemed to go on and on. After over two hours of Pia breathlessly re-interpreting the great American songbook and with no end in sight, we capitulated and headed back to VLV. Ah, well. Gossip columnist Michael Musto recently called Pia “spunk personified.” She is indeed Zadorable.

/ My shot of Pia belting it out /

/ Kevin's shot of Pia. Those hotpants are virtually lederhosen /

/ Mitch and I at "Pia Reloaded." That Negroni got me smashed. Note the (faux?) Warhol portrait of Pia behind us /

/ Back at VLV post-Pia: Andre and Jr from Los Angeles and I /



/ Veteran rockabilly diva Marti Brom. She sang a great cover of Patsy Cline's "Never No More" /



/ Sharon and Natelle /

Sunday 5 April 2015

/ Beefcake ahoy! Rich, Little E and Patrick modelling their vintage cabana suits /

Drinking spicy Bloody Marys at the shimmering, sun-kissed pool party was a dreamy way to ease into the last day of VLV. The soundtrack of deep, rumbling ominous surf-noir was courtesy of Canadian band The Cavaleros.

/ Little E and Sheilah /



/ Mitch. Check out those gams! /



/ Bathing beauties in gold lamé /



/ Kevin and I /



/ Patrick's Easter bunny ears /



/ The mighty surf instro band The Cavaleros  /



/ The glamorous Kel /

/ This sassy Ruben-esque redhead and joyous Jayne Mansfield-style exhibitionist had the best bathing suit at the pool party. My shot doesn't do it full justice: it's mostly flesh-coloured mesh and from a distance she looked virtually naked, especially from behind! /

1960s garage punk legends The Sonics headlined Sunday night and were a decidedly mixed bag. When they played mediocre new “classic raaawk” songs from their recent comeback album This is the Sonics (their first of new material in almost five decades) Kevin compared it to Bob Seeger or a tired bar band. But then they’d savagely tear into their furious 1960s gravest hits (“Psycho”, “Strychnine”, “Have Love Will Travel”, “Boss Hoss”) and it was spine-tingling punk perfection.  Gerry Roslie’s shredding screams on “The Witch” made my eyes water. I was shuddering in ecstasy!

/ The Sonics /



/ Official last photo of Viva Las Vegas 2015: Mark (front-man of awesome Liverpool teddy boy trio Furious) and I at Brendan's Irish pub /

Monday 6 April

The day after VLV was pretty much a downer.  My flight for New Orleans wasn't until that night so I had almost a whole day to kill (on my own, because almost all my friends had already split). I had breakfast with Mitch.  Read by the pool (it was sunny but windy so not very tempting to linger). Hit a few bars in “the fruit loop” (Vegas’ pretty desultory gay district) and drank a beer at the nicely dingy graffiti-scarred punk dive / "clubhouse for the lunatic fringe" The Double Down Saloon. My next ripped-bare installment will pick up from torrid New Orleans.

Further reading:

Blogs from my previous Viva Las Vegas weekenders: 2010, 2011, 2012 and 2013

See all the photos from Viva Las Vegas 2015 (yes, there are more!) on my flickr album

Follow me on tumblr for all your rancid kitsch, sleaze and vintage homo porn needs!