Saturday, 18 May 2024

Las Vegas Grind! My Scene Report for Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekend Thursday 18 April – Sunday 21 April 2024

 


This April I went to the annual Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekend festival at The Orleans Hotel and Casino for the first time since 2019. (This gap was mainly down to factors like coronavirus and being made redundant / starting new jobs over the years. I’ve been regularly attending on and off since something like 2003). I was reuniting with and splitting a room again with my old friend Kevin from California (the artist formerly known as Kevin from New Orleans), plus some newbies / VLV virgins: my friends Louise (henceforth referred to by my nickname for her “Weezie”) and London-based German couple Knut and Anne-Kathrin (the In-Kraut!). Anyway, here is my unexpurgated account – disgustingly frank and revoltingly candid! 

I arrived evening of Wednesday 17 April and caught up with Kevin over the first of many (many) beers at The Alligator bar of The Orleans. 

Thursday (day one): 

/ Kevin and I at The Golden Tiki /

Kevin and I went to The Golden Tiki that afternoon for Mai Tais. (Well, Kevin had his customary Three Dots and a Dash). Gratifyingly, The Golden Tiki was heaving (all the tables were already reserved, so we drank at the bar). Great to see that this amazing venue is clearly thriving. 




/ Above: decor at The Golden Tiki / 




/ Reunion with Rich at Sweet Pea's Hooch'n'Smooch Thursday afternoon. Photos by Sheilah  /

Then: the Viva Las Vegas LGBTQIA+ meet up between 6 pm – 7:30 pm featuring drag queen DJ Lady Laverne all the way from Brighton! This was the queerest most out-and-proud VLV to date. The event has always featured its share of old-school butch / femme lesbian couples (my favourite kind!), but I’d never seen more trans and non-binary folk before. (Interestingly, I’ve also never seen more therapy dogs before). The LGBTQIA+ mixer was a triumph, and the hetero attendees were mostly totally blasé about it. In the words of Divine as Edna Turnblad in Hairspray: “The times, they’re a-changin’. And the answer is blowin’ in the wind.” 



/ Patrick, Sweetpea and Andre at the LGBTQIA mixer /

Both Anne-Kathrin and Knut, and Weezie arrived and found us at the mixer. The party had well and truly started!   



/ Knut, Anne-Kathrin and Weezie. By the way, this trio nor Kevin had ever met before, so it was so great watching them all instantly become friends! /

Musical highlight: The Spuny Boys – rockabilly heartthrobs from France. 


Friday (day two): 


Friday morning a group of jaded international thrill-seekers went in search of some vintage smut and sin-sational adult situations. I mean, of course, Anne-Kathrin, Knut, Kevin and me! But don't worry - it was educational! We visited the Burlesque Hall of Fame Museum for a guided tour. My only disappointment: my priority was to genuflect before a sacred relic (their permanent collection contains a pink velvet heart-shaped settee salvaged from Jayne Mansfield’s Pink Palace!). BUT they regularly rotate the items exhibited and Jayne’s settee wasn’t on display when we visited! (Also, the guide said visitors kept wanting to sit on it). 






/ Above: treasures from the Burlesque Hall of Fame including Tempest Storm's glittery g-string (yes, you can see my gormless reflection) and Dita Von Teese's champagne glass prop from 2000 (surprisingly tiny!) /


/ What I'd hoped to see but wasn't on display ... Jayne Mansfield's heart-shaped velvet settee from the Pink Palace / 


Afterward, Weezie joined us at Frankie’s Tiki Room, one of my favourite bars in the entire world. Let’s face it, for the most part the United Kingdom just doesn’t “get” Tiki culture – it’s an entirely American phenomenon – so you must soak up and luxuriate in the authentic deal when you get the opportunity. A real plus: Frankie’s creaky barely functioning but excellent jukebox is stuffed with exotica, surf instrumental and punk selections. When I die, scatter my ashes at Frankie’s Tiki Room! 


/ Bad Girls Go to Hell! Anne-Kathrin and Weezie at Frankie's /



/ Bathroom selfie at Frankie's /



/ Above: Weezie and I giving major “We’ve been watching you across the bar and would like to buy you a drink” /


/ Kevin, me and Knut /



/ Leaving Frankie's, tipsy and blinking in the sunlight / 

Back at The Orleans, Kevin, Weezie and I hung out briefly at the pool. (The Bloody Marys at the pool bar are a must and have miraculous reviving properties). 


/ Poolside with Weezie and Kevin (and their perfectly coordinated Tiki ensembles) /

THEN: I had the bright idea of revisiting Big Elvis at Harrah’s. I explained to Weezie, Knut and Anne-Kathrin that seeing Big Elvis perform was an essential authentic Vegas ritual and rite of passage and that he had to be experienced at least once. I have many deliriously happy memories of Big Elvis over the years but wow, I was horrified by the price of drinks at Harrah’s these days ($12 for domestic beers. Knut’s bill came to $65). A major rip-off. And while Big Elvis himself was in soaring voice, he seemed totally “checked out” and delivered an abbreviated set. Previously I would advise anyone that seeing Big Elvis is de rigueur when visiting Vegas. Now – and it pains me to say this – I’d say approach with caution. 


/ Below: Elvis Presley and Ann-Margret - reunited! Only kidding: Weezie and Big Elvis having a moment /




Musical highlights: Crazy Joe. The Viva Rhythm and Blues Show: the whole showcase made me swoon, but everyone was completely blown away by flamboyant flaming creature Les Greene. Pouting, wailing and gyrating in a pink zoot suit with two-toned hair and a septum piercing, Greene effortlessly evoked the essence of young Little Richard in his prime (he tore through two numbers: “Baby Face” and Richard’s “Tutti Fruiti”). A star was born and regardless of gender or sexual preference, everyone had an instant crush on him! Then: Omar Romero. I regret not seeing James Intveld at midnight. 


Saturday (day three): 

Weezie joined me at the Copper Whisk Café at The Orleans (she was staying at the nearby Gold Coast) and washed down her steak and eggs with a potent Bloody Mary. (Which she raved about). 




Then: the car show. Like all self-respecting rockabilly kittens, Weezie and Anne-Kathrin shielded themselves from the blazing sun with parasols. Didn’t spot any stars. Cassandra Peterson (aka Elvira Mistress of the Dark) was a frequent presence at the car show in previous years signing autographs and selling merchandise (catching a glimpse of her is always a religious experience!). And of course, the late, great flame-haired burlesque queen Tempest Storm. But: I learned later that both modern striptease showgirl deluxe Dita von Teese AND effervescent Drag Race contestant and YouTuber Jaymes Mansfield attended the car show, just not while we were there, damn it! Or we somehow missed them! 



/ My role at the car show was to capture Weezie looking sultry next to vintage cars /



 / The owner of this 1955 Ford Crown Victoria Skyliner (in Tropical Rose) was a total mensch and happy to let people actually climb behind the wheel for photos. (Trust me, this is unheard of!). Needless to say, we took advantage /

More time at the pool. The “official” pool party is considered the Sunday, but we skipped the crowds and long queues and treated Saturday as the pool party – and it was sun-kissed bliss! A striking lesbian couple won the “Couples Swimsuit Contest” (see below and check out the brunette's killer batwing-shaped Vampira sunglasses) and no one batted an eye (like I said, the queerest VLV yet). Surf band The Hula Girls provided the soundtrack. 



/ Note: I've had that striped nautical t-shirt for years and this trip, applying sunscreen to my neck stained it with yellow streaks. Did anyone else not know that sunscreen stained clothes? /

Musical highlight: The Hexxers. Both Weezie and I were flagging and had to have a nap. Afterward, we were both groggy and irritable – until rampaging savage voodoo-tinged Californian garage punk band The Hexxers blew away the cobwebs. The Hexxers were like a shot of adrenaline. They are awesome! Followed by Deke’s Guitar Geek Show. 

Sunday (day four): 

Breakfast at the no-frills old-school Ellis Island restaurant, followed by drinks at Champagne’s Café. I’ve always been curious about this dive bar after reading about it in my 2003 Time Out travel guide and – after all these years – finally managed to visit it. And Champagne’s was worth the wait! It dates to the 1960s and has been virtually untouched since (thank God!). It boasts dim lights, a black ceiling, brown tufted Naugahyde booths, red flock wallpaper straight out of a brothel, a portrait of Marilyn Monroe and insanely inexpensive (and good) cocktails, knocked up by Arlene, one of the world’s best bartenders. And she doesn’t just sling drinks: Arlene is Champagne’s ambassador and welcoming committee, happy to talk you through the place’s history, including its ties to the Rat Pack and the mafia! (She gave us a quick tour of the framed portraits of mobsters on the wall). The music was underwhelming (generic 1980s classic “drivetime” rock like Richard Marx and Bryan Adams), but the accommodating Arlene let Kevin take over the soundtrack with his own playlist. It took me a while to realize what Kevin is up to while fiddling with his phone. Once early Ike and Tina Turner and 60s girl groups started blasting, I finally asked, “Are you controlling the music?” Our cab driver (and Knut and Anne-Kathrin’s) warned that Champagne’s is in a dangerous neighbourhood – so you probably won’t want to linger or explore the surrounding environs! 


/ That classic mid-twentieth century sign! /



/ Girls Gone Wild! Weezie and Anne-Kathrin at Champagne's Cafe /

Then: beers at the graffiti-covered ne plus ultra of punk dive bars Double Down Saloon. I hadn’t been there in years and thankfully, it was exactly how I remembered it. There’s a reason the sign outside (accurately) declares “happiest place on Earth.” Double Down and Frankie’s Tiki Room are both owned by the same person. Whoever you are, I could kiss you. Hell, I’ll gladly fellate you. Weezie sampled the signature house drink “Ass Juice” and even bought its special accompanying toilet-shaped glass. I vaguely remember Ass Juice being red (the Time Out guide describes it as “a sweet, blood-red concoction of mysterious origin”) and it tasting primarily of Jägermeister. They must have tweaked the recipe: now it’s pink and taste like schnapps. I think I like it better now. 





Back at The Orleans, the musical highlights were Dave and Deke Combo’s Hillbilly Fest and Sebastien Bordeaux.  Disappointingly, the usually excellent Big Sandy & The Flyrite Boys’ set was all mid-tempo and ballad-heavy and we bailed after a few songs. 


/ That girl's got roaches in her hair! Kevin snapped this shot of this stunning woman and her perfect (homemade) recreation of Tracy Turnblad's "cockroach" dress from Hairspray (1988). Surely THE outfit of the whole weekend /

Then: things promptly unraveled. Unbelievably, The Orlean’s ballrooms where the bands were playing ran out of beer! Then the bars downstairs stopped honouring the VLV drink special offers - or closed completely!  It was an anticlimactic end to the weekend. There were a few things that felt “off” this year. I suspect the organisers of Viva Las Vegas have downsized and streamlined things post-COVID, which I don’t begrudge. I was undeniably crushed that Ambassador of Americana Charles Phoenix’s retro slideshow is not on the agenda anymore (for me, he’s always been synonymous with VLV). But the real problems were with the management of The Orleans (not the hardworking staff). They clearly need to raise their game if they want to keep hosting Viva Las Vegas. And while they’re at it, bring back my favourite Californian Benedict to the Copper Whisk Café breakfast menu (it’s Eggs Benedict with the ham swapped for avocado)! Monday was a downer, but then it always is. We had to be checked out of our rooms by 11 am but my flight wasn’t until that night. Weezie and I had planned to hang out by The Orleans pool they’ve tightened security and now the pool is only accessible to guests with an “active” room key – which counted me out. Even though I’d just spent hundreds of dollars to stay there, the pool was now out of bounds! 


Anyway – in conclusion, Viva Las Vegas 2024 itself was a triumph and we’re already contemplating our return in 2025!



Friday, 26 April 2024

Reflections on ... The Morning After (1986)

 


Recently watched: psychological thriller The Morning After (1986). Tagline: “Last night she drank to forget. Today she woke up to a murder. Is he her last hope or the last man she should trust?” Dir: Sidney Lumet.

On Thanksgiving morning, washed-up, middle-aged alcoholic actress Viveca Van Loren (Jane Fonda) awakens with a thunderous hangover in an unfamiliar bedroom lying next to an unfamiliar man. (Her first line of dialogue: “What the fuck?”). 


She was black-out drunk and has zero recollection of the night before. Understandably, Viveca panics when she realizes her bedmate is a corpse – with a bloody knife protruding from his chest! The dead man, we learn, was a notorious pornographer. Is someone trying to frame her for his murder? Is she in danger? Turner Kendall (Jeff Bridges), a sympathetic ex-cop with problems of his own, seemingly offers Viveca a lifeline – and maybe a chance for redemption.
 


I hadn’t revisited The Morning After (currently streaming for free on YouTube) in many years. I love its atmospheric view of the seedy underbelly of Los Angeles and Viveca’s life on the fringes of show business. (Befitting a fallen glamour girl, she resides in a frou-frou dusty rose apartment in a pink stucco Art Deco building). It probably succeeds best as a downbeat character study of the tentative budding romance between the unlikely duo of Viveca and Turner.
 



/ This fascinates me! When searching for pics to accompany this post, I noted this weird discrepancy. In this sequence, chronic alcoholic Viveca drinks a morning can of beer as an eye-opener. It's clearly a can of Budweiser. For some reason, I found multiple versions of Viveca clutching a can of ... Diet Coke instead? /

/ Amusingly, when “wanted woman” Viveca is in hiding, she conceals her identity with the old-school disguise of headscarf and sunglasses. I always think adopting this method would attract attention and make you look like someone in disguise! /

Unsurprisingly, Fonda absolutely slays as Viveca, but it would be interesting to see how her peers Tuesday Weld or Faye Dunaway would interpret this juicy role (in her broader moments, Fonda sometimes seems to be doing a Dunaway impersonation). And with a few minor tweaks it’s easy to imagine The Morning After making a great woman-in-peril noir vehicle for Crawford, Stanwyck or Davis in the 1950s (it occasionally recalls Davis as a boozy ageing actress on the skids in The Star (1952)).
 


In addition to the stellar Fonda and Bridges, the impressive supporting cast includes Raul Julia, Diane Salinger (Simone from P
ee-wee’s Big Adventure (1985)!) and a fleeting appearance from an unknown young Kathy Bates. One nice detail: Viveca relies on loyal gay confidantes for support. On the lam and needing a change of clothes, she visits a drag queen friend. Before that, a sympathetic gay bartender (played by Bruce Vilanch!) comps her a free drink. 

Best exchange: Alex: “I was being groomed to be the next Vera Miles.” Turner: “Who?” Alex: “See! I was getting ready to replace somebody the public didn't even know was missing!”

Saturday, 9 March 2024

Reflections on ... Honky Tonk Nights (1978)

 


Recently watched: no-budget shitkicker exploitation flick Honky Tonk Nights (1978). Tagline: “Drinkin' ... Lovin' ... Fightin' ... and Cussin'. Those were the nights. Those Honky Tonk Nights.” Synopsis via The Grindhouse Cinema Database: “Dreaming of Nashville while singing at a rowdy tavern, a stripper-turned-songstress fends off male patrons while the owner battles shady businessmen.” 

Truthfully, Honky Tonk Nights is virtually unwatchable by any objective standards, but as an accurate time capsule of 1970s drive-in or grindhouse fare, it’s exemplary. Set in the low-end of country music dive bars, it offers 71-minutes of barroom brawls and fistfights (if you like seeing chairs smashed over peoples’ heads, THIS is the movie for you), car chases and car crashes (and motorcycle chases and motorcycle crashes), a wall-to-wall soundtrack of Country & Western music of wildly varying quality that quickly grows numbing, softcore sex scenes and copious female nudity (women routinely start undressing mid-conversation with  no apparent reason). Honky Tonk Nights' pungent ambiance of sleaze and murky 1970s porn vibe is perhaps inevitable - director Charles Webb mainly specialized in X-rated films (and the cast includes noted golden age of porn performers like Georgina Spelvin and Serena. For verisimilitude, esteemed American folk singer Ramblin’ Jack Elliott also crops up). 

San Francisco’s iconic topless go-go dancer Carol Doda (1937 - 2015) stars as heroine Belle Barnette. “Winner of the 1979 Dolly Parton lookalike contest!” the poster promises. Doda certainly shares Parton’s physical attributes and penchant for cotton candy wigs, but regrettably not her on-screen charisma (at least as evidenced here) or musical ability. And anyway, Doda vanishes from the action for long stretches. (For such a short movie, Honky Tonk Nights is overburdened with subplots and supporting characters). In conclusion: if you want an exposé into the realm of country music, stick with Robert Altman’s Nashville (1975). Honky Tonks Nights is free to watch on Amazon Prime and YouTube.

Saturday, 2 March 2024

The Next Lobotomy Room Film Club ... Butterfield 8 (1960) on 21 March 2024

“The John O'Hara novel that seemed perfect for the movies, plus the role that seemed perfect for Elizabeth Taylor - and this is the garish mess it became,” is how the reliably terse Pauline Kael dismissed Butterfield 8. “Daniel Mann's direction is maybe even worse than the Charles Schnee-John Michael Hayes script. With Laurence Harvey; Dina Merrill, doing a noble wife to end all noble wives; and a vacuum on the screen that is said to be Eddie Fisher.” 

Almost no one has a good word to say about this lurid, wildly entertaining 1960 melodrama (including leading lady Taylor herself) – so of course Butterfield 8 is absolute catnip for me and it’s the March 2024 selection for the Lobotomy Room cinema club devoted to Bad Movies for Bad People! 


To its advantage: Taylor is sublime as wanton high-priced, high-class New York call girl Gloria Wandrous (tagline: “Gloria is the glamour girl who always wakes up ashamed!”). And the script co-authored by John Michael Hayes (the genius behind camp classicks (sic) Torch Song, Peyton Place, The Carpetbaggers, Where Love Has Gone and Harlow) features dialogue like “Face it, mama! I was the slut of all time!” and “I’ve had more fun in the back of a ’39 Ford than I could ever have in the vault of the Chase National Bank!” 


The opening moments alone are spellbinding: as Edward Margulies and Stephen Rebello recount in their 1993 book Bad Movies We Love, “Taylor awakens alone in her married lover’s bed, wraps herself in only a sheet, lights a cigar, drains a glass of whiskey, discovers her torn dress on the floor, brushes her teeth with booze, finds an envelope with $250 cash, scrawls “No Sale” in red lipstick across a mirror, leaves the money and instead steals the absent wife’s mink coat, calls her answering service and hails a cab to the apartment of … Eddie Fisher (by then, he was the real life Mr. Taylor).”  


So, join us on 21 March 2024 to watch Butterfield 8 over cocktails at Fontaine’s in Dalston! In my intro, I’ll provide context on Eddie Fisher leaving his then-wife Debbie Reynolds for Taylor in 1958 (the red-hot showbiz scandal of its time) and how Taylor almost dying of pneumonia helped win her a “sympathy Oscar” for her performance in Butterfield 8 in 1961! 

Lobotomy Room is the FREE monthly film club devoted to cinematic perversity! Third Thursday night of every month downstairs at Fontaine’s cocktail lounge in Dalston. Numbers are limited, so reserve your seat via Fontaine’s website. Alternatively, phone 07718000546 or email bookings@fontaines.bar. The film starts at 8:30 pm. Doors to the basement Bamboo Lounge open at 8:00 pm. To ensure everyone is seated and cocktails are ordered on time, please arrive by 8:15 pm at the latest.


“By the odds, it should be a bomb. But a bomb it is not, let us tell you. At least, it is not the sort of thing to set you to yawning and squirming, unless Elizabeth Taylor leaves you cold. In the first place, it has Miss Taylor, playing the florid role of the lady of easy virtue, and that's about a million dollars right there. "I was the slut of all times," she tells her mother in one of those searing scenes wherein the subdued, repentant playgirl, thinking she has found happiness, bares her soul. But you can take it from us, at no point does she look like one of those things. She looks like a million dollars, in mink or in negligée. When she sits at a bar with Laurence Harvey, who is not just any Joe but a millionaire with a ten-room Fifth Avenue apartment and "caves all over town," and she lets her eyes travel up and down him, measuring not the bulge of his pocketbook but the bulge of his heart - well, all we can say is that Miss Taylor lends a certain fascination to the film. Then, too, it offers admission to such an assortment of apartments, high-class bars, Fifth Avenue shops and speedy sports cars, all in colour and CinemaScope, that it should make the most moral status seeker feel a little disposed toward a life of sin. Brandy, martinis and brittle dialogue flow like water all over the place.”  

/ Bosley Crowther reviewing Butterfield 8 in The New York Times, 17 November 1960 /


“In both Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Butterfield 8, Taylor appears in a tight white slip that looks as if it were sewn onto her body. What a gorgeous object she is! Feminists are currently adither over woman’s status as sex object but let them rave on in their little mental cells. For me, sexual objectification is a supreme human talent that is indistinguishable from the art impulse. Elizabeth Taylor, voluptuous in her sleek slip, stands like an ivory goddess, triumphantly alone. Her smooth shoulders and round curves, echoing those of mother earth, are gifts of nature, beyond the reach of female impersonators. Butterfield 8, with its call-girl heroine working her way down the alphabet of men from Amherst to Yale, appeared at a very formative moment in my adolescence and impressed me forever with the persona of the prostitute, whom I continue to revere.” 

/ From "Elizabeth Taylor: Hollywood’s Pagan Queen" by Camille Paglia, Penthouse magazine, March 1992 /