VEGASinsight Archives

Photo by Aaron Thompson

Walking into the Box Office–an otherwise non-descript, beige building on Casino Center Boulevard in the heart of the Arts District–during a Freakout! is like stepping into someone’s basement or rec room. There is the faint smell of food in the background, as if your friend’s mom might be making dinner upstairs in the kitchen. Red tapestries cover the windows and people sit around the room in folding chairs, on old couches, worn carpet and random cushions. Surrounded by colorful, abstract paintings covering the walls and ceiling, musicians perform on a makeshift stage, lit by only a single track light and the swirling colors of a novelty-shop party light.

“The purpose of Freakout! was to showcase sideshow, performance art, dance, experimental, indie, shoegaze, and psychedelic music. The festival is best attended in its entirety to truly experience the ‘trip,’” says Jason Sturtsman, co-founder of the Freakout! series and LVexperimental.org. “The Freakout! itself is supposed to be a piece of performance art. Turn on to art, tune in your mind and drop out from your previous ways of being.”

It’s obvious–by both the setup of the events and Sturtsman’s comments–that the Freakout! shows are intended to recreate the spirit of the late-1960s counterculture. While it’s a valid attempt, there’s a certain element of danger missing–as if the unholy trinity of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll has been invoked without the first two facets. But given that the events are open to audiences 16 and over, it makes sense that Sturtsman and his crew play it somewhat safe.

“We started booking shows at the Box Office due to wanting a larger venue for the Freakout! shows that would allow individuals under 21 to experience music and art downtown on a day that was not First Friday,” Sturtsman says, reinforcing his focus on providing youth-friendly programming. “There are very few venues in the city for individuals under 21 to experience music and connect with their friends. There are also few places where young bands can develop before they play larger venues.”

Despite the teen-friendliness, the diversity of performance at the Freakout! events–typically held bi-monthly–offers something of interest to almost anyone. Swing Shift Sideshow often performs its freakish antics, including human suspension, glass-walking and fire-breathing. Bands such as Ambry Underground and The Modern Speed provide garage rock-influenced soundtracks perfect for zoning out. And Box Office owner Cion keeps attendees and performers satiated with a fully-loaded and reasonably priced snack bar.

Though it’s still ramshackle as a venue, the Box Office has become popular enough to yield other events produced by Sturtsman and his compatriots, including hip-hop nights and fashion shows.

“The goal of the Freakout! is to continue to grow the event’s size and to challenge the audience with new art and music,” says Sturtsman. “I would hope that someday we can move it to a larger location downtown or expand it out onto the streets of the Arts District. There needs to be other events happening in the Arts District downtown besides First Friday. I love the neon heart that beats downtown in the Arts District and Fremont East. It feels authentic to me.”

The crowd inside the House of Blues grew restless after patiently listening to two opening acts, including the fabulous Armor For Sleep and hardcore, long-haired Christian rockers Underoath. Suddenly, to the audience’s great delight, the stage lights gradually brightened, and Taking Back Sunday’s lead singer Adam Lazzara — dressed in a form-fitting black outfit — practically bounced onto stage as if springs were attached to his shoes.

Though both opening acts had gone over well, the crowd went into an ecstatic and frenzied uproar as soon as they heard the first few thundering drumbeats from percussionist Mark O’Connell. Arms flailed wildly around and heads radically bobbed as Lazzara, singing tumultuously, hung over the stage so close to the crowd it could almost reach him (as during Underoath’s set, there would be no crowd surfing). Most fans controlled themselves, though some were so wild that security frequently had to restrain them. In the general admission, standing-room-only area near the stage, a few needed to be rescued from the sweaty and rambunctious crowd. More than a few people were clearly bruised and swollen about the face.

After a few songs from Taking Back Sunday’s latest album, Louder Now, the lights dimmed and Lazzara (complete with acoustic guitar and harmonica neck-piece) appeared on stage solo. The crowd seemed confused—or perhaps oblivious—when he snuck in the chorus of The Killer’s “When You Were Young,” a clever choice, integrating the Vegas-originating band’s sound into the act.

When the rest of the band members returned to the stage, they performed some of their older tracks, such as “Cute without the E (Cut From the Team),” from the 2001 album Tell All Your Friends. The chemistry and synergy of the complete team was apparent, smoothly playing off of one another. Lazzara’s flamboyant, almost graceful dance movements included enthusiastic microphone swinging. His ability to maintain vocals while being self-strangled by the mic cord shocked the crowd further into frenzy. It was impressive, yet at the same time somewhat horrifying for the fans who might prefer to see a prettier, non-noosed Lazzara. Fortunately, he didn’t end up passing out or knocking himself unconscious. Eddie Reyes’s killer guitar chords made the audience cut loose even more with random bouncing, while Fred Mascherino on guitar and vocals tested the limits of his vertebrae with boisterous head movements.

During a short breather, Lazzara informed the audience that Mascherino married his girlfriend, Asia, over the weekend, and that it was also time for more celebration—as it was also Matt’s 23rd birthday. With his parents watching from the side of the stage, a lit candle-laden cake appeared, sparking the crowd and band to sing a light-hearted—and not quite in tune—rendition of “Happy Birthday.”

After the blaze was extinguished with an exhausted lungful of air, Taking Back Sunday returned to what it does best—convincing the audience that, regardless of just how little energy and pizazz a typical Vegas audience has, that they should rock their asses off.

The alternative music of the 1990s has been very good to Vegas-based rock band The Day After…. Moody groups like Catherine Wheel helped shape the sound of the trio’s Gotham Records debut album, A Different Way To Get By, and now the long-time local band is sharing a bill with Minneapolis alt-rock icon Soul Asylum at the House of Blues Friday night.

“We’ve always been fans of Soul Asylum,” says The Day After… bassist KC Wells. “Jenine and I grew up with all those late ‘80s and early ‘90s punk/alternative bands. My absolute favorite song from them is ‘Just Like Anyone’—I love that song, and Jenine [Cali, vocalist and guitarist] has always thought we should cover ‘Somebody To Shove.’”

Known mainly for its mid-‘90s albums Grave Dancers Union and Let Your Dim Light Shine, Soul Asylum actually formed in the early ‘80s and was a pivotal part of the Minneapolis indie rock scene, coming up with such contemporaries as The Replacements and Hüsker Dü. After an eight-year hiatus from recording, the band re-emerged in 2006 with a brand-new album, The Silver Lining, as well as a new lineup featuring former Replacements bassist Tommy Stinson and Prince drummer Michael Bland.

“I can’t tell you how much of an honor it will be to support not only Dave Pirner and Dan Murphy [Soul Asylum’s singer and guitarist, respectively], but those two as well,” Wells says of Stinson and Bland. “It’s crazy to think of the rock heroes that have come from that Minneapolis/St. Paul scene.”

The Day After… has kept a low touring profile since the Oct. 17 release of A Different Way To Get By, but the album and its lead single, “Car Crash,” have been well-received by music fans and the media. “Car Crash” went undefeated in Xtreme Radio 107.5-FM’s nightly new music face-off, “It Came From The Mailroom,” and was promptly added to that station’s rotation.

“Regionally it’s done very well, throughout Southern California, Utah, Arizona and Nevada,” says Wells. “However, it’s also been selling sporadically throughout the country. We’ve been established on nationwide college radio though, so we are expecting more people outside the Southwest to catch on here pretty quick.”

Wells says the band has touring plans for 2007 and intends to build a support team to keep the band “moving in the right direction.” Right now, though, they are simply excited to open for some of their musical heroes.

“I implore kids who haven’t heard of them [Soul Asylum] to come see the show and to go back through their history and see exactly what they’ve meant to alternative/punk music, from when they started as Loud Fast Rules to their ties to punk legends Hüsker Dü,” Wells says.

A three-day party at the popular Vegas resort spawns questions about its future

While the Hard Rock Hotel changes hands from owner and founder Peter Morton to its new corporate owners – possibly jeopardizing its future as a hipster, boutique resort – George Maloof’s Palms Casino Resort continues to build on its status as the hottest property in Las Vegas. The latest addition to the resort’s arsenal of nightclubs, restaurants and over-the-top party suites is the fully-remodeled, $40 million Pool at the Palms.

Completed just in time for one of the craziest holidays in Vegas’ nonstop party, Fourth of July weekend, the new pool debuted to the public with a three-day bash celebrating the one-year anniversary of 944 Magazine.

Events at the resort included DJ Robert Oleysyck’s successful breaking of the Guinness World Record for longest DJ set (now 88 hours), a star-packed premier of Superman Returns at Brenden Theatres, a day-long string of live music culminating with performances by Camp Freddy and Panic Channel, fireworks, a declaration of “944 Day” by Mayor Oscar Goodman, and … man, we are running out of breath.

The Pool at the Palms features all sorts of nifty enhancements and adornments, including private tee pee-cabanas that overlook the pool area from a tall balcony, multiple bars (including one beneath a waterfall), table gaming, plush furniture and the coup-de-grace, a glass-bottomed pool and deck that rise above the table games and center bar.

On Saturday, however, the area was converted into a makeshift concert venue at which Dave Navarro’s latest musical projects were scheduled to entertain guests as part of the anniversary weekend festivities. This meant the pools were off-limits. Strictly. And amazingly, no one defied that unwritten rule, despite the heat that lasted well into the late evening.

The Palms is a study in the dichotomy of Las Vegas. On one hand, its is a popular locals casino, filled with copious (and supposedly loose) slot machines, which inevitably draws hundreds of senior citizens to its casino floor daily. On the west side of the property is a food court and the cinemas which – save perhaps for the week a year that CineVegas holes up at Brenden Theatres – cater to the lowest-common denominator.

It is on the east side of the resort where things gets interesting: Hart & Huntington Tattoo Parlor (star of cable TV’s “Inked”), ghostbar, Rain nightclub, AMP salon and spa, the entrance to the Fantasy Tower, and the aforementioned pool.

Maybe that’s why celebrities like the Palms so much. Unlike the Hard Rock Hotel, or even some Strip joints like Caesars Palace or Mandalay Bay, the average Palms gambler is mostly concerned with the three reels in front of him or her. There is no Circle Bar surrounded by mooks looking for loose women or famous faces. Heck, after Camp Freddy’s set ended, Navarro and his crew waltzed right in the front doors of the casino, no one noticing much and no need for security.

Of course, eventually the Palms will have to deal with its identity crisis. With the opening of the Fantasy Tower – home to the must-be-seen-to-be-believed Fantasy Suites and the penthouse Playboy Club – the Palms has thrown down a challenge to any other Vegas property to steal its thunder as the premier party spot in the valley. And when Palms Place — the adjacent condominium development from the Maloof mind – opens in 2007, it will be the part-time home to a number of A-list celebrities. Eventually, that cute, locals-oriented casino with the loose slots could be considered a liability.

Nobody told these guys the ’50s ended about 60 years ago. Shh, don’t ruin it for them.

Amidst the glowing neon facades of downtown Las Vegas, hundreds of valley youths, many clad in black t-shirts and rolled-up jeans, queued in clustered groups outside of Jillian’s Saturday night.

The air was cool and getting colder as a storm system worked its way into the Vegas Valley, bringing an increasingly chilly wind with it. This didn’t stop the yearning masses from waiting in the cold for more than an hour to see one of their favorite bands, psychobilly purveyor Tiger Army.

There is no substitution for the exuberance of youth. Something as pure and passionate as that ebullient connection adolescents make with a band or musician is as necessary and irreplaceable as post-pubescence itself.

In the past, teens would camp out at venues and box offices overnight – or sometimes for days – to obtain the best seats possible for a great concert. In the Internet age, this practice is all but lost, but the same dedication to the rock-and-roll experience was evident at Jillian’s on Saturday.

One of the few all-ages venues for live music in Vegas, Jillian’s normally serves as a family-friendly, multi-purpose entertainment center. It features a bar, restaurant, midway, arcade, lounge and mini-bowling lanes. When repurposed as a concert venue, however, more than half of the location is cordoned off to create a performance space, loading area, control booth and merchandise stand.

The show was scheduled to start at 7 p.m. At 7:30 p.m., the doors to the concert area were still closed, and the teeming masses of boys with high-rise pompadours and girls in retro dresses were still waiting in a makeshift holding area in the open-air plaza of Neonopolis.

On the other side of Jillian’s, those old enough to buy alcohol started to gather around the bar, some taking in a pre-concert meal, some merely throwing back drinks and dragging on cigarettes while a variety of professional sporting events glowed on the giant screens behind the bar.

The standard uniform for male patrons included rolled-up blue jeans, black Converse All-Stars or worker boots, black t-shirts (many of which bearing the insignia of Tiger Army) and a variation on the classic ‘50s pompadour, including some modern takes – multiple colors, variable heights, gravity-defying angles.

Their female counterparts came in two general types. Pin-up girls wore knee-length, shoulder-bearing, patterned dresses, with elaborate hairdos and chunky heels, often accompanied by black fishnet stockings. Other females were lower-maintenance, opting for an upswept bandana, t-shirt or short-sleeve plaid blouse, rolled-up jeans or pedal pushers and tennis shoes.

Tattoos were aplenty, on both genders and in a variety of designs and locations.

At 8 p.m., promoter Brian Saliba finally gave the go-ahead for security officers to open the doors to the growingly-impatient crowd outside.

Youths of all shapes, sizes and colors gathered near the small stage, itself tucked below the stairs leading to the second level of Jillian’s, which was closed off to non-event staff for use as a green room. A staff member took to the stage while sound technicians finished their preparative duties.

“I have something to tell you that might piss you off,” said the young man into the microphone. “But at the request of Tiger Army, there will be no smoking allowed inside the concert tonight.”

It might have seemed like a common-sense rule: An all-ages concert inside a family-friendly venue is an unlikely place for smoking to be allowed with or without the request of the headlining act. Some audience members were barely toddlers. Still, security guards had to shut down people and groups found smoking – many appearing too young even to buy cigarettes – throughout the evening.

The first band, Black Phantom Rose, had little in common with Tiger Army save for the stand-up bass guitar played by the lead singer. Otherwise, the band was a by-the-numbers punk act, one in which the crowd was only mildly interested.

Shortly after the first band finished, Love Equals Death took to the stage. Again, the band displayed none of the rockabilly or country influences of the headliner, instead playing a fist-pumping brand of punk rock. The Petaluma, Calif.-based band’s standout feature was not its music but its bass player, Dominic Davi, who previously played with popular Bay Area punk outfit Tsunami Bomb.

There’s a recurring phenomenon that happens at rock concerts, regardless of size, genre or venue: by the time the headlining act takes the stage, there is double the amount of bodies in an audience than during the opening acts’ performances. Sure enough, when Tiger Army descended from the staircase behind the stage, everyone milling about in the bar or braving the cold outside for a cigarette piled into the concert area.

It was obvious that, though competent, the opening bands did not command the crowd the way Tiger Army did by its sheer presence. Stand-up bass player Jeff Roffredo goaded the crowd to get a frenzied reaction, but he didn’t need to – those dedicated kids hung on every note the trio played, whether a revved-up tune like “Cupid’s Victim” or an old-school country crooner like “In The Orchard.”

Tiger Army blasted through a one-hour set of crowd-pleasers before lead singer and guitarist Nick 13 abruptly informed the crowd five minutes before 11 p.m. that the band was playing its last song. Both the band and the audience seemed surprised by this.

After finishing, patrons were quickly moved outside; barricades were moved to block the stage area even as kids still gathered around the merchandise booth, waiting impatiently to purchase a t-shirt or CD from their favorite band. Rumors wafted about the venue that someone had been “shanked” during the show. An ambulance departed from outside Jillian’s, heading south on Las Vegas Boulevard.

Could someone really have been stabbed during the show as kids sang along to songs of love and pain? Promoter Saliba ducked behind barricades to direct his crew to break down equipment and clean up. If someone was injured, no one was talking.

Not that it would have mattered. Those fans were too high on the magic elixir of rock and roll. And too busy pushing their way past other fans to spend 13 bucks on a Tiger Army t-shirt.

KVGS 107.9-FM — otherwise known as Area 108 — started with such potential. Yes, much like any mainstream radio station (they call themselves “independent,” but that’s only because they’re not owned by Clear Channel, just a small Phoenix-based company), they played certain songs a little too often, including previously enjoyable tracks by the Killers, Franz Ferdinand and Foo Fighters. But the station brought back great stuff that has been missing from Vegas airwaves for a while, like the Pixies, Echo and the Bunnymen, Peter Murphy, etc., as well as playing stuff I’d never heard on Vegas terrestrial radio before, such as Modest Mouse and Death Cab for Cutie.

As with most new station launches these days, Area 108 ran DJ-free (and commercial-free for a little while), sounding like a great big alt-rock iPod on shuffle. Not so bad. Even when the commercials came in, they were minimal, and the song selection — except for the occasional Nickelback or its ilk — was very good. Of course, after a few weeks, DJs were hired, and promotions started. Now, to be fair, the promotions thus far have been subtle — simple call-to-win tickets type of stuff — and the DJs have been relatively unobtrusive. But they ARE talking over the beginning of songs. And the song selection during the day — nights seem to dig deeper — continues to be listenable, but unadventurous.

There is one terrestrial radio station in the country that I would listen to 24 hours a day if I could, and that is San Diego’s 94.9-FM. No funny name. The station is, quite simply, “about the music.” This should be the model for any station calling itself “alternative,” “modern rock,” or “diverse.”

I was reminded of this again today, after not listening for a while (iTunes blitz, sorry). First song? Velvet Underground from the Warhol album. Then “Train in Vain” by the Clash. Then a song from Echo and the Bunnymen’s new album (they have a new album??!!). Then a live acoustic track from Pearl Jam. Then Queens of the Stone Age.

The music is all that matters, but the great thing is, the DJs know their stuff. It’s OK for them to talk BETWEEN songs (not over them; they have strict rules about NEVER talking over any part of a song), because they have interesting things to say. Garret Michaels, the morning DJ and Program Director (go figure — the PD actually WORKS), after playing “Train in Vain,” told the whole story behind how the song was a “hidden” track on “London Calling” only because it was added to the song program after the artwork for the double album had gone to press, even though it was the lead-off single. And these guys have ALL SORTS of inside stories like that, because they’ve been in the business for so long and have been fans of great music for so long.

They don’t do call-in radio contests. That doesn’t mean they don’t reward listeners. They have an “insiders” e-mail list that often features discounts and pre-sale ticket options, exclusive “insider-only” concerts, and more. Plus, they do “Random Acts of Kindness,” where the station’s van simply shows up somewhere and gives out concert tickets, CDs, etc.

As well, their weekly specialty shows are reminiscent of college radio: there’s a locals-only show, an ethereal/chill-out show, and a Bob Marley tribute show.

Listening to this gleaming example of perfect radio put into perspective once again just how bad is every other station out there. I think it’s time for me to finally replace my stolen XM antenna and get back on the satellite. And I think it’s time for Area 108 to wake up: Be different. Live up to your “independent” claims. Respect the music. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll earn the respect of your listeners as well.

I wrote the first news story about Gallery Au Go-Go, Dirk Vermin’s three-year experiment as a semi-permanent gallery curator. He took the half of his Maryland Parkway tattoo parlor, Pussykat Tattoos, which was being leased by a photographer as her studio, and turned it into an honest-to-Sid Vicious art gallery.

It was a labour of love for the local punk rock legend and tattoo artist, something borne of a genuine desire to provide an artistic outlet for other artists that felt estranged from the increasingly insular Arts District scene happening downtown. He expected to make no real profit from the gallery, asking only a minimal commission from his featured artists to help cover things like free beer and bologna sandwiches.

“If we do OK, I’ll be happy,” Vermin told me before the gallery opened in May 2002, “it will have been a successful venture.”

Familiar names in the local art scene today – Mark T. Zeilman, Iceberg Slick, Dray, Carrie McCutcheon – all had early showings at Vermin’s gallery, often when other venues would refuse to show an artist. Dray was one of those, who ran into friction with an early showing at the Winchester Community Center. The first show of his arts collective, Five Finger Miscount, at Gallery Au Go-Go also featured the work of urban muralist and underground comic creator Vezun, who told me he had difficulty getting his work into stores because of the negative image many people hold of graffiti artists.

“People don’t want to touch that kind of stuff,” he said.

I owe as much to Gallery Au Go-Go as the artists whose careers were jump-started by Vermin’s flexibility and resolve to go against the grain. I was writing mostly about local music and nightlife for the CityLife before the gallery opened. But I’d known Vermin for years, both from the music scene (where he appears irregularly with his self-named punk band) and from sitting on the receiving end of his tattoo gun. That, and I’m pretty sure he was at my wedding. So I had an inside track on the forthcoming gallery, which gave me an opportunity to write my first “art” column for the weekly paper.

From there, Gallery Au Go-Go and underground art became somewhat of my “beat.” From May 2002 until Dec. 2003, I reported on a subject about which I knew little to start, but I learned a lot quickly. While the CityLife’s official art writer covered mainstream venues, new artists, new galleries and mainly new shows at Gallery Au Go-Go were my domain, sometimes to his chagrin.

In the last year or so, buzz has died down surrounding Vermin’s gallery. My guess is that the more defined focus on downtown as the official Arts District for the city has somewhat sucked the air out from beneath Gallery Au Go-Go’s wings. The artists that used to find refuge in the welcoming cinder-block walls of the tattoo parlor-cum-art gallery are now living in and operating their own studios downtown, or filling up space in places like the Art Bar. Once-legendary fire-code-breaking opening receptions at Gallery Au Go-Go became more quiet affairs, the same 25 people or so showing up at every opening.

Vermin did the noble thing – he left on a high note, before the gallery could become completely inconsequential. And judging by the amount of press the gallery’s closing received – major features in the Review-Journal, Sun, CityLife and Weekly – the influence of Gallery Au Go-Go on the local community remained strong to its end.

I attended the closing bash, appropriately named “Gallery Au Go-Go Must Be Destroyed!” Vermin seemed to be genuinely happy, almost relieved. He told me that he plans to claim the gallery space for himself, expanding his office by about 10 feet and creating a completely revamped tattooing studio, complete with custom stone tile and stainless steel fixtures.

“No more of this pink and black stuff,” Vermin said, pointing to his garishly adorned tattooing space.

You can read the papers for details about Vermin’s upcoming book about the 1980s punk scene in Vegas (which we’ve been talking about for three years), or about his plans to curate shows at other galleries downtown. I won’t reiterate. But I will say a last goodbye to the place that gave a proper shove-off to the local arts scene, to many an artist’s career, and to this journalist’s portfolio. Or, in true Vermin form:

“Fuck you, too.”

Originally presented in Five/One Magazine, Spring 1998

The Vermin are a Las Vegas institution. Back when I returned to this town (for good?) early in this decade, the first bands I ever heard of were Cries & Whispers, Hers Tabula Rasa, Hostage Symphony, and, of course, Vermin From Venus. They were featured on the cover of the first issue of Scope I ever picked up (and back then, Scope was better than sliced bread!). At one point in my life, I had one of their 7-inches hanging from my ceiling. And now, known as just the Vermin, Derrick “Dirk” Wells leads his punk trio into history, as perhaps the world’s greatest bar band. But, before we get into the good sleazy fun of the Vermin, we must first enter the pop universe of They.

They is a band which, to say the least, probably should not have played alongside the Vermin. They pick up the pop-rock flame where Collective Soul, Cheap Trick, and Soul Asylum leave off. It seems that the only reason They opened for the Vermin was because bassist Sterling is such good pals with the Vermin guys (we all love ya, Sterling). Their set framed by unabashedly shimmering pop songs ripe with hyper-obvious emotional content, They play a form of rock and roll which, for better or worse, seems to remain timeless: Upbeat, dancey drums, playful, crunchy guitars, punchy, driving bass lines, and treble-rich vocal melodies. The truth is, They is a pretty good band — but one your mother would dig just too much.

On the other hand, your mother would probably gasp at the antics of the Vermin — but she’d end up putting out anyway. The Vermin deliver old-school punk the way it was meant to be played: fast, ugly, and loud. Jerry pounds on his skins like a toy monkey on crack, Ruckus’ bass isn’t so much punchy as it is explosive, and Dirk tears into his vintage SG with chaotic speed and precision, shout out vocals with a slight Cockney tint. Songs like “Girl Says No” and “Roach” not only knock you over, but they kick you while you’re down with surprisingly catchy hooks. But the Vermin aren’t all about the music. In fact, these boys are like a variety show unto themselves. They’ll jostle the crowd between (and during) songs; tell jokes, stories — and most of all this particular night — rip apart the opening act. 50% comedy, 50% music, but 100% punk, it’s the Vermin versus you … and that’s just the way they like it.