Greg London’s Icons

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Here’s a legacy of the late Danny Gans: Las Vegas may never, ever again be without a singing impressionist.

There will always be topless shows, and now it appears there will always be men of many voices. And just as a Cirque du Soleil show comes with certain conventions, so does an impressionist showcase.

The question is not if he will break out Sammy Davis Jr., but whether it will be send-up or sentimental. Not whether a Kermit the Frog puppet will show up, but who will sing about rainbows with it.

The latest contender, Greg London, at least makes it easy to explain the why.

The format itself is one of the last to allow a live entertainer to work hard, to break a sweat and reach out to engage the front row with a human effort in the post-variety, niche-cable era.

London, a likable guy of indeterminate age, puts on the kind of show best enjoyed by people who don’t see a lot of them. A litmus test for how much you might like him is whether you’ve heard his well-traveled joke about the new genre that mixes country and rap, so it’s called “crap.”

It got a big laugh here.

London isn’t the best impressionist, but his showcase is one of the best-assembled. It jams three eye-catching dancers and a four-piece band with a personality of its own onto the modest Riviera stage best remembered for “An Evening at La Cage.”

You could go so far as to say the most original thing about “Icons” is its structure; the wacky wigs and costumes breathlessly shuffled into a baby boomer’s version of vaudeville by director David Taylor, a West End theater veteran.

Instead of just standing in a spotlight saying, “Remember the great Louis Armstrong?” London interacts with pre-recorded voices and video, quick-changes into several outfits and even finds an organizing principle for the breakneck 65 minutes: the classic quest to “find your own sound” being resolved, in this case, by “sounding like everyone else.”

If only he did. London’s own singing voice is robust and pleasant, which lessens the harm of not really sounding much like Tom Jones, Barry Manilow, Johnny Cash or a lot of the people he’s trying to emulate.

Sure, he nails a few. Tony Bennett and Ray Charles are among the stronger voices. But this show isn’t about the technical accuracy of this or that impression. It’s about watching a guy take it so far over the top, it lands in a place where there’s no such thing as bad taste, just a desperate desire to entertain.

When Kermit’s singing partner turns out to be a stuttering Ozzy Osbourne, you gotta give it up.

But the relentless pursuit of the sight gag runs both ways. When I first spoke with London — to write of his Las Vegas arrival after a solid run in Reno — he talked about some good advice from a bandmate who questioned his Johnny Cash parody: “Why are we doing this? Why are you making fun of him?”

He and director Taylor could keep on asking the question. Why do Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen get the goofy wigs when there’s no obvious punch line? Why treat Billy Joel with dignity but not Neil Young? It’s not like there’s any right or wrong answer, but a consistent point of view would help.

London bears more than a passing resemblance to comedian Martin Short and perhaps misses a major opportunity by not recruiting Short’s famous characters, such as Jackie Rogers Jr. or Ed Grimley.

Fear not. Their eager-to-please spirit prevails.

Contact reporter Mike Weatherford at mweatherford@ reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0288.