Controlled chaos of XS all about famous DJs, pretty people
DJ Tiesto smiled past us in the VIP section to step onto the stage at XS nightclub. What a big guy — muscle-y. Women’s eyeballs drank in his body like thirsty savages.
Tiesto peacocked onto his DJ perch and took over from his opening act, a kid named Pierce Fulton, who is 18, so he had to be escorted into and out of the club.
Imagine you are Fulton’s security suit, and you go to work on Saturday night and your boss says, “Your assignment is to baby-sit an 18-year-old who’s making $5,000 to open for Tiesto.”
I’m guessing randomly at the $5,000 paycheck. It could have been more or less. Tiesto himself banked tens of thousands of dollars for the night, while launching his year residency at Wynn-Encore’s nightclubs XS and Surrender, plus Encore Beach Club.
The capacity crowd — 7,000 people over eight hours — went cuckoo for Tiesto, one of the world’s most famous DJ-producers.
Standing next to me in the VIP section, Andy Walmsley marveled at the rock-star response to Tiesto.
“When he walks through an airport, does anybody recognize him?” Walmsley asked me in his British accent.
“Probably just DJ nerds,” I informed him.
Walmsley thought about this, since he’s familiar with the entertainment industry. He is an Emmy-winning production designer for “American Idol,” “So You Think You Can Dance” and “America’s Got Talent.”
“That’s the best kind of fame,” said Walmsley, who drives a Bentley. “In this environment, he’s a god. But away from it, he can live a regular life.”
I glanced around to scrutinize non-VIP clubbers behind ropes and security guards. They were dressed as if for a salacious ball.
Many men stood tall in suits and ties. Women wore the standard tight little black dresses.
Several pretty Asian women — an XS cliche — danced in place while staring at the stage. One of these dancers bounced heartily on a couch, bare-footed, one toe patched with a Band-Aid.
Walmsley spotted a glamorous, dolled-up Asian woman with blond hair. He’s a sucker for what he calls “blasians” — blond Asians. He has been living in Southern California a long time.
I caught the attention of one striking woman. She was stroking the shoulder of a man while also staring a hole through my head and smiling.
Hitting on other men’s women is not my bag, so I shimmied away from the VIP area to visit the washroom.
“I think I’m the only man in here not wearing a suit coat,” I told one of three washroom attendants wearing tuxedoes.
As I cleansed my hands, a gent on my left asked where I was from.
“Vegas,” I said. “What about you?”
“Chicago,” he said, beaming. “This would kill me if I lived here. I’ve been here four days and … oh!”
I strolled through XS’ outdoor pool area. My phone informed me it was 45 degrees, winds at 7 mph, humidity at 39 percent. ‘Twas cold.
Yet hundreds of clubbers in little dresses and suit ties stood by heat lamps, flirting, voraciously kissing, screaming things such as “Tommy!” or staring at a go-go dancer atop the swimming pool bar.
One man wore a long white bathrobe over a business suit. He was accompanied by a friend in a suit. They were accompanied by two fair ladies, one in a see-through black dress.
When I returned to the VIP section, Walmsley reported I missed Paris Hilton’s entrance. She had brushed past him, and this trumped his viewing experiences thus far. It’s always that first time seeing Hilton that most impresses.
In front of the stage, cannons erupted, spewing shiny red confetti into the air, wafting down upon cheering revelers.
Stagehands tossed oversized white beach balls to their fingertips.
A man near the stage peeled off his shirt to the “woohoo” delight of a nearby woman. She peeked the tops of his underwear peeking above his trousers.
This was the usual controlled chaos of XS — an intoxicating pandemonium to the uninitiated, clockwork to the well-acquainted.
Tiesto had been performing since 1 a.m. We were told he would spin until 6 a.m., a five-hour set. To be honest, 6 a.m. is a friend of mine, but not every night.
So I said goodbyes. I bent over to hug a sitting woman. Afterward, Walmsley told me, “I have something I want to show you.”
He had taken a phone photo of me bending over, exposing an unpleasant plumber’s crack, a terrible business end to the night.
Onstage, Hilton proclaimed XS the best expletive club in the world.
Tiesto, who is Dutch, chimed in.
“Let’s make crazy!” he said.
However, at 3 a.m., crazy was already made.
Doug Elfman’s column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. Email him at delfman@reviewjournal.com. He blogs at reviewjournal.com/elfman.
