Secondhand Setlists

Last November, for the first time in my life, I visited Las Vegas.

Despite living in Los Angeles for nearly 10 years, I rarely venture to the more inland destinations of the western US: Salt Lake City, the Grand Canyon, even Joshua Tree, just a stone’s throw away, still elude me. I suppose much of this stillness stems from not having a car, though my longstanding disinterest with Vegas was more so a lack of interest in gambling, being landlocked, and the slight malevolence I’d attributed to the city in my mind.

The push to finally visit the oasis of opulence, the basin of sin, was two-fold: A. a very close friend, one who also began their journey in LA almost 10 years ago, was celebrating her 30th birthday. This was my primary motivation, but the secondary one, BravoCon, definitely helped pull me towards Nevada.

In wake of potential controversy and a monumental year, BravoCon descended upon Las Vegas like a traveling circus. A network and destination both known for bad behavior made ideal bedfellows. Tasteless, risky, performative — adjectives that could apply to either. The convention’s presence in Adult Disneyland meant we could have our own version of Plutos and princesses, who instead appeared as figures like Peter Madrigal.

Many members of the Bravo Cinematic Universe cross over into the realm of music. The most impressive is obviously Kandi Burruss of RHOA, who outranks every single one of her network colleagues for having a “Bug a Boo” writing credit. She’s not even the only RHOA member with a single; the tragic Kim Zolciak-Biermann (ghost)wrote a title for the ages with “Don’t Be Tardy for the Party.” Take a look across Housewives iterations, you’ll find manu others: delusional Countess Luann and her traveling cabaret, Trina-cosigned Candiace Dillard-Bassett, and current Vegas resident and legal liability Erika Jayne.

Each of these cast members’ shows have some draw with me; admittedly, I have paid for and enjoyed the Countess’ cabaret, even if it is just glorified karaoke. Meanwhile, Candeegal would never give us something low budget, a statement confirmed by the Season 7 RHOP premiere where she admitted she spent nearly a million on her tour. The (pretty)mess that is Erika Jayne’s life is enough of a pull in and of itself; it also highlights another common conundrum of watching the BCU, being that most of its players suck in some way shape or form. They embezzle, they’re racist, they talk about their partners’ bodies like it’s their property. And yet, something about televised delinquency pulls people in like a blackhole, making us privy to the crimes at hand while keeping a healthy, deniable distance: we’re not bad, we’re just drawn (to it) that way.

The one Bravo cast that plays its bad behavior to especially rewarding results is that of Vanderpump Rules. Members of this menagerie, too, get into the music game: Scheana Shay, Lala Kent, and the one and only DJ James Kennedy, whose performance at Jewel Night Club formed the centerpiece of our friend’s bday weekend.

Thanks to our promoter, Grip, we knew what we needed to do as a group of seven F’s and two M’s, a female-to-male ratio we maintained as best we could in a very queer-presenting group. $150 dollars later, the cost needed to admit me and my other fellow M, we poured into the club about an hour-and-a-half before showtime.

Thank Giggy that we did, too, because the place already was packed. The dance floor, centered between the raised bar on one side and the DJ booth/VIP section on the other, was cordoned off at capacity. Groups surrounded every single table, letting the bottle service grease them up for the world’s angriest Brit. From our area near the bar, we found a direct line of sight over to the DJ booth.

Now inexplicably the number one guy of the group, sporting a mature version of Schwartz’s emo mop, James Kennedy came with a job to do. He approached the deck in a silky wine-colored button down, unbuttoned to give the Bravolites a view of his little valleys. A large entourage of nobodies stood around him, bodies that could have been other cast mates. But it mattered little this early in the night. The crowd was rapt, not as passionate as any Beyhive or Swifties army, but definitely drunk/high enough to charge the air.

Kennedy understood what the audience wanted. Climbing onto the decks in his skinny jeans, he stomped across them popping champagne bottles, whipping his shirt, and throwing his hands to the sky like the figure on a circuit party poster. If you forgot about his TV persona or the fact that he calls his show C U Next Tuesday, Kennedy looked attractive and played it up.

The setlist that I can recall included:

• Pitbull’s “Hotel Room Service”
• Rihanna’s “We Found Love” where he led us in a singalong
• System of a Down’s “B.Y.O.B”
• Yeah Yeah Yeahs “Heads Will Roll” A-Trak remix
• Kylie Minogue’s “Can’t Get You Outta My Head” (no Padam)
• Riton and Kahlo
• P!nk’s “Get This Party Started,” 2-step version)
• The Killers, where he tried another singalong but he did not know the words
• Teriyaki Boyz’s “Tokyo Drift”
• two Natasha Bedingfield songs

Again, based on the above selections, Kennedy was someone who knew his audience. Two Natasha Bedingfield songs – perfect for a crowd that definitely enjoyed The Hills as much as Easy A. Kennedy’s minimal effort mattered less than the result, which was a bunch of hyped up Vegas-goers indulging in all their vices (clubbing, drugs, reality television) at once. Maintaining this vibe came easily to him. By the birthday girl’s count, he made a big show of counting out “One! Two! Three! Four!” at least five times within the first half hour. Eventually he abandonded that trick, only making it to “One!” before deciding to save his breath, better used for pushups and to make false, or at least misleading, statements.

“Scheana Shay is here!” Kennedy shouted, and how gooped we were! A day earlier, Shay appeared on panel expressing desire to sell all the vinyl copies of “Good As Gold” she hauled to the desert. A guest appearance with James might have convinced some Vanderpump stans to invest in record players. Beyoncé, Taylor, and Scheana Shay, the (in Shay’s case, almost-) unsung heroes of the music business. Little did we know “here” meant “in the same zip code.” Tragically, Shay never appeared, leaving a West Hollywood-sized hole in the evening that never filled, even when James finally did play “Good As Gold.”

Instead, we got appearances from Kennedy’s girlfriend, Ally Lewber, sentient undercut Tom Schwartz, and actual villain Jax Taylor. Now, Lewber’s appearance made sense here because she knows how this works; her continued presence among the cast largely relies on Kennedy. If I wanted to stay on longer than Brett Cipriani, I’d squeeze his British biceps before every show, gaze into those dilated pupils, and say “You look jacked, babe.”

But, Schwartz and Taylor, what did they bring here? Bubba may look like a slightly hotter Brendon Urie, but all the shrugging and “aww shucks‘” was hardly bandleader material. As another current resident of Vegas would say, “you can take a seat, do what you normally do,” which in his case is roll over. As for Jax Taylor … the devil works hard unless he’s vacationing with DJ James Kennedy in Las Vegas. Aside from being malevolent enough to be cast a show called House Of Villains, Taylor no longer appears on Vanderpump Rules. No joke, as soon as he appeared on the stage, our entire group turned inwards, everyone’s face an uncomfortable combo of grimace, surprise, laughter, and varying forms of intoxication.

The audience really wanted the guests who actually carried the reunion and the most recent season, the ones responsible for that Emmy nom, like Scheana or Lala. I suppose Kennedy could also have brought out his now-friend poo poo head and give the attendees someone to boo (although you can’t trust crowds with celebs they actually like anymore). Either way, these cameos came to a close, and an unspoken understanding went over the crowd that as far as any other VPR castmember appearances, this was it.

So the crowd began to thin out, allowing the rest of us F’s and M’s the opportunity to pour into the main section, directly below Kennedy. For better or worse, his wedding music playlist worked on us. I thwacked and shuffled myself to euphoria as the DJ above me did his own shuffle across the decks. A bit of club magic, a bit Magic Mike, the vibe was working more than I’d ever thought I’d admit about Vegas.

Getting my groove on, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and looked down to a shorter woman in an off-the shoulder black dress on the other side of a rope divider. What she lacked in height she made up for in extremely warm vibes.

“Hi, I love you and I love your energy!” she shouted over the music. “I’m here with my cousin who just got married, we’re here from Dallas! You remind me of Napoleon Dynamite! Do you want anything to drink?” She motioned towards the case of bears and liquor in the center of her and her companions’ table.

“You are too kind!” I replied, oddly touched that this was now the fourth time someone has told me I remind them of the mid-2000s phenomenon. “I am here with my friend for her 30th birthday!” At this point both our parties had noticed our conversation and we all started to converge over the velvet rope. It was with them we shared the moment that was Natasha Bedingfield’s “Unwritten,” a memory I’m genuinely thankful I caught on camera. We sang and danced, bridal and birthday parties, for the evening devotees of the Dena Deadly School of Thought: these are the best days of our lives.

From that point on, the evening stayed at a high, something else I have to tip to Mr. Kennedy. Despite using up all his tricks, he kept us moving for the rest of his set. Though he finished things off pretty casually, some of our party as well as the bride’s still felt the ending to our night in Vegas was still unwritten. Kennedy’s Project X core vibe and playlist certainly played a part in keeping us charged; that A-trak remix could probably raise the dead Thriller-style if played at the right volume.

Despite the noted shortcomings, Kennedy more or less delivered on what we wanted. He gave us eye candy, crowd-pleasers, fog cannons, and stories we will relay to each other for years to come. I might not take any of Kennedy’s scratching skills or transitions to heart, but I’ll never forget the uncannily Selina Meyer “What the fuck” face of the birthday girl as Jason Michael Cauchi leered at the crowd from the DJ Booth, a reminder that evil never lies too far away, and that we’re the ones who let it get close.