Big Week in Vegas

Along the Vegas Strip, there are no clocks to worry the gambler about the passing hours, and fur shops stay open until 3 a.m. (a big winner might be in the mood to buy), but it would all get pretty dull without the shows. To hold the customers' attention, the gaudy hotel nightclubs rely on big old names (Sinatra, Dietrich, Tucker), but they also reach out for newcomers. Last week new acts got a big play in the neon-painted desert.

Ecstasy on Ice (at the Thunderbird) is based on the fact that bare bosoms are almost as commonplace on Las Vegas nightclub stages as snake eyes on the craps tables. Desperate for something different, Producer Marty Hicks ("I myself don't approve of nudes") turned himself into a kind of subzero Minsky, decided to put nudes on ice. Finding good-looking girls who could skate was no trouble; finding skaters who would work seminude was somewhat more difficult; finding strippers who could also skate was next to impossible. The artistic integrity of the performance (if any) is saved by Leny Eversong, a Brazilian woman of indeterminate age but unavoidable size (5 ft. 5 in., 284 Ibs.). From somewhere between her strawberry blonde hair and her flashing silver gown, she produces a rich, round voice with a rhythmic finesse reminiscent of Mildred Bailey. All by herself she is worth the price of admission.

Holiday in Japan (at the New Frontier) is an Oriental variety show imported by Steve Parker, travel-happy husband of Cinemactress Shirley MacLaine (TIME, June 22). Ballad-belting M.C. James Shigeta imitates Elvis Presley with accurate Occidental accent, Belly Dancer Rie Taniuchi (34-21-35) oscillates through a Latin American cha cha cha, and the Nagata Kings pantomime a superb slapstick parody of baseball. What was missing from the start, by Vegas standards, was a satisfactory supply of nudes. But by week's end a number called Kyoto Doll was turning nightly into a rousing scene of near rape and samurai swordplay. Naturally, before the fight ends, all the girls get their kimonos ripped off.

The Crosby Brothers (at the Sahara) are old Las Vegas favorites, but it is only within the last few weeks that they have begun to put on their act for pay. ("The Sahara is new for us. We used to hang out down the line a piece. The Tropicana supplies Crosby wives wholesale.") Impeccably turned out in silk suits, ruffled shirts and elevator shoes, Gary, Lindsay, Philip and Dennis Crosby bounce onstage to prove that the Groaner's kids can make it on their own. But their father is far from forgotten. "Well," growls Gary after one close-harmony number, "that's pretty good for four boys trying to get ahead without the old man's money." After another effort, Mack the Knife, Gary remembers Bing again: "That's the most applause we've had since we told Dad we were leaving home." With a surprisingly pleasant, well-paced melange of songs, soft-shoe dances and slick patter, the Crosby boys manage to suggest that they intend to keep right on working until they have an act worthy of the Crosby name.

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