"HELLO DERE!" were the words that welcomed some 60 "primitive rock" bands and their fans to the Gold Coast Casino and Hotel, host of the Las Vegas Shakedown. Emblazoned on the gigantic marquee in front of the casino, "HELLO DERE!" was an idiotic greeting for a three-day festival's worth of hard-drinking rockers, upon whom its significance would be completely lost--save perhaps for Fred and Toody from Dead Moon. Sadly, I recognized it--from afternoons spent watching the Merv Griffin Show when I should have been outside climbing a tree--that "Hello dere!" was the catch phrase of wretched borscht-belt comic Marty Allen. Despite the fact that Allen has never, ever been funny, he was the Gold Coast's resident "headlining" entertainer.

This should have been a clue as to what the weekend music festival would shape up to be: a propped-up bunch of has-beens (or should-never-have-beens) that no one criticized or realized should have been put out to pasture years ago. The Gold Coast is one of Las Vegas' sleaziest and most depressing casinos, and I'm certain that the reason none of its antiquated marquees made a single word's mention of the raucous event was because management was afraid the proud proclamation that a down-and-dirty rock and roll show was to ensue would scare away their largely white-trash, geriatric, wheelchair-bound clientele.

Blessedly, my Shakedown mate Liz and I had booked our rooms across the street at the fabulous Rio, which we had been told was second only to the Hard Rock in terms of being a haven for "singles" and younger (under 40) guests. Imagine my excitement upon learning that DAVID CASSIDY was the headlining entertainment at the Rio, starring in "At the Copa" with none other than Sheena Easton. I made a mental note to make a reservation, figuring I could work it into my agenda.

So, over to the Gold Coast we go, and "Hello Dere!"--what a horrible sight. The casino was awash in black and red. Apparently everyone who plays in or listens to Nashville Pussy, New Bomb Turks, the Hookers, and Murder City Devils looks exactly alike, no matter what part of the world they come from. For the girls, it was black jeans or skirts, tight T-shirts in black or red, and dyed black hair with Bettie Page bangs or red streaks. Or both. Platinum-blond manes curled '50s juvenile-delinquent-movie style was the only deviation. Boys wore black jeans and tight black or red T-shirts, hair dyed black or some semblance of platinum blond. Several of either gender sported those tired, squashed cowboy hats. The ones Madonna wore a year ago. The rock and roll accessory I hate the most. Basically, it was as if the Cha-Cha Lounge had blown up and mutated all over Las Vegas.

We'd already missed Wayne Kramer and the Monkeywrench--and Nashville Pussy I'd seen more times than I cared to remember, so we piled into a cab and headed over to the Strip. The cabby dropped us off at a funny little bar across from the Stardust. We took seats directly in front of the bartender, who handed both of us tiny glasses of peanuts while inquiring how our luck was going. Dark and smoky, the bar surrounded an enormous "conversation pit." At its center was a fountain with flames dancing on its surface. Perched at various levels in the pit were couples with one thing in common: All of the men were buying the women drinks--in return, the women were hanging on their every word. Each of the women spoke momentarily on a cell phone while the guys settled the tabs. Fearing that the bunch of polo-shirt-wearing frat dudes ordering blender drinks as big as their heads would mistake us for working gals, we walked over to the famous Frontier Room, the interior of which smelled unbearably of beer farts. We decided to call it a night.

By 11:00 a.m., we were back at it in the game room, guzzling strong mimosas while losing at the slots. Is it because the drinks were free that it felt not the least bit slovenly to be getting a serious buzz on before noon?

At 5:00 p.m. we met up with the Murder City Devils, who were also stay-ing at the Rio, and begrudgingly headed back to the Gold Coast to take another stab at the Shakedown. We shared a collective sense that the night was going to suck. (Happily, Gabe and Nate were as excited as I'd been about David Cassidy and Sheena Easton.) Leaving Trains, perhaps most famous for their frontman having been Courtney Love's first husband, were playing in the showroom just off the greasy gaming room. The nicest thing I can say about Leaving Trains is that they sounded a lot better than they looked. On the other hand, the always good-looking Catheters followed with a blazing set that made me proud they were from Seattle. Dead Moon, who can do no wrong, played a few hours later. As a matter of fact (and I honestly believe bias doesn't play into my opinion), it was the bands from the Northwest that kept the Las Vegas Shakedown from being a festival of shit. Not that many others in attendance would agree, I'd imagine. For the most part, it's this slavish cult of black and red that keeps "primitive rock" (as Shakedown organizers call it) alive, under a blind assumption that shitty rock is good rock as long as it's sleazy. The Bobbyteens, a four-piece with a hideous frontwoman who looks like a cross between Bettie Page and Divine (heavy on the Divine), were no more than a novelty act, displaying very little talent other than being a spectacle. The same can be said of Electric Frankenstein. Zodiac Killers were one of those black-clad bands whose sole attraction is a lanky, attractive guitar player; B-Movie Rats were as noxious and creepy as the name advertises. The Donnas, no longer high-school-aged girls, sang badly about crushes and dates as if they were still in high school, making it impossible to deny that they are anything beyond hype. Sub Pop's latest boy band, the Yo-Yo's, were okay. The fact that they're British made them seem more appealing, or maybe it was because they whipped out their dicks, I don't know.

Still, the Shakedown was a near sellout, so go figure. Even the Devils, who drew the largest crowd of the festival, left for classier entertainment as soon as their set was over. And what about David Cassidy? Imagine the deflation I felt after ringing up the box office, ready to shell out 50 bucks to see a middle-aged Keith Partridge sing "I Woke up in Love This Morning," only to discover that he had taken the weekend off--and that his faggy brother Shaun Cassidy would be filling in. Fuck that.