One foot in the Blues

Geoff Carter

Sunday, Feb. 28, 1999 | 3:03 a.m.

"If walls could talk / oh, what tales they could tell," winks the Bottle Rockets' "If Walls Could Talk." It's an old expression, to be sure, much older than Rockets lyricist and frontman Brian Henneman - but the way he sings it, you could swear he patented it, grew it under his pillow.

The new House of Blues at Mandalay Bay is kind of like that. A lot of money went into its details - senior vice president of sales and marketing Chris Stephenson is hesitant to say how much, because even he isn't entirely sure. But the end result isn't high-ceilinged opulence; quite the opposite, in fact. Thousands of folky details - from varnished oak floors to bottlecaps stuck into the plaster - mesh together to make something so organic, you can almost taste it with your eyes.

Like the Bottle Rockets song, the House of Blues Las Vegas is new fire drawn from old kindling. It seems like it's always been there. One can hardly wait to hear what these walls have to say.

Earth, body and soul

Entering the House of Blue's main complex - the property also includes the top-floor Foundation Rooms, and some blues-themed hotel rooms, which were not on my Friday pre-opening tour - one is immediately aware of everything at once. Sensory overload has rarely been this welcome or this comforting.

The courtyard features cafe dining on wrought-iron tables and chairs, overlooked by Delta-styled facades, latticed balconies and the HOB's seemingly endless collection of outsider folk art. You could let your head swim for hours and not take in every detail, every brush stroke or artifact. (Not one surface in House of Blues - even in the backstage areas the public will rarely see - isn't painted or textured in some way.)

Immediately, you feel the history and genuine affection that went into making House of Blues. Rarely has true Americana been so beautifully embodied. To be in the courtyard is to be in rhythm and blues itself - the human soul made bare. And I say this without having sampled the food - which, I am told, is beyond delicious.

Just off the courtyard is the House of Blues restaurant - an intimate bungalow anchored by a bar dedicated to Las Vegas' adopted son, Elvis Presley. Looking around, one can see why House of Blues survived last year's ugly themed restaurant crash: It looks like a real dining room, not a warehouse for celebrity jockstraps. If not for the television screens here and there, it would be near impossible to place the restaurant in time - a real treat for a town whose grip on history is somewhat tenuous.

Music so nice

Of course, the food is only part of the House. The foundation, the ceiling and walls are built from music, and House of Blues' 1,800-seat showroom is the pillar supporting them all.

While I prefer not to make a complete judgement on a music venue until I've tried it on for sound, I will say this: If it plays half as sweet at it looks, the music of the spheres will sound flat by comparison. Sight lines are preserved by an ingenious combination of balcony space and stadium-style seating; the hardwood main floor will always be left standing room only, ideal for shaking your blues-powered boot-tay.

African art holds peaceful sway with outsider portraits of Muddy Waters, Bessie Smith and other blues deities. A patchwork curtain covers the stage, while a giant crystal chandelier will rise gracefully to the ceiling at the beginning of the night's festivities.

Just as stunning is what you can't see - a digital sound system that will accommodate internet broadcasts, the lushly appointed green rooms, and an MPG audio sound system that's packed with nearly every known artist.

The concert hall will also host what is certain to become a must-see Vegas institution: the Sunday Gospel Brunch. For just $32, you'll get some of the best grub the Delta has to offer, live Gospel music and a fresh blast of redemption. Better make those reservations now, sinner.

Like I said before, I'll withhold judgement until I've gotten an earful. But it's worth noting that even if the room doesn't sound as good as it looks (not likely), I'll still be in hog heaven with a booking schedule that will average four nights a week, and include a diverse program of artists ranging from techno outfit Underworld, to pop punks the Offspring, to living blues legend Buddy Guy. House of Blues' booking agents are really on the ball: Even as I stand around gawking at the venue, yet another band - Los Lobos - is confirmed.

The top down

"Hey, man, get your butt off my case of 1977 port," Michael Holevar good-naturedly chides a co-worker. "I don't want it to get your barnyard funk."

He has good reason to be cheerful. (Every last person I meet during the tour - from the admino-sphere down to the last carpenter - is friendly and in a terrific mood.) Holevar is the assistant general manager of the House of Blues Foundation Rooms, riding high on Mandalay Bay's 42nd floor. The rooms are reserved for members of the House of Blues Foundation, a nonprofit organization created by HOB founder Isaac Tigrett to promotes artistic expression, racial harmony and the venue's musical namesake through scholastic programs and scholarships.

Las Vegas' Foundation rooms are an education in and of themselves. Festooned with African, south Indian and Native American art, appointed in rich, dark colors and spiced with unexpected touches - an Italian chandelier hangs a scant ten feet from a giant, marble Buddah and the whole assemblage is supported by Renaissance pillars - the word "unique" almost fails in describing them. The "1856 Room" is built around a piece of stained glass from that year; the English paneling in the "Captain's Room" curves to a bow-shaped point.

"These rooms really represent the company motto, 'Unity through Diversity,'" says Holevar proudly. "We're not relegated to any one direction up here."

Not to forget: this is also where you'll find the one of the best views in Las Vegas. A patio, right at eye level with the signs at Mandalay Bay's summit, affords a spectacular view of the Strip and McCarran International Airport.

The city projects its own music upward, to complement the venue, and it's at that point I realize that I've been poking around for three hours plus and still haven't gotten enough. Unfortunately, the tour has to end there, on the high side. The rest of my questions will have to wait for opening night, when the walls of the House of Blues will sing the answers out.