A little over an hour into the night, we see a guy using his T-shirt as a towel, sponging the sweat off his face.
It’s getting hot up here already — so dry off however you can.
The DJ cues up Mello Buckzz’s bawdy banger “Move,” which puts subwoofers to the test on the upstairs terrace at We All Scream, the downtown indie dance club/ice cream parlor where waffle cones are served beneath a cherry-shaped disco ball.
“I can’t lie; I’m groovy,” the Chicago rapper boasts in song, a sentiment visibly shared by a young twerker in glasses bent over at the waist, cheered on by a trio of friends gyrating on the fringes of a crowded dance floor.
For a little fresh air, we step to the edge of the building, look down and marvel at a once-improbable scene: an absolutely bustling Fremont East, sidewalks overflowing with bar-hoppers hitting one club after another.
On a recent Friday evening, we’re here to hop along.
This is our second stop, and it’s fitting that the neon red Salon of Beauty sign still brightens the patio out back, adjacent to a DJ booth in the bed of a light-strewn pickup truck.
We All Scream was built on the bones of Beauty Bar, the beloved indie nightspot/concert club that launched this district in 2004, back when its neighbors were mostly vacant storefronts and dodgy discount shops. It closed 15 years later, but not before opening eyes to Fremont East’s potential, paving the way for a spot like this, as one-of-a-kind as its predecessor.
After taking in the view, we head back down to the first floor, staircase walls swarming with lysergic images of melting smiley faces and eyeballs.
The DJ is spinning Latin tunes in the main bar area; the whole room seems to bounce.
We wind through the crowd en route to the next spot, the street outside just as packed.
On booze and fungi
Our night begins beneath the dangling foliage and psychedelic eye candy of Electric Mushroom, a newer entry in the district, having just celebrated its first anniversary in late July.
“It’s a forest in here,” notes co-owner Zak Jordan, of All Access Hospitality. “It’s supposed to be a little of everything.”
That it is right about now as a woman in shades and a Spongebob T-shirt shakes it hard at the bar while a trio of 20-somethings in little black dresses lounge on a couch next to the DJ booth.
On one hand, the two-level club feels like it was sired by a black light poster, everything glowing, luminous, from the bulbous, inverted mushroom caps dangling near the entryway to the pulsating infinity mirrors to the far-out visuals of a siren with glowing blue eyes and hair like flames blazing on a pair of video screens.
On the other hand, it aims to bring the bells and whistles of the Strip nightclub experience downtown — almost on cue, a “Shroom Siren” climbs atop the shoulders of a co-worker to deliver bottle service to a birthday boy celebrating his big day.
We look up, there are Alice’s legs dangling from one of the purple-hued ceiling lights — this place is a trip, down rabbit holes of many kinds.
Let’s go Disco
“Sweat,” the back wall instructs in large block lettering, a white droplet forming on the bottom of the “W” as if to lead by example.
It’s getting easier to heed said command, bodies jammed together in the front of the DJ booth like cigarettes clustered in a fresh pack of smokes.
“Can you feel the bass?” Tank asks in the old-school dance chestnut of the same name, posing a rhetorical question at Discopussy, where our evening culminates.
The room is dark, the walls black.
Aside from a dude in a sleeveless blue T-shirt using his cellphone light to showcase his moves, the only illumination comes from the mammoth octopus chandelier glowing above the bar, casting its tentacles toward the dance floor.
For the techno faithful, this is church, the place to be — not just in downtown, but all of Vegas.
What to do about all that sweat pouring out as Friday night turns to Saturday morning, the club absolutely frothing?
Use your T-shirt, maybe.
Contact Jason Bracelin at [email protected] or 702-383-0476. Follow @jasonbracelin76 on Instagram.