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Las Vegas. What else can I say? The town is so synonymous with entertainment, it has its own marquee.

On my first trip to Sin City, the old Bob Stupak's Vegas World was still around, and my boyfriend suggested we go see Tony Martin, an old-time crooner and movie star of the '30s and '40s.

The interior of Vegas World took its theme from the 1969 moon landing cum 2001: A Space Odyssey. Astronauts loomed over the table games, as did a giant space wheel over the roulette table. Everything seemed arrayed in a dull tinsel, which was a little disorienting. Losing our way to the showroom, we asked an old-timer in a tuxedo, who pointed the way out. Once we got to our seats and the show began, we realized the old-timer was Tony Martin.

At that time, Martin was in his 70s, and seemed rather frail compared to his wife, a 60s-something Cyd Charisse, who emanated love and support from the audience. (Sadly, Charisse passed away last year at 86.) Even so, he was a consummate performer, and the evening is a gentle memory of poignant ballads, reminiscence, and surprisingly seductive moves.

Some years later, we were in town when Sammy Davis Jr. and Jerry Lewis were playing a two man show at Bally's (which was later made into an HBO special). The show was a standard two-drink minimum, both of which were dispatched before the lights went out, in order to not interrupt the performance.

Interrupting the show was something you did at your peril, especially with Jerry Lewis. Once, a man in the 10th row got up and started edging his way out. Lewis, in the middle of some story, noticed him immediately. "Put a spotlight on that guy!" he commanded, pointing to the man, who was suddenly bathed in merciless light. "Where ya goin'?" asked Lewis, in his most dulcet Bellboy tones. "Ya gotta go to the TOILET? Ya goin' go POTTY?! Which one? Number one or number two?" Once the whole audience was laughing, Lewis, said, "Just kidding, sir. Take the spotlight off him." The spotlight was off for 30 seconds before Lewis changed his mind. "Put it back on!" he ordered, turning the man's walk down the aisle into a cringefest.

In comparison, Sammy Davis only tugged at your heartstrings. But he tugged hard. His "Mr. Bojangles" had me sobbing, as it always did. He also told stories, reminiscences of the old Vegas, sang "Candy Man" and danced up a storm. But when it came to chewing the scenery, Lewis had him beat. He simply would not relinquish the stage. At one point, Davis just walked on and asked Lewis point-blank, "Will you please lock up when you're through?"

The Lewis-Davis experience should have taught us that the first rows are always part of the act. But when we saw the Checkmates at the Sands, we recklessly sat at a front table.

The Checkmates had had the hit, "Black Pearl," back in 1969. It was a hit for them, and a comeback for producer Phil Spector, whose "wall of sound" signature been languishing in the wake of the British Invasion. Ironically, the infamous Spector (who was recently found guilty of murder) went on to produce Let It Be, the Beatles' last album.

The Checkmates' lounge act was everything associated with Vegas - memories, songs, contemporary references (in this case, Tone Loc's "The Wild Thing"), and audience participation. During a particularly soulful ballad, Sweet Louie Smith advanced on me in electric blue bicycle pants (him, not me), dropped to one knee, took my hand, and sang to me alone. Now it was my turn to be bathed in the merciless spotlight, and I felt ver-ry conspicuous.

(In writing this, I've learned that Sweet Louie passed away in 2007, while performing on a cruise ship with his partner, Sonny Charles. I remember his showmanship with fondness.)

Thus, when we went to see Sam Butera and Keely Smith at the Desert Inn, we made sure to sit near the back. Butera, who died on June 3 of this year, played tenor saxophone in the Louis Prima band, in which Keely Smith sang. The Prima-Smith act is one of the most legendary of the Vegas lounge acts, right after the Rat Pack. The act was based on Prima's wildness and Smith's diffidence. After Prima's death in 1978, Butera went on to perform with Smith, (who was also Prima's former wife). 

Today, Keely Smith remains a unique chanteuse, a mistress of supreme uninflection; one might say that Debbie Harry is her spiritual daughter. That night, Smith introduced an album of Frank Sinatra covers, among which she sang, "When I was Seventeen." It was a remarkable interpretation, urgent without being histrionic. Afterward, I gushed to her about her performance, as she stood on the casino floor, having changed out of her ballgown into some motorcycle mama duds. "Aren't you dahlin'," she crooned.

The Desert Inn's Lounge was open on three sides, but the "first front rows rule" still applied. We were 10 minutes into the show when a man entered and sat at one of the front tables. Butera growled, "OK, he's here. Start the show again." And true to his word, the band started from the very beginning.