In the first scene of Aladdin, a giant tiger head rises from the sand, eyes burning and mouth aflame. This is the Cave of Wonders. Cheesy as it may be, this was the first image I conjured when I drove up to the Sands, a glowing monstrosity bursting out of the old Steel grounds. Its name is splayed across a remaining bridge in glittering red letters that may or may not try to look influenced by Arabic characters. On a Tuesday night, I assumed the casino would be rather calm - the surrounding streets lay tired and desolate.
Inside, the Sands is perpetuated by fantasy. Dumbfounding, surreal and absurd fantasy. Every surface entertained some sort of back lit pulse or plush red velvet. Even the waitresses lit up - twinkling and reflecting the glow in gold sequined mini dresses. Like kick line girls in a strip club. From the ceiling hung clusters of long lights, a volcanic shower dripping and suspended from the high ceiling.
Here and there are homages to Steel, convoluted in romanticism and spectacle. The lights, red, yellow, and orange, allowing the plain to look like embers and flame, the enormous steel supports that span floor to ceiling, the kitschy names of the bars, Molten and Coil. But people looked happy. After the band at the Molten bar finished up a rendition of some Elvis tune, the crowd erupted into applause; some even stood and clapped with their arms in the air. I caught myself grinning a bit, but mostly I didn't know what to do or how to act in a place like this.
Apparently the idea of Sands was the only idea lucrative enough to raise sufficient money to preserve Steel. Driving home, I looked out towards the river and noticed the blast furnaces painted in molten red lights. Like something out of Aladdin's worst post industrial nightmare. Call it preservation, I suppose.
Inside, the Sands is perpetuated by fantasy. Dumbfounding, surreal and absurd fantasy. Every surface entertained some sort of back lit pulse or plush red velvet. Even the waitresses lit up - twinkling and reflecting the glow in gold sequined mini dresses. Like kick line girls in a strip club. From the ceiling hung clusters of long lights, a volcanic shower dripping and suspended from the high ceiling.
Here and there are homages to Steel, convoluted in romanticism and spectacle. The lights, red, yellow, and orange, allowing the plain to look like embers and flame, the enormous steel supports that span floor to ceiling, the kitschy names of the bars, Molten and Coil. But people looked happy. After the band at the Molten bar finished up a rendition of some Elvis tune, the crowd erupted into applause; some even stood and clapped with their arms in the air. I caught myself grinning a bit, but mostly I didn't know what to do or how to act in a place like this.
Apparently the idea of Sands was the only idea lucrative enough to raise sufficient money to preserve Steel. Driving home, I looked out towards the river and noticed the blast furnaces painted in molten red lights. Like something out of Aladdin's worst post industrial nightmare. Call it preservation, I suppose.
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