Phil Shane is making his long-overdue Vegas debut because Michlene made it happen. There was no "I-can't-because." So now the glittering Tropicana is giving him an extended tryout, running through May 5. Michlene, ever the optimist and businesswoman, has signed a six-month lease on an apartment there.
"It's only $469 per month, and it's a write-off!" she says. "Even if he doesn't get it, well, we'll have a place to stay when we come here for the weekend!" Of course, not for a second does she believe he won't be offered the job. She doesn't believe in won'ts. I ask Phil what he loves most about Michlene.
"She's the most positive person I've ever met in my life," he says. "If she has a negative thought, she just throws it right out."
If Phil belongs in Vegas—and he does—she will see to it. She will make it happen. And they will be together, preferably in a hot tub.
The same positivity Michlene brings to the business end of Phil's career, he delivers to the audience. Let's face it: the act is dorky. He sings Neil Diamond and "God Bless the USA," backed up not by a band but by a machine. His outfits are full of sequins. He's really short. But as God is my witness, the love he projects from that stage is given back to him a thousandfold. I ask him if he's ever had a bad show. "Well, sure, I guess," he says. "When I was sick."
He once played a New Year's Eve show with strep throat; his doctor assured him that though it would be painful, it wouldn't damage his vocal cords. And he sang through the pain, caring only that the audience had a good time. "I didn't want people to know I was feeling bad," he says. "I wanted it to be a party!"
The people of Orange County have felt the love. Debbie Bartz, a Shane friend for 25 years, is the president of his fan club, which boasts 35 or 40 members (the $5 dues cover postage for the photo and newsletter). Two years ago, she got his face tattooed on her back. "It started out as a dare," she says, "but then I thought, I've known him and loved him for a long time." A few years ago, when Debbie's daughter got married, it was Phil Shane who gave away the bride.
While Shane's been playing to the bluehairs at Harpoon Henry's for quite a while, as well as to the seedier variety of bluehair that inhabits the Fling for four years now, Robert Williams (of Big Sandy fame) was responsible for introducing him to the scenesters who adore him so persistently now.
"It was at Big Sandy's Christmas party that all the kids saw me for the first time, I think," Shane tells me. "Weren't you at that party?" In fact, I was. That was in 1998, and until this Vegas trip, Shane and I have never so much as said hello, but he remembers nonetheless.
"That's the thing," Robert says. "When you walk in, he takes a minute and looks up and smiles. He's so happy to see you. Even when he doesn't know you, he makes you feel like a personal friend." Robert pauses, trying to find the right words. "You can tell he truly just loves what he's doing. I've gone to see other lounge singers . . ." He trails off. What he means is that some lounge singers are hacks. And Phil Shane is not. He smiles every second he's onstage because he's in love every second he's there. I ask Michlene if he's always like that.
"Oh, he gets moody!" she assures me. "But never when he's onstage. I want to build him a stage in the house, and whenever he gets grumpy, I'll tell him, 'Go get on that stage! Right now!'"
Back at the Tropicana on this Saturday night, we yell out from the crowd for "I'm a Believer." "Oh, that's a great one!" says Shane happily. "Neil Diamond wrote this one, recorded by the Monkees. I don't have it on disc, but I'll play it for you!" He picks up his guitar, slings it over his shoulder, and starts strumming wildly. He looks up toward heaven—or, in the Tropicana's case, toward the gilded ceilings—and I swear his face is lit with a heavenly glow. At that moment, we are all believers. We all ache for love.
