A Very Human Event: Riviera’s Last Night On Earth

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Sammasseur Recounts The Emotional Experience Of An Iconic Casino’s Demise

It was well after midnight on August 16th, 2016…the last night for Riviera Hotel Casino. We were gathered on our balconies at Royal Resort, amidst the rows of lenses pointed at dual behemoths nearby in the darkness. Cameras of various varieties were positioned on tripods and duct-taped to the railings, hoping to absorb the impact from the impending shock wave.

Below us, the crowd had been building for hours, held behind police tape and waiting for the two-minute warning from an air horn. Despite the number of people around, things were really quiet…until a man sped past the crowd on a bicycle, shouting “It’s only a building, people. Only a building!”.

Perhaps this random bicyclist felt that way…but ask the people who had gotten married there. Those who had forged friendships and careers inside its walls. The countless Vegas virgins who spent their first Sin City visit in one of those thousands of guest rooms. What about the parents who had conceived children here during the Riviera‘s sixty years of operation…was it “only a building” to them? Not likely…

For myself, the Riv became a favorite stay-and-play spot during its final years. New management had been taking bold steps to restore its relevancy. A once rundown relic was being polished and refitted for a new generation. My frequent visits had inspired me to write a VegasChatter article entitled “Riviera’s Not Quite Ready For Life Support.” You can still read it by clicking here (you’ll need to allow some time for the Wayback Machine archive website to load and restore it).

I followed that optimistic piece with stories on the renovated Versailles Theater (click here) and the amazing-to-see “Secret Pool” (also retrievable via this archive link), among others. Sadly, my last VegasChatter article on the Riv was entitled “The Day That Classic Vegas Died”. It detailed the final night of operations straight through to the chaining of the doors.

To say farewell, I’d booked a room at the hotel, had one of the last meals served at R Steakhouse and watched the final performance of Dirk Arthur’s Wild Magic show. And I happened to be present a month later at the liquidation sale when a woman deliberately lept to her death from one of the penthouses. I took no pride in being the first media person to break the news of the suicide via the VegasChatter Twitter feed. It was a horrible event to witness that I’ll never forget. “Just a building”? Not by a long shot…

Ever since it was announced that the Riviera would be flattened, we at VegasBright have been abuzz with date announcements, photo collections, and memories. Lots of memories, mostly contributed by our readers. And as soon as the final implosion date was announced, photographer Greg C. and I contacted several businesses in the area, attempting to secure a vantage point to record the moment. That approach led us nowhere, so Greg proposed booking a balcony-view room at adjacent Royal Resort on Convention Center Drive.

His suggestion ended up being a superlative idea that wasn’t lost on other thrill-seekers. That night was probably the busiest the Royal Resort would be all summer. Room assignments, we were told, would be made on a first-come basis. I just happened to beat a rush of  photographers, reporters, and enthusiasts, so I was able to get a top-floor King with an excellent view of both Riviera towers. Almost close enough to touch.

While checking in, I could sense the electricity in the lobby. People were huddled in little groups, some bringing in supplies for “implosion parties” and others talking on phones about how their evening would be playing out. I happened to strike up a conversation with a young man named Austin who’s involved in launching a Las Vegas Casino Museum. He excitedly showed me photos that he’d taken from inside the demolition site, posing next to holes drilled for explosives in the Riviera’s support columns. I won’t mention here how he was able to pull that off.

After a short nap to prepare for the long evening ahead, I strolled over to the Peppermill Restaurant for dinner. Signs had been posted on the door and counters about “Demolition Hour”. Although they’d remain open, some utilities would be shut off for safety’s sake. That required the kitchen to offer a limited menu until the dust had settled. Patrons would be locked inside and large tractor trailers were being parked against the building to protect the windows (and people) from damage. Diners were buzzing with excitement, some there purposely to experience the “boom” from only a few feet dozen feet away.

After leaving the restaurant, I decided to take a final walk around the perimeter of the darkened demolition site. Spotlights had already been moved into the lot across from Royal Resort, one set directed at each of the two towers. Although the property was surrounded by chain-link fencing, it was possible to get very close to the buildings themselves.

Aside from a few chatting workers guarding the site, it was eerily silent and devoid of people. I strolled from point to point, staring quietly at each spot and remembering what was once there. I could still make out part of the sloping roadway to the underground valet entrance. I had been down there many times, shooting photos of the gorgeous neon stars that still glowed overhead until the end. You can see them in all their glory in the new Jason Bourne film.

Above that spot until recently stood the main casino, and above that…the “secret pool”. I’d taken several people up there on closing day, including Team America: World Police movie puppeteers Scott and Lisa Land, as well as Brenda Spinks, wife of boxer Leon Spinks. Leon’s brother Michael had famously defeated Larry Holmes at the Riviera in 1985. An outdoor arena at the Riv held over 11,000 people to witness that match-up.

Beyond the now-flattened casino, the Monte Carlo tower looked down on the spot where I first met Greg C.  Greg, accompanied by his friend Dawn, had naturally been taking photos, this time of the ground-level pool that would be permanently closed the next morning. Both Greg and Dawn would be joining me later that night to witness the final implosion from my balcony.

I stayed at that fence for a long time, taking in the silence. The darkness. The emptiness of a spot of land where so much history had taken place. I remembered the countless hours I’d spent asleep here, the workouts I’d had in the top-floor fitness facility (with a spectacular view of the city, no less) and all the wonderful people I’d met within its walls.

It wasn’t very long ago that I’d stood in that very same spot, watching the NASCAR Hauler parade with hundreds of cheering spectators. Most of them flooded back into the casino afterward. It was probably Riviera’s busiest night that year until the closure. Now my only companions were some searchlights and heavy-moving equipment.  It all made me sad…very very sad.

As I headed back towards the hotel, I noticed a man standing in front of the neon facade, snapping photos much like I had been. He told me that he was part of the demolition crew and wanted to send some pics to his girlfriend before it was gone. I asked him if he had details on the specific time of the blast and whether there would be fireworks this time. He wasn’t sure about any displays but assured me that 2:30 am sharp was when the dust cloud would rise.

It was now 9:30 pm. The Riviera Hotel Casino would disappear from the La Vegas Strip forever in exactly five hours.

In tomorrow’s conclusion, I’ll describe the excitement of the crowd, the thrill of the countdown and the shock to the senses from the actual blast. And most dramatically, the sun rising up over an empty lot for the first time in six decades.

Photos:[ Sammasseur, Greg C., Las Vegas Casino Museum Facebook Page, Wikipedia]