They're about to tear this place down is the refrain in the car on the way to the show. It's the last, shining days of the Tropicana in decline but before they implode it all to pieces my parents and I have three VIP tickets to see Purple Reign, said to be the world's #1 Prince tribute show.

I will admit that I am very excited to go - I am a huge fan - and as my mom's car traverses Nevada's eerie, illuminated desert I notice how much has changed in the two years since I last visited - there are new buildings, missing buildings, and most troubling of all, the uncanny pulsing LCD video orb of the Sphere which my eyes have trouble believing. This is the new for which the old will be demolished, a vision of the future, there will be viral videos and purchasable ad space upon all that we behold.

But first, another form of video entertainment - my parents and I arrive early to hit the slots. I gleefully stuff a 20 dollar bill into my preferred machine - Invaders from the Planet Moolah - and await the pleasant buzz of having my brain chemicals rearranged by sound alerts and flashing lights. Almost immediately my machine lights up and makes sound in the good way and I am awarded fifty bucks. Wisely, I withdraw my winnings and stop gambling for the night (although naturally throughout the week I will go on to lose at least as much as I've won and more...unable to sleep in on Christmas morning I will tumble down from my casino hotel room to lose money at 6:30am, gambling hits different in the small hours).

Flush with cash we get in line for seating and are directed toward the gentle incline of the accessible entrance. Up a path of stained carpet aged by cigarette smoke and past a storage room where through the windows we see decommissioned and out-of-date equipment: a casino graveyard, where will these felted tables and microchips wind up? Near the top of the ramp a Michael Jackson impersonator poses for a selfie with an excited young family, the last lingerers from the theater's earlier showing where, I assume, this uncanny man sang "Beat It." His posture, his appearance, even the timbre of his voice, all are spot on. The King of Pop lives on and in front of this step-and-repeat he is valiantly, almost defiantly, un-cancelled.

I am fascinated, too, by the fact that you can buy merch - not for the artist themselves, of course, but for each of the tribute shows. You can even get it signed if you want.

We settle into our very close to the stage VIP seats (no accessible ramp inside, by the way) and I quickly realize why the tickets were so deeply discounted online - the theater's maybe a third full. A holiday season lull or an indication of a more general decline? Yet we are undaunted and I am especially energized by the megamix of deep cuts and b-sides playing over the speakers during seating, it shows a dedication to the oeuvre.

Before the server can make it to our table and take our cocktail orders the lights dim and we are blasted by a convincing recreation of the organ with which "Let's Go Crazy" kicks off - here we go, it's all the guitar ripping, mic stand acrobatics, falsetto, outfit changes, and couldn't-care-less attitude you could ever want. Later, they bring out Morris Day and Jerome to talk shit and run through a few numbers by the Time and, to my great delight, the backup dancers are eventually joined by someone in the guise of Apollonia to do negligee versions of "Sex Shooter" and "Nasty Girl," two of the goofiest songs Prince ever produced.

About halfway through the show the man playing Prince - who was really nailing the bored, cat-like stage banter - asks us what we want to hear. I'm maybe ten feet from him at this point and feeling very enchanted by the whole thing so when I very enthusiastically shout "If I Was Your Girlfriend" he takes the request and runs saying, "oh, shit yeah, that's a sexy one - let's do it."

There are two moments of puncture - first, their version of "When Doves Cry" is bizarre and not at all true to the recording, it's almost in the style of 2000s-era electroclash, the hi-hat bouncing rapidly on the off beat. And as they take their bows, a slinky R&B track lopes out of the house speakers - this is my song, the man with Prince's signature over-manicured facial hair says into the mic. Suddenly we must allow him a life outside his role. But the tribute is powerful and I do feel an overwhelming and reenergized gratitude for the life and work of Prince Rogers Nelson. Is his spirit here in the room with us? His avatar suggests so.

I'm reminded - of course - of church. Stage lighting, wireless mics, and big budget musical performances that sway the emotions of the crowd - these are the flashy hallmarks of the megachurch. At the end we are even encouraged to tell our friends about the show and bring them along - they want us to evangelically fill those empty theater seats. But here the only belief being marketed is simply that of "Prince made good music" or, for some of these folks, maybe "Prince is someone I've heard of before." I clap and woo at the end of each number, incantations and prayers.

Artifice and fantasy, imitation and spectacle, bargains and winnings - though these engines are in everything, now, they are hyperconcentrated in Las Vegas. The magical thinking and lucky rituals of gambling, the miracle of a dollar reproducing - with his cascading jugs of wine and bonus loaves of bread Jesus was a slot machine. And where will all the rubble from the Tropicana's last blast end up? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, sand in the eye of the beholder, an orb blinking on the horizon.