The New York Times
May 21, 2006 Sunday
Late Edition – Final
Caviar Dreams
By Christopher S. Stewart
It’s 1:30 in the morning, and reality is really starting to blur.
Inside the sprawling 19th-century mansion that was once the home of a
Russian trade mogul and now houses the club XIII, scantily clad women
in razor heels and would-be oil oligarchs in fancy suits groove to
house music in shattered rainbow light. Tomorrow is so far away from
this glitzed-out place.
Garey Tchagleysean, the club’s American owner, raises a Champagne
glass to his lips, loving what he sees. Standing at the edge of the
convulsing dance floor, he sports a blue suit with knife-sharp
creases in the pants, to go with the sinister smile permanently
plastered on his very round face. It’s Saturday. Supermodel
look-alikes in black sell $500 bottles of vodka, while outside a
babushka in a kiosk peddles shots for a buck and change. ”People
come to get lost,” Tchagleysean hollers over a thumping bass, as two
model types in bikinis gyrate on pedestals above us.
When Tchagleysean opened XIII in 1998, its outrageousness and glamour
immediately drew comparisons to Studio 54. Since then, Tchagleysean
has been behind some of the most extravagant and talked-about parties
in Moscow, a city that, after almost half a century behind the Iron
Curtain, is still new to hedonism.
Tchagleysean, who speaks in a sort of lazy California surfer drawl,
describes the XIII crowd as ”royals,” by which he means hip and
moneyed Muscovites. Moscow may boast the second highest billionaire
count in the world (New York ranks first), but much of the city
subsists on about $480 a month. ”We don’t just let anyone in,” he
says. ”You’re either part of this party or you’re not.”
Models, mobsters, diplomats, tennis starlets, aspiring oligarchs,
leggy molls — they all make their way here at some point. And it’s
this combustible convergence that, even after closing for two years
of renovations and reopening last spring, makes the place feel less
like New York in the 1970’s than like Chicago in the 20’s: glitz,
guns and truckloads of green. ”We have to watch out for the guns,”
Tchagleysean admits. ”It’s necessary. Because of what’s going on in
this country.”
David Morales, a New York-based D.J., has played XIII several times.
”Garey’s the man — the man,” he enthuses. ”What he has is not
some lounge place happening for five minutes. People go there dressed
to the nines — and dance. It’s dangerous!”
Tonight, the club is celebrating Tchagleysean’s 39th birthday —
which is actually not for another month, but who’s counting? ”I felt
like having a birthday party,” he says. Tchagleysean is making the
rounds, kissing cheeks, bear-hugging.
”When people are around me, they’re feeling cool,” he boasts.
Outside, late-model luxury cars and S.U.V.’s, most with private
drivers, are double-parked. A sleek crowd is waiting on the front
steps for the linebacker-size security guys in polar jackets to let
them through the social divide of the velvet rope. Plebeian or cool?
Tonight’s theme is the Scorpion, for Tchagleysean’s assumed
astrological sign. And everything is draped in shimmering gold, like
a movie set for ”Dune.” Women in shiny scorpion masks roam the
mansion’s two floors. On the winding marble stairwell, fey-looking
actors in gold gowns and headdresses pray over burning candles and
incense while a woman in translucent wings and stiletto heels swings
overhead.
XIII is all about theater. One night, it might be ”The Nutcracker”;
another, Mikhail Bulgakov’s novel ”The Master and Margarita”; and
another, the orgy scene from Stanley Kubrick’s movie ”Eyes Wide
Shut,” complete with some actors dressed in black cloaks and others
naked but for their feather masks. For gangster night, Tchagleysean
hauled in vintage cars from the 30’s and dressed actors in period
costumes with toy machine guns. ”People are always asking me, ‘What
are you going to do next?”’ he says.
Tchagleysean is short and stocky, and when he moves, his thick
shoulders roll like a wrestler setting up for a match. Born in
Armenia, he is an American citizen and got his start after high
school in Southern California, promoting parties in the 1980’s at the
Roxy and Vertigo in Los Angeles. When the L.A. scene dimmed, he
headed to Moscow, first as a tourist and then as an itinerant
lunch-truck owner who served up hamburgers and hot dogs.
He set up the promotion company Organized Kaos and then opened Papa
John’s (now known simply as Papa’s), a restaurant at the city’s
center with a music space downstairs. Minutes before the Russian
economy tanked in 1998, he bought the decrepit yellow two-story
mansion across the street, built sometime in the 19th century by one
of Russia’s richest merchant families. XIII was named for its
address, 13 Myasnitskaya Ulitsa. ”I also liked the idea of the
number 13, a kind of secret society,” he says.
When he opened the club, he charged entry fees upward of $40, which
were then unheard of. And unlike in the egalitarian days of
Communism, there was a highly selective door policy, which persists
today. Tchagleysean offered weekly masquerades and sometimes brought
in real circus performers. Props were borrowed from the national
opera house or local movie studios. Major D.J. acts like Fatboy Slim,
Paul Oakenfold and Sasha & Digweed came to XIII before they played
any other spot in Russia, he says.
The dance floor, half the size of a basketball court, is lighted by a
cascading crystal chandelier. At each end are swishy V.I.P. rooms
with leather banquettes. After long nights in the summer, the party
usually spills out onto the balconies. When Tchagleysean decided that
it was time to close the place down in 2003, people were stunned. But
after extensive renovations, he reopened last May, and unveiled his
new idea: burlesque nights.
Almost every month, Tchagleysean brings in burlesque and cabaret
stars, mainly from Britain, with names like Lucifire, Empress Stah
and Kittie Klaw. Shows feature whips, chains, leather and fire.
Tchagleysean describes it as a sexual revolution, where anything
goes. ”I’m teaching the city about new things,” he says with a
laugh.
It’s close to 4 a.m. now. In a V.I.P. banquette, a guy is laid out on
his girlfriend’s lap, completely intoxicated. A new D.J. is just
coming on, the third of the night.
”What we do here is illegal,” one reveler with a girl on his arm
says to me.
”What?”
He nods toward the crowded dance floor, the nearly naked girls in
cages, the pretty ballerinas twirling on the pedestals. He laughs.
”You can’t do
this in America,” he says, getting up real close to my ear, as if
he’s about to tell a secret. ”You understand?
We’re having fun.”
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress
