FROM FEATHERS TO FAKES: THE SHOWGIRL IS DEAD. LONG LIVE THE SHOWGIRL.
Part 2: She built this city in heels and feathers. Then Vegas gave her a photo hustle and called it even. Here’s what comes next.
Part one of this 2 part newsletter can be read HERE
The Copa Girls & the Rat Pack: The Original Vegas Power Couple
Before Cirque du Soleil, before EDM residencies, before Vegas decided to put kids’ arcades inside casinos, there was the Copa Room. And in that room? Legends.
Sinatra, Dean, and Sammy didn’t just perform there; they held court. And alongside them, not behind them, were the Copa Girls: the showgirls who weren’t background dancers; they were royalty.
Take Roberta Linn. She wasn’t just eye candy; she had talent, pipes, and presence. She sang at the Stardust, the Desert Inn, and the Sands for nearly two decades. A Champagne Lady with the kind of sass and wardrobe that could shut down traffic on the Strip. She, like many of her peers, shared tables with mobsters, musicians, and moguls.
They weren’t just seen, they were known.
The Death and Disneyfication of the Showgirl
Then came the 2000s.
Cirque du Soleil flooded the theaters. The music changed. DJs replaced live bands. And somewhere in a Wynn boardroom, the phrase “family-friendly Vegas” didn’t get laughed out of the room; it got greenlit.
I’m not here to bash families on vacations, but I will judge your choices. In my experience, the same people who bring kids to the Vegas Strip, and God forbid, downtown, are the same ones who let them sit at bars in your favorite restaurant. I see it all the time: kids posted on casino walls, waiting for a parent to surface from some penny slot mission.
I could write a whole separate newsletter on that.
Showrooms shut down. Troupes disbanded. And suddenly, “topless revue” was a dirty phrase. Some survived, but the talent was far more “strip club” than showgirl.
If that’s your thing, fine, Vegas has places for that. It just doesn’t belong in the same sentence as legacy entertainment.
They didn’t kill the showgirl in a blaze of neon, they slowly bled her out with corporate pivot decks.
The Glitter That Survived
But Vegas doesn’t kill legends that easily.
Look at the Vegas Golden Knights. Between puck drops and power plays, and a staple at pregame activities, the Vegas Belles hit the ice with custom rhinestone armor and flashy choreography that would make the original showgirls smirk with pride.
They’re not technically showgirls. But dammit, they’re carrying the spirit. Stamina. Sequins. Swagger. They move like they’ve got something to prove, and they kinda do. I’ve seen these ladies at games, constantly taking pictures with fans, discussing their custom headdresses with them, and even offering tourists recommendations on things to see and do after the game and while in town. They can be seen at various events around town as well, always giving back to the community.
Even original Showgirls have said, “They’d make us proud.” And coming from women who danced under mob money and 40-pound headdresses, that actually means something.
Legends Never Retire. They Just Get Glitterier.
Some of the originals are still out there, not trapped in time, but outliving it.
Lovey Goldmine. Tiffany Carter. Georgette Dante. Empress Yee. These aren’t influencer usernames. They’re battle-tested icons still taking the stage at the Burlesque Hall of Fame showcase.
Not for tourists. For the craft. The culture. The legacy.
They performed through sexism, mob shakedowns, cracked ribs, and glitter allergies. And even now, they show up, in full costume, with more class than half the Strip’s current lineup.
Sadly, the Burlesque Hall of Fame closed on July 20, 2025. Ten days ago. Quietly. No fanfare. A final gut punch to an already fading legacy.
And yet, there’s still resistance.
The Crazy Girls reunited recently to honor the relocation of their iconic statue. Karen Raider, Debra Sill, Pat Lumpkin, Kim Baranco, Angela Sampras-Stabile, Michelle Sandoval, and Chris Zytko - legends who showed up to say, “We’re still here.”
Credit to casino owners like Derek Stevens, who had the guts to preserve that statue and bring it back to public display, and maybe a little luck for whoever rubs it.
The Amazon Knockoffs & Click-Card Clowns
Now, let’s talk about the atrocity some call the modern “showgirl.”
You’ve seen her. You can’t unsee her.
Amazon-feathered bikini. Electrical tape over her nipples. Six-inch platform heels wobbling down the Strip in 110° heat, shaking a feather boa and hustling you for a “tip”. Think $20 - $40 tip haggle after the fact.
She’s not performing. Not dancing. Not even smiling half the time.
This isn’t showbiz. It’s cosplay with a Cash App.
And somehow, this is what shows up in TikToks, postcards, and influencer reels as “authentic” Vegas.
Tourists now think these women are showgirls.
They’re not. They’re not even trying to be.
Want a stripper? Vegas has the best. Spearmint Rhino. Sapphire. Little Darlings. Promoters will shove a flyer in your hand before you hit the crosswalk and stuff you in a comp limo with a bottle of warm champagne.
Or, if you're feeling adventurous, take a ride to Pahrump. You won’t find a feathered headdress, but you'll find services the Strip wouldn’t dare advertise.
But if you’re looking for showgirls, real ones, you’re 20 years too late and 40 IQ points too short if you think Amazon cosplay is the same thing.
A Vegas showgirl was a performer. An athlete. A trained dancer with the stamina of a marathoner and the grace of a movie star. She didn’t loiter. She dazzled.
What we’ve got now? Dollar-store rhinestones, a tired hustle, and a warped version of Vegas legacy invented by marketers who confuse nostalgia with Mardi Gras beads and a frozen daiquiri.
There’s even a Minnie and Mickey Mouse passed out on the Strip at noon, dead-eyed mascots lying in a puddle of shame while kids in Crocs step over them.
This is what replaced decades of art?
The feathers are fake. The hustle is real. And the legacy? It’s in a dumpster behind Señor Frog’s, next to a broken Bluetooth speaker and a crushed daiquiri yard.
Vegas deserves better. So do the tourists. And so do the women who built this city in heels, glitter, and grace.
The Final Bow
The Vegas showgirl wasn’t just a symbol, she was the city.
She built an empire on legs, sequins, and stage presence. She danced through broken toes, smiled through mob threats, and turned a dusty patch of desert into the most dazzling fantasyland on earth.
And now? Her memory is being drag-and-dropped into a Canva template by someone who’s never even walked the Strip.
Vegas didn’t just lose the showgirl. It forgot why she mattered.
But if you know where to look — in a lounge off Sahara, in a VGK intermission, in the eyes of the legends who still sparkle when they talk about “the old days,” she’s not gone. She’s just waiting for the curtain to rise again.
Long live the showgirl.
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