Mentalists make close-up magic interesting, entertaining

The quiet little guy in the three-piece suit tells us straight out he's going to mess with our minds. The big, loud one in the bowling shirt gets us laughing, then sneaks up and does it, too.

Paul Vigil and Kevin Burke broadcast at different volume levels. But they both explore areas of magic and mentalism less known in Las Vegas, the home of big props, white tigers and spangly assistants. And they both prove one-man shows aren't just more practical in a tight economy. They can be more interesting, too.

Vigil (pronounced Vee-hill) has found a workable forum to showcase the classic coins and cards of the trade, even as he reminds us working small is usually bad business on the Strip.

Vigil does his parlor magic in an actual tattoo parlor, King Ink at The Mirage. Tattoo baron Mario Barth likes him enough to enable Vigil's free show every Wednesday, for a few dozen people who scoot up chairs and bar stools.

You can see why close-up, sleight-of-hand magic runs contrary to the entertainer's usual goal of filling as many seats as possible. If too many of you read this and show up next week, a lot of you probably won't see much.

But it's worth trying. Vigil is a magician's magician (practitioners made up much of this night's audience) and his guessing games are both surprising and droll.

You can see why Penn & Teller endorse him. He is almost the two of them in one: Teller-like in size and manner, but with a Penn-like way of peppering banter with philosophical ideas and $4 words such as "factorial" (as in, the odds of predicting the order of a 52-card deck).

"If I can be any more fair at any time, all you have to do is let me know," Vigil offers repeatedly, before way too easily guessing which hand of the audience guy is holding the ChapStick, and which is holding the $100 bill he can keep if he fools the magician.

He also makes a chosen card jump out of a deck -- "I don't even need to turn the card over after that, do I?" -- and tells people which numbers they rolled on a die through "variance in vocal inflection and tone," then just eye contact and then by merely touching a person's head.

"I'm not happy until you're happy," Vigil keeps repeating. But happiness here comes with a, "Wait a minute, how did he ... ?" shake of the head.

Burke's "Fitz of Laughter" is not even billed as a magic show, though ads inside Fitzgeralds that show him eating fire suggest it's not your typical stand-up either.

For three years, Burke has finished "Defending the Caveman" at a different hotel, then raced to Fitzgeralds to do this showcase at the funny-to-advertise time of 9:13 p.m.

Over time, he's tightened the original "a little of this, a little of that" approach to better blend his various skills -- his resume includes clowning for the Ringling Bros. -- and make the show seem more of one piece. What emerges is kind of a blue-collar mentalist.

You do not hear most men of mystery say to an elderly audience member, "You go ahead and enjoy this eye candy, Cougar. It's here for you." Or, "You're trying to mess me up aren't ya, ya sick bastard!" before naming the card the man has chosen.

Burke is so good at the undersell, I'm not sure the audience was as impressed as it should be by a really great bit: One audience member choosing any word from a book, while Burke distracts himself with another crowd recruit, only to nail the word anyway.

Speaking of nail, there's even a "Jackass" component when one bit turns out not to be a trick. An audience volunteer has a 50/50 shot of stapling Burke in the arm if she chooses the wrong staple gun. No trickery; he can spin the joke either way.

This night it was the painful, Band-Aid way. But it backed up a closing observation that sounded more like something Vigil would say: "You're making the decision to be part of an authentic experience."

Amen to that. Even if said authenticity is based, as Vigil did say, on "blatant lying."

Contact reporter Mike Weatherford at mweatherford@ reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0288.