LIVING A FANTASY

He needs no introduction, but he offers one anyway, and the small group of musicians huddled around him hold their breath like they've been plunged into the bottom of the ocean.

"Hey, I'm Roger," the compact man with the outsized voice says with a wave of the hand, eyes playing hide-and-go-seek behind a pair of rounded blue shades.

"I can't believe I saw you on TV last week, and now you're here," an onlooker pants.

The man smiles politely.

He walks to the mic.

The drums crack.

The man spasms to life like an electrical current is being passed through his veins.

The guitars growl.

He's leading the way, leaning into the mic stand like it's the only thing holding him up.

The song is "I Can't Explain," a curled-lip rocker born of heartache and thunder.

The tune gets bashed out with deliberate force, but some notes are missed, the beat is a bit off.

"This is how it was when The Who first started," the man says after the song comes to a raucous finish. "Exactly the same. Laugh at your mistakes."

And with that, Roger Daltrey lets out a little chuckle, leading by example, before signing a dozen or so autographs and moving on to the next batch of pie-eyed rockers.

It's day three of the Rock 'n' Roll Fantasy Camp, a loud Friday afternoon, and Daltrey's been bouncing from one curtained-off room to the next in the bowels of the MGM Grand Garden arena, pressing the flesh like a used car salesman.

He sings Elvis tunes. He poses for picture after picture. He dispenses with career advice like the world's coolest high school guidance counselor.

"If you can play a Who song, you can play anything," he tells one group of campers.

Across the way, Velvet Revolver guitarist Slash trades solos with a beaming, young-looking woman in black plastic glasses who plays wildly from the back of her heels.

She's among the 75 lawyers and journalists, housewives and 14-year-olds who've paid nearly $10,000 apiece to learn how to scream to the rafters like Mötley Crüe's Vince Neil, riff like Joe Walsh or lay down big, domineering bass lines like Cream's Jack Bruce.

During the course of five days, they'll write songs, play gigs and eat lunch with a dude who used to be in Megadeth.

"It's just exhilarating to be here," gushes Shelly Krauss, a big-voiced brunette from Philadelphia who rolls her shoulders when she sings. "What could be better than singing with all these famous people?"

WEEKEND ROCKERS UNITE

Mark Hudson's only joking, but his words still cut like broken glass.

"If you don't drink coffee, start," the songwriter/producer for such big names as Aerosmith and Ringo Starr tells a couple of long-haired guitarists with gray-flecked goatees, urging them to play with more energy.

"You guys might want to switch from coffee to crack if I don't get more personality out of you," Hudson later quips, before softening a bit.

"Don't take anything I ever do seriously, except for the music," he advises.

A fast talking live wire with a multicolored beard dyed bright shades of purple and orange, Hudson's trying to tease some funk out of a group of mostly middle-age musicians, save for a fresh-faced teen drummer.

"You're on the one, white people," he says, instructing the group as to which count of the beat they're supposed to emphasize. "The one is so Caucasian, you'll be clear."

Next door, Mark Slaughter, frontman for '80s glam metallers Slaughter, helps a group of campers work out a cover of ZZ Top's "Tush."

He sings the vocal line in a soft falsetto, tapping out the rhythm on his thigh, giving voice to the beat, "do-dat-dunn-dunn, do-dat-dunn-dunn."

Slaughter's leading an eclectic cast of characters: a teen guitar shredder in a black Iron Maiden T-shirt, a buxom blond singer in a snug green dress and thigh-high boots, a gray-bearded bassist in shades.

Now in its 10th year, the traveling Rock 'n' Roll Fantasy Camp draws a diverse lot.

Campers are divided into groups of five and six and assigned a counselor -- from Steely Dan guitarist Jeff "Skunk" Baxter to Bad Company drummer Simon Kirke -- with whom they jam for 10 to 12 hours a day, learning classic rock cover tunes and writing their own original song that they'll perform in concert at the House of Blues on the camp's final night.

The camp benefits from a loose, approachable vibe, with millionaire weekend rockers -- a founder of software giant Oracle is among the participants at the Las Vegas camp -- jamming with aspiring musicians out to network with industry types and super fans who just want to bang a tambourine alongside one of the dudes from Night Ranger.

There are teen prodigies such as Yayo Sanchez, a fleet-wristed 14-year-old guitarist from Austin, Texas, who plays like Steve Vai with his hair on fire.

Taking part in his third camp, Sanchez is a crowd favorite who's here to make connections.

"It's just meeting people," says the soft-spoken teen with long black bangs, who practices 10 hours a day and is home-schooled so that he can devote as much time as possible to his playing. "Since the first camp I went to in London, me and Bruce Kulick of Kiss are going to start working together and record an album."

Others, some three and four times Sanchez's age, are trying to build similar momentum for themselves. They're not out to be stars, just get a taste of the spotlight that has eluded them for whatever reason.

"I'm sort of doing things backwards," says Shelly Krauss, who's also taking part in her third camp. "I was a mom and wife and all that, and now I'm divorced, and I'm trying to get myself out there. This is what I want to do. I don't mean like Tina Turner, in giant stadiums, but recording with session musicians, maybe doing a little club work. This is what lights me up."

Having first learned of the event from an infomercial she saw a few years back, Krauss has to get inventive when it comes to raising the funds to attend camp -- she says she received help from a friend for this trip -- but for a veteran singer no longer in her 20s, there are fewer and fewer outlets for her to try and make a name for herself.

"I'm not at a point where I can go start in a garage band or in a local club," she says. "I've been there, done that, and I've been singing in public for 10 years. Where I am, there's just not a lot of opportunity."

As for the rock stars themselves, they're drawn to the camp for other reasons.

"Well, I have pictures on most of them, from years of touring," chuckles Fantasy Camp founder David Fishof, a former sports agent and producer of rock tours. "It's an amazing time, because it reminds them what rock and roll was to them when they were younger. Unfortunately, the business gets in the way once you become successful.

"The truth of the matter is, these guys are just musicians and the last thing they want to deal with is the business," he continues. "Joe Walsh said, 'I want to be in a band, I don't want to have to worry about firing people and this and that, I just want to play music.' It's not the money, no way, not at this point. Joe Walsh sold 711,000 records last week. He comes because he realizes he can change people's lives."

A ROCK 'N' ROLL LIFELINE

Anne Harris clutches her chest as she watches the drummer roll his fists behind the kit, a rare smile brightening his features like the sun poking through some storm clouds.

She doesn't know if she'll ever get to witness another moment like this.

And so she takes it in with obvious relish, her gaze unwavering, her grin so steadfast, it could have been chipped from marble.

Two-and-a-half years ago, her son, Chris Gailfoil, was diagnosed with cancer.

He's a big guy with weary eyes and strong hands.

He wasn't supposed to make it this long, but lately, the music has kept him going.

"He usually spends 18 hours a day in bed, he doesn't eat anymore," Harris says softly. "But for this, he's making himself eat a few bites of food, and he's staying up 12 hours a day, playing. It's been his whole life since he was 10 years old, playing music. This is the culmination of all his dreams, getting here."

Having won a contest held by American Express, Gailfoil was able to attend a previous camp earlier in the year with most costs covered.

This time, the event organizers were able to find Gailfoil a sponsor so that he could come for free.

"He found out a week before camp started," Harris says. "They called him up and said, 'If you can get out here, you're in.' It's a good thing, because he's been down so much."

Not today.

Gailfoil's anchoring the beat solidly, slapping at the cymbals, looking more comfortable than a man in his condition probably should.

"The biggest thing I get out of this is doing the thing I love, which I haven't been able to since I got sick," he says, catching his breath after playing. "Sitting behind the drum set, it's just automatic. I've done it most of my life."

Gailfoil has been playing the drums since he was in junior high in Panama City, Fla., 30 years ago.

He has played with the Atlanta Rhythm Section and members of Blue Öyster Cult, but widespread success has eluded him.

"I've always felt like I should be there," he says of being a higher profile musician.

Two days later, he is.

A couple of hundred people file into the House of Blues on a sleepy Sunday night to end the camp with fists, beers and lighters in the air.

Gailfoil's band, the co-ed Roadside Prophets, takes the stage early, tearing through a hooky, hard grooving original before knifing into Guns N' Roses' "Sweet Child O' Mine."

Yayo Sanchez is on guitar, and he handles Slash's solo with the ease of someone attempting to stifle a yawn, while the band's fireplug singer shakes her hips and stomps her feet like she's trying to cave in the stage.

The crowd eats it up, clapping hard.

It's a rock star moment, even if it is a minor one.

"I was always on the cusp," Gailfoil says of his up-and-down musical career, "but never quite made it."

For one night though, no one in the house can tell the difference.

Contact reporter Jason Bracelin at jbracelin@reviewjournal.com or (702) 383-0476.