Afternoon magician Tim Gabrielson and the late-night hypnotist team of Michael Johns and Terry Stokes both get a lift from the club's general aesthetics.

Only four years ago, hypnotist Stokes had a Chihuahua for a partner in the seedy lounge of the now-demolished Bourbon Street. His music came from an assistant visibly cueing up a boombox.

Stokes and a human stage partner, Johns, have since worked their way up with stints at the Stardust and Krave nightclub, before scoring their current incarnation as "Dirty: Rock Hard Comedy Hypnosis." The boombox has been replaced by ethereal synthesizer chords for the hypnotic inductions from Bonnie Mizell, who fronts the rock band recruited for their makeover.

Gabrielson performs his matinees not in the concert hall, but on the restaurant area stage known as the Courtyard. His "Keep It Funny" is a good fit, with a comedy club-like environment and menu service for those who come hungry.

The Minnesotan performs a likable one-man mix of comedy and magic that's probably more the industry standard outside of Las Vegas than big-box illusions. Never more useful was the advice Gabrielson conveys from an older magician, given to him as a child: "How do you become a magician? Learn how to entertain."

Gabrielson brings a youthful spirit to his family-friendly hour. He skirts Pee-wee Herman terrain with silly sight gags and often comes off like a clean version of the Amazing Johnathan, working the comedy as hard as the magic. Some things that start off as magic routines turn out to be jokes instead.

Gabrielson worked the corporate circuit and sometimes filled in for vacations by Harrah's headliner Mac King before taking this gig, produced by King's associate Bill Voelkner and Michael Coldwell.

Gabrielson's act has a few similarities to King's, including the prolonged disappearance of a $50 bill borrowed from an audience recruit. But just as the bill winds up in a different place, routines that begin with a familiar setup sometimes take a fresh turn. In the big picture, Gabrielson's act isn't as theatrical or wholely realized as King's, but it's looser and more flexible.

Downstairs, Stokes may have been having a bad night -- something you think would apply only to the audience in the unpredictable genre of nightclub hypnosis -- but he hasn't stepped up to the possibilities afforded by the band and House of Blues production values.

Stokes' act was so loosely constructed he even asked the audience for requests; so much for escalating the action to a crescendo as the better hyps do. He didn't even seem to have absolute control over a boring crop of volunteers and repeatedly relied on the same couple of guys to bail out the routines.

Could be he was just thrown off his mark; Stokes and Johns perform many shows together, and the producers wanted them both onstage on a recent media night. But Johns' unexplained absence kept Stokes asking, "Is Michael here yet?"

But the two also trade nights to allow each to perform outside gigs. Johns is said to have better integrated the band, which on this night mostly watched from the sidelines after two opening songs. (And the original tunes on singer Mizell's MySpace page sound more interesting than covers of "Walk This Way.") If you catch Stokes on a solo night, be warned that his standard-issue hyno-raunch comes with a high level of misogyny. Stokes kept asking if the hypnotized women were married before having them do embarrassing things, as if angry husbands have been a problem in the past.

And when he asked the audience to help him seduce his stage assistant, or told singer Mizell "You don't want to get a chest cold, honey," it sounded less dirty-funny than dirty old man.