Places like this would normally annoy the living crap out of us. Bug-eyed bouncers look at you as if they’ve never seen Banana Republic clothing before and ogle your female companions with a “I’ll be seeing you naked later on, honey” look on their faces. Not only do you have to be scrutinized by jackasses with third grade educations and steroid rage; you have to pay $20 for the pleasure. Luckily we knew the secret to avoiding this horrendous fee (Mr. Hipster really hates to pay covers) as we got there early and slipped in before this whole gouging thing started. Inside, you are faced with a big dance floor, a huge bar off to one side and bathrooms with opaque walls. It’s all just too cool for words. As the crowds come in, it gets harder and harder to get drinks. Women mostly in tight, clingy outfits drink all those fancy colored drinks, while the guys grip their Amstel Lights. The first floor plays a mixture of house music and some other stuff that is probably jungle or trance or booty-smacker, or whatever the kids are dancing to these days. We didn’t really get a good look at the room downstairs (everything was blurry from going out before hand), but apparently there’s a hip-hop room downstairs that was pretty cool. If you think you’re hip enough and don’t mind dropping some serious coin to get into a place full of people who think they just scored a major coup by waiting for an hour in the freezing cold just to sweat with other women in knee boots, then be our guest. If you think that scene sounds like something best left to the professionals, you can always do what Mr. Hipster does and stay home and dance around in your socks to bad indie rock. [MF]
289 Spring St.