Poof! You’re a sucky bar. We’re honestly not really sure what’s going on here. This place feels so oddly cold and empty that you’d figure the sibilant void was somehow intentional. Instead it just comes off as sad–or like a weird set piece from David Lynch’s idea of what a standard bar should look like. There’s a big, dark bar to one side, complete with murky mirror behind it, and a couple scattered tables on the other. The floor is some sort of chewed-on linoleum, and a large neon clock over the door casts an eerie, blue glow over the whole of the space. The complete effect is only how I imagine the basement morgue at Bellevue must feel. Bummersville, man. Bummersville. There’s something to be said for a no-frills bar that is first and foremost a drinking establishment, but I don’t plan on needing a place to drink after getting laid off from the local coal mine anytime soon, so I think I’ll leave The Magician to pull its own disappearing act as so many have before it. [MF]
118 Rivington St.