By Ian S. Port
By SF Weekly
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Tony Ware
By Emma Silvers
There's a particular, self-inflicted torture of participating in hipster night life -- the elephantine dichotomy in the tiny scene that no one seems all that eager to acknowledge: You always go out, and going out always sucks.
Anyone who employs his liberal arts degree to analyze online music reviews at the office job knows the routine. The tingle starts right after dinner but well before bedtime, with a seductive little scenester birdie on your shoulder. C'mon, it'll be fun, birdie coos. Just for an hour or so. Toss back a of couple drinks, maybe see some friends, maybe meet a cutie with a tight body and a passable vinyl collection. Shit, even if it doesn't end up like some Preston Sturges movie, at least you might get laid.
Resistance to this seduction is futile. So you put on some ass-pants, fast-cash a couple Andy Jacksons, and hit the scene. Birdie on the shoulder quivers with delight on the approach. O, the sweet taste of burgeoning adventure.
But we know all too well how this story ends. Shamefully, we knew it before we started. The taste sours the minute you actually arrive at your destination. As the pupils dilate to the dimly lit dive, Birdie starts to freak. Oh, fuck,THAT guy's here? What a creepy asshole, or Oh, great, apparently it's "awkward retard night" again. Danger Will Oldham, er, Robinson.
The next day, the only thing left to show for the evening is a dull headache from sugary well drinks, a crumb of catty gossip about second-tier indie rockers, and 40 less dollars.
And on the following night, do you learn better? Hell, no. In an act of blatant self-effacement, you press repeat on the awkward experience and play again, as if your life were some kind of twisted adaptation of Groundhog Day with a 19-year-old John Cusack playing you.
Given the abysmal odds for success, confronting this tragic social addiction might be the first step to recovery. So, in the spirit of "can't beat 'em join 'em" we offer this: a night-by-night list of destinations where you can bank on dangerously cheap, heavy pours; passable (often actually OK) music; and relatively few reminders that we choose to live in this, the woefully ballyhooed "smallest big city in America."
Monday: "Vroom" @ El Rio, $3
Hardly a well-kept secret, El Rio's Monday stand-around-and-talk party attracts bridge-and-tunnel indie intelligentsia like so many moths to a flame. The flame? Supercheap drinks ($1 wells and Bud Lights), a relatively low cover, and enough space that you can escape smelling some scene hussy's China Rain and avoid being forced into a "No way! I own Slanted and Enchanted too!"-type conversation. For the true snobs, the usual-suspect turntable selections of soul and punk can be a bit grating, but the many dark corners of the spacious patio are perfect for clandestine people-watching. And if things get too bad, just pull out another dollar.
Alternate: Happy Hour @ Dovre Club, free
Dovre Club's happy hour is a sure thing for cheap drinks and dim lights. And, shhh, you can smoke there.
Tuesday: "Broke as Fuck" @ Hush Hush, free
We hate to even mention Tuesday at Hush Hush, because -- like the club's moniker -- it kind of feels like something that should be kept hella D.L. (to use the parlance of our times). But -- knowing full well that the throngs of Phi Beta Marina girls might soil the night's intimacy -- sing it from the mountaintops: Tuesday night at Hush Hush might be the best self-loathing hipster night in town. It's hard not to fall head over Conversed heels for a night called "Broke as Fuck," which boasts un-ironic hip hop (read: no "My Adidas"), original breaks, and stacks of tight soul 45s. Snuggle into a booth for some coy conversation and when the river of $1 Pabst (i.e., nectar of the gods), $2 shots, and $2 vodka drinks takes hold, switch gears and start talkin' shit.
Alternate: "Elevator in the Brain Hotel" @ Sublounge, free
DJ Doublekick plays a wide gamut of indie boogie, complemented by cheapo drinks and local art shows.
Wednesday: "Ask Dr. Hal @ Odeon Bar", free
(Meta-journalism footnote: The author regrets the absence of a Wednesday night activity and would privately recommend "Ask Dr. Hal" at the Odeon if you are not one of the "woo crowd." This mystifying Wednesday night activity features artsy sage Dr. Hal Robins answering any question the audience can dream up -- for a small donation, of course. Unfortunately, when said author called the Odeon to gather facts about the night, the response of bar owner Chicken John forbade public notice of the event. "Oh, so you like under-attended, unknown little nights around town that are meaningful and cool?" Author wishes to note Chicken's hostile, sarcastic tone. "And you like going to these special little events that are really cool and underground that not a lot of people know about?" Author mumbles agreement. "If you like them, stop ruining the scene by writing about it and become a waiter or something! You'd probably make more money! Because then you wouldn't write about the scene, because when you write about the scene, it dies. I would not like you to write about Dr. Hal or me. It fills my stomach with disgust and it's a weight that I have to endure! All these people from Marin come in -- we call them the 'woo crowd' because they drink Bud Light and yell 'WOO!' -- and they ask Hal things like 'Why is Barbie so silly?' and Barbie is, you know, some girl from Walnut Creek sitting right next to them. So I raise all the prices of the bar so that no one comes in and I'm basically killing my bar business to protect it. But if you want to write about it I can't stop you. Go ahead, play God.")