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| - Ok - I've admitted my slight tendency toward curmudgeon in the past. But I have to say, at the Clubhouse, it's as though they sort of knew me, and my curmudgeonly tendencies, and ran their operation accordingly.
Yes, the spare van back seat that acts as a "couch" in the back of the club is disgusting. I wouldn't sit on it unless I was in a full hazmat suit. Yes, the floor coats your shoes with a goop reminiscent of the 4H petting booth at the county fair.
But the troughs of expensive domestic 22's harken me back to my "um, yeah, I'm 21 (insert guilty, underage look)" days, and truthfully? seriously? when i'm gripping my big ol deuce deuce of Coor's Light, I'm happy to be in the back of the house with the over-agers. Then, when I've had enough watered down intoxicant to lube up my dancing shoes, I can migrate into the alcohol-less front of the house to rock out.
It's a grungy tribute to dirty musical venues, the Clubhouse. The bathrooms are adequately disgusting, littered with "Henry the bouncer is f'n hot!" and "Go Vegetarian!" followed by "They taste good, haha!" Which - is par for the course, I suppose, but disturbing considering the bouncer's shook us down for our pen, (a remnant of our 9-5'ism, which we were desperately trying to disguise) leaving me only one conclusion: these writers crotched their sharpies. Now for heavens sakes, there are better things to crotch than markers when attending a show. It nonetheless is a warning to leave found sharpies on the ground where they lie. You never know where they've been carefully hidden. Continue to steal them from your office, that's what office supplies are for.
So overall, there are lessons to be learned from The Clubhouse. It's an above-average venue with an amply sized stage, adequate access to alcohol, a regularly security-oggled parking lot (which makes that desperate behind-the-dumpster pee rather difficult), and a decent amount of traffic by good artists.
All the normal annoyances abound, shaved arm dancers that want to cut you with their stubble by swaying off-beat and scraping up against you, the lurid smell of Monster energy drinks in the ticket line, the rambunctious youths hopped up on said drinks, the bouncer that stands in front of you, arms-crossed, waiting to see another waft of that devil-weed smoke rising above the underagers. But it is not a wine and jazz club. It is a show venue in a college-town. In Phoenix / Tempe. Not San Francisco / Detriot / Chicago or New York. And I would be suspicious if it was less dirty.
So it's not bad. Not bad at all.
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