How is it that we've scraped this town, year after year, searching for drinking digs without ever coming across this little gem? The Ice House Tavern is really kind of a messed-up idea — but in a creepy, fantastic way. Anyone who grew up in Phoenix probably skated at Arcadia Ice Arena at least once in his or her life. Little did we know as fumbling, tumbling idiots on the rink that drunks were watching us the entire time. Yep, there's a bar connected to the rink where boozers can slurp their cocktails and peer through windows to the rink while wobbly skaters slide around on the ice. In 2009, local hipsters latched onto this hole in the wall and celebrated its slightly seedy — definitely cuckoo — novelty.
It's a bit of a haul for most Phoenicians — just over the Pinal County line south of Queen Creek — but a trip to San Tan Flat on a Saturday night is a real treat. Live music from a rollicking country band, a nice wide dance floor, and great food give this place an overall excellent atmosphere, but it's the wood-burning fire pits that really set the stage for a special night. Grab some wood off the pile and toss it on the coals, then buy some marshmallows from behind the bar. Before you know it, you'll be living the saloon's slogan: "All the fun of camping out, without having to sleep on the ground."
We love the Autostrada panini. And we love the smoked salmon bruschetta. And Postino Central's wine list is not only imaginative but always features several of our favorite libations. But what we really love most about this new-ish cafe (located in the old Katz's Deli building on North Central) is that seating on the patio lets us watch three entirely different slices of life, all at once. We can ogle the bar crowd that's hanging out just beyond the patio (where it's pretty easy to strike up a conversation with like-minded wine lovers at the next table), so our desire to watch drunk people hooking up is sated. Beyond that, the dining room is always filled with people having klatch-y catch-up meetings and clandestine conferences (last time we were there, we witnessed a mother-daughter donnybrook having to do with short skirts and withheld tuitions — scandalous!). And Postino's wide, single-pane picture window offers views of the street beyond the dining room. We can even see, from way back on the patio, the comings and goings at the Circle K across the street — which is a lot more interesting than you'd imagine. We're lurkers at heart, and we see a lot more than crusty bread and wine bottles when we hang at Postino Central.
We've always wondered: Where do bars and clubs go when they die (i.e., close)? Whisked away to the nightspot great beyond after falling to a wrecking ball, perhaps, never to return (like Tempe's Long Wong's)? Or maybe reincarnation into a completely new identity is in order, like when the old Mason Jar became gay dive Velocity 2303. In the case of The Sail Inn in Tempe, the legendary hippie hangout was revived, Lazarus-style, in its original location by owner Gina Lombardi. The original version of the Sail closed after it was bought out by real estate developers in late 2005, ultimately becoming the ill-conceived danceteria Trax, which fizzled out after 18 months. Fortunately, Lombardi swept in and resurrected her old stomping grounds earlier this year, upgrading the décor in the process. And though its look may have changed, Lombardi's continuing the old habit of booking a wide variety of musicians — ranging from the jam-rockers of Xtra Ticket and The Noodles to burgeoning indie acts like Black Carl — nearly every night since re-opening. It couldn't have happened at a better time, too, as The Sail Inn is just about the only dedicated music venue in downtown Tempe, an area once renowned for its live bands. Thanks, Gina.
Since debuting in January, Cream Stereo Lounge has endured a significant amount of both love and hate, much like any new nightspot. Its supporters easily gush about its mix of European and Las Vegas-style touches, including swimsuit-clad models engaging in burlesque-like bathtub shows. The haters, on the other side of the coin, have groused about alleged rude service, the club's minuscule size, and overpriced covers. But over the past few months, the grumblings have quieted down and the place is more popular than ever. One factor in its success has been the selection of superstar DJs that have been booked to spin here. The list is quite impressive, including Lee Burridge, Paul Oakenfold, George Acosta, and Paul van Dyk, just to name a few. Like the saying goes, the Cream rises to the top.
This is not your cigar-smoker's martini. And don't put an olive near it. The Cashmere Martini — one of the signature cocktails at one of our favorite new CenPho eateries — is luxury in a glass: vanilla vodka, pineapple juice, and a splash of Chambord. The soft pink hue and exotic aroma move this cocktail to the top of our list of smooth, rich, and — okay, we'll say it — feminine elixirs. Move over last year's Cosmopolitan, there's a new "C" in the city.
For a long time, we were great admirers of the "super-size me" martini trend. So what if a Hendrick's martini at Durant's set us back $20? There were at least four shots of gin in that baby — and we had the buzz to match our bar bill. But this is 2009. We're broke, we're terrified of DUIs, and (frankly) there's a part of us that's just sick and tired of being sick and tired all the time. We were experiencing the good life, but today we're living through the hangover. Enter the "Essential Arctic Martini." At just $5, it's a bargain. And you can gripe about Hanny's tiny little "up" glasses, but this was what a martini looked like in 1950: a shot-and-a-half of gin, a dash of vermouth, and a lot of ice, shaken hard. If it was good enough for Hepburn and Tracy — and James Bond — who are we to complain?
A shakeup within Peter Kasperski's Old Town empire earlier this year ended with two unfortunate developments: the closing of his award-winning Sea Saw, and the downsizing of his new-yet-admired Digestif. Now, Digestif inhabits a much smaller space across the street (in fact, it's the same sleek room that used to house Sea Saw) and has a much trimmer menu. But what hasn't changed is the restaurant's commitment to interesting, complex libations. When we visited this summer, we were thrilled to see that the Pretti Ugly was still on the menu. A light fizz of chartreuse, Uglifruit liqueur, lemon and seltzer, it's a great hot weather treat. And then there's our new favorite, the Plum Dandy, which combines plum and agave nectars, tequila, and creme de mescal — yum! We're continuing to explore the rest of Digestif's cocktail list as summer becomes fall; we're pleased to report we have yet to be disappointed.
Ah, beer: the most humble and refreshing form of recuperation after the daily beatdown that is your job. Just gather your friends and head to a bar for a happy hour (or two). What? Your friends don't like beer? Teach them the error of their ways, starting with the Peach Ale at Four Peaks. Forget hoppy goodness and the power of top-fermenting (that's for real drinkers). Instead, surprise them with the light peach notes of this sumptuous brew. Who knows? Maybe next time they'll want to try an I.P.A. or stout.
We don't remember drinking the Inebriator. Then again, how could we remember drinking anything containing 9 percent alcohol by volume? What we heard from our friends after re-hydrating, cleaning ourselves up, and figuring out which surface was the floor (without hitting it with our heads this time) was that the Inebriator from Sonoran Brewing Company is dark and delicious, like a caramel-wrapped chocolate revolution for your taste buds.
We didn't know what the hell Delirium Tremens was. Framboise Lambic? Sorry, we don't speak French. Or German. Especially not at the same time. Luckily, we stumbled into the Lost Leaf, where we took to the finer points of beer education. The coursework? One bottled beer at a time from the hundreds available: Dead Guy Ale, Ska Brewing, Nimbus Ale . . . Lost Leaf has them all. Want to make your beer blitz a social occasion? Hang out with friends any day of the week or during First Friday, when things go nuts with local music and an intimate dance space.
In Germany, it's October. In Arizona, it's March. Yes, we're referring to that magical time when every weekend seems to bring a new opportunity to engage in the drunken debauchery of a massive outdoor beer festival. Kicking things off on the last Saturday in February, the Arizona Strong Beer Festival in Mesa gets many of the same brewers as the other festivals, but its prime location (the intimate and lush Mesa Amphitheatre) and its great time slot (before there's any hint of heat to dampen the fun) make it special. Oh, yes, the beer . . . The Strong Beer fest gives brewers a chance to break out the high-octane stuff, meaning the lowest alcohol content you'll find is 8 percent. Yes, every beer you drink has about twice as much buzz as Bud Light. To mark the occasion, local brewers such as Four Peaks bring stuff you've probably never tried, and such regional brew powers as Dogfish Head are known to bust out a few barrels of limited-edition suds you'd pay a mint to sample otherwise.
Like karaoke and pool, Pabst Blue Ribbon is an American bar tradition, and Brigett's Last Laugh has all three. Sure, there are other places in town that serve PBR, but few serve it as cold or as cheap ($1.50 per can) as Brigett's. And because PBR has been associated with things like trailer parks, cheap drunks, and punk rock, many places that carry PBR don't advertise it. Not Brigett's. There's a big, shiny Pabst Blue Ribbon mirror hanging prominently in the bar, and the waitress will happily include it in her rundown of drink specials. So what if your friends roll their eyes when you order PBR and try to tell you to at least buy a Budweiser? At Brigett's, PBR's still king.
We like to party and we're not ashamed to admit it. And since we've left college, our tastes have evolved beyond flip-flops and beer bongs. We crave an environment with a little more class, where we can relax and get faded while polishing off a few nice bottles of wine. Unfortunately, thanks to the crap state of our economy, we're still working with the same budget that we had in college. The folks at the Vig know that and have graciously offered up half-price bottles of wine all day on Sundays. With a spacious patio, upscale atmosphere, and tasty menu, we can't think of a better place to catch a buzz while maintaining our dignity and still have some scratch left over to pay the rent.
Seventy-five-cent oysters? Five-dollar blood-orange margaritas? Five-dollar Bacardi mojitos? With prices this good, you could surely be forgiven for assuming that we were talking about some desperate hole in the hinterlands, offering incredible deals in hopes of luring someone — anyone — to spend happy hour at their place. But no. Unbelievably, all this is going on in one of the swankest dining rooms in the Scottsdale Fashion Square area — the lovely, stylin', and downright tasty Wildfish. During the summer, incredibly, these deals last all night long in the bar area, along with $5 off on an array of appetizers, including Wildfish's awesome salt-and-pepper gulf shrimp and the crab cake that New Times previously named the best in Phoenix. Not surprisingly, the place draws quite a crowd, but the bar area is spacious enough that you still won't get jostled — perhaps the best happy hour promise of all.
What woman doesn't fantasize about relaxing under a palm tree on a sandy beach, being tended to by sexy waiters bearing fruity cocktails with little umbrellas? Well, we can't promise the sand or the tree, but ladies can live out the rest of their fantasies at Hurricane Bay's Wednesday Luxe Ladies Night. The 10,000-square-foot space was renovated earlier this year with such femme-friendly additions as plush padded seats and a sleek new wooden bar inlaid with pretty seashells. Of course, there's no entrance fee for women on Wednesdays. But the best part of Ladies Night at Hurricane Bay is that the $5 dude-cover scares off enough gents to leave most of the dance floor for us gals. Sorry, boys, but the beats (and, okay, the $4 Flashy-tini specials) are why we're really there.
Rodney Dangerfield complained about receiving no respect, but we wonder how he would have done in a dress and high heels. Women in comedy nowadays don't have to play second banana to any dude, so Ronnie Deleski, Jacki Orr, and Amy Jean Page birthed Muff Mondays as a yonic-slanted comedy showcase. The monthly variety show is a mix of stand-up, sketches, music, and video that is smart and funny no matter what's between your legs. Do beware, though, boys — their humor does have teeth. Take, for example, the game show-style journey through ex-boyfriends called "Guess His Dick Size."
While there's a slew of bars around this 'burg — both gay and straight — offering "all-male revues" (read: hunky men stripping down to their unmentionables), only two clubs in the Valley dare go for the "Full Monty": Dick's Cabaret and its recently opened spin-off, II Dick's. Both flesh parlors serve up more lean meat than a butcher shop, featuring dozens of strapping male dancers getting as nude as the day they were born, each night of the week.
And it isn't just gay men stopping by for an eyeful, as an equal number of females turn out at either location to ogle boys and bros alike, gazing at six-pack abs, bulging muscles, and, uh, ample endowments that their boyfriends or husbands might not possess. Nightly deals are also offered (such as one admission price that gets you into both clubs, as well as $5 cover and dances on Wednesdays and Thursdays), so the lovely and licentious ladies of the Valley can transform into cat-calling looky-loos on the cheap. Where's the beef (or more specifically, "Where's the beefcake?")? It's down at Dick's Cabaret, yo.
Babylon Show Club's design reflects its hedonistic sensibilities — a giant gargoyle greets patrons outside, while the interior is filled with red zebra-stripe carpet, red and black leather booths, five giant-screen TVs, and a "custom smoking section." There's a full kitchen, too, which serves up nachos and hamburgers, and an awesome sound system that pumps out 6,000 watts of power. The dancers are attractive and clean-looking. And they actually attempt routines that incorporate the onstage poles and other props instead of simply moving around and taking their clothes off with bored looks on their faces. The club also hosts its share of parties, including the first Arizona Porn Star Ball, in February, and regular get-togethers for the "adventurous couples" club at www.lifestylelounge.com.
Usually, people go to strip clubs to look at the strippers. But at Pink Cabaret, patrons are encouraged to check themselves out, too. The ground floor of the large cabaret is covered almost entirely with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, which means guys can check their hair (or bulge) on their way to the bar, bathroom, or stage. Meanwhile, the dancers can fixate on their own reflections while they gyrate and simultaneously keep an eye out for tipsy tippers staggering up to the stage behind them. The balcony contains a few large mirrors, too, but why walk up a flight of stairs for a bird's-eye view when there's a kaleidoscope of flesh below? Such a plethora of preening can also save you the humiliation of a friend telling you there's a booger hanging out of your nose. We'll throw a dollar down for that.
Alcohol does some funny things to people. Get a few drinks inside the wallflowers and they'll instantly bloom into the biggest social butterflies. For evidence of this axiom, hang out in Scottsdale on any given weekend and watch bookish babes turn into rampaging party girls after only a few shots. This nightlife phenomenon is most apparent at Pussycat Lounge, the notorious Old Town danceteria that's infamous as a domain of debaucherous behavior by bad girls of all shapes and sizes. The ladies tend to check their inhibitions at the door as well as their coats, as we've lost count at the number of times we've seen sexy sirens clad in American Apparel and D&G denim bumping and grinding together on the dance floor to the strains of T-Pain's "Low" or Lil Wayne's "Lollipop." Even better, inebriated lasses tend to enjoy working the two stripper poles located inside the club or performing impromptu table dances to titillate (or embarrass) their companions for the evening. Meanwhile, the darkened corners of VIP sections are often occupied by femme fatales either perched on the laps of their boyfriends (or well-moneyed "uncles"), or perhaps sneaking in a snogging session with another member of the fairer sex. The Pussycat also underwent a complete renovation recently, which means there's now much more room for girls to go wild.
Though we understand the place lost some of its atmosphere in the move from Gilbert Road and Chandler Boulevard to the center of Queen Creek, and though they don't always have a band on both weekend nights, we still love the natty little dance floor at Norton's Country Corner. This humble little roadhouse traces its lineage back to 1918 and was once a major stop on the Arizona honky-tonk circuit. These days, though, it sticks to cover bands. But if you're looking for someplace to shuffle around in your Tony Lamas while a pedal-steel whines out "Tonight the Bottle Let Me Down," this is it.
Not that anything could really replace Glam. With Faux Show Friday Nights and Word Up! Saturdays, the unsuspecting club in a forgettable strip mall in Phoenix — which, sadly, closed a while back — exploded every weekend. It was our nightlife diamond in the rough. Its Saturday Night Fever light-up dance floor and one-stall stinky bathroom will forever hold a place in our scummy hearts. But we've found a club night that has all the flavor of Glam — with the disgusting bathrooms to boot. Party Foul! Fridays at Homme Lounge will fill that void. The cozy dance floor may not light up, but with a million blinking beams and strobe lights, the walls and low ceilings certainly do, making you feel as if you actually stepped inside a disco ball, rather than danced under it. The nights we spent there, packed like sardines in a virtual group grind, are nights we'll reminisce about when we're settled and boring with kids. With spins by the resident DJs Craig Citizen (of Faux Show fame), Kevin M.O.B. (of Word Up! Saturdays), Bigie Epidemic and BC/AD (not to mention a weekly roster that also includes a hot list of guest DJs) the sounds are mixed and fresh. While "mixed" and "fresh" will never be words used to describe the air quality inside the club, you can find "relief" on the enclosed smoking patio. It's all in the spirit of partying, right? And it's certainly in the spirit of Glam.
If you subscribe to the theory that alcohol makes you more attractive, a wittier conversationalist, or even a fearless pugilist, then you likely believe a few beers can transform you into a championship billiards player or an ace rifleman. Put your theory to the test at this West Valley watering hole, where a large variety of bar games and drunken distractions abound. Try putting away some pints of Fat Tire and see if you can channel the spirit of Minnesota Fats while shooting stick on one of Marc's five pool tables. Or see if you're as big a card shark as Jerry Yang or Peter Eastgate during the weekly Texas hold'em night on Wednesday (when all domestics and call drinks are $1 off). If you feel like firing off a few rounds after downing a round or two of $4 Washington apple or Red-Headed Slut shots on Tuesdays, amble on over to the Big Buck Hunter arcade game and blast some virtual does and deers with your plastic rifle. There's also NTN trivia and free ping-pong daily, while the adjacent MarcTini Lounge hosts karaoke every night. Drink up, big shooter, there's plenty of fun and games to be had at Marc's.
Stationed less than a block's walk from both US Airways Center and Chase Field, Coach & Willie's is so close to the big-league fun that you can practically smell the locker-room funk. Sports nuts, clad in their snazziest team shop gear, usually make pit stops here either before the game (carbo-loading on moderately priced upscale comfort grub) or afterwards to partake in a snifter or two. When the squads are on the road, the Suns and D-Backs faithful lounge on the gorgeous patio (complete with bubbling waterfall) or congregate at the horseshoe-shaped bar to holler at the bums on TV and provide their own personal play-by-play. These barstool quarterbacks might even get the chance to spit their vitriol at a particular superstar athlete face-to-face (if they've got the sack, that is), as Steve Nash, Shaquille O'Neal, and several other ballplayers and coaching staffers have stopped by now and again for a bite.
The moniker of this CenPho player's paradise is as dead-on as a Dan Haren fastball, considering it ranks far above any other sports bar in the vicinity. It boasts a relaxed, low-key feel and homey décor that could double as some suburbanite's den (albeit one with more hi-def TVs than a Best Buy store, a swank pool table, a long-ass shuffleboard game, and 16 imports and domestics on tap). Hometown heroes are big (evidenced by the logos of Arizona's various college and pro squads covering the wall tiles in the bathrooms), but all manner of ballgames are broadcast here, from rugby to soccer. But if you can't find any up-to-the-minute highlights of your favorite team, try logging onto the Interweb via the bar's free Wi-Fi access. Suffice it to say, there's no shortage of sports at Hazelwood's.
It's a safe bet that Phoenix sports fans probably need a drink or two (no, make that several . . . dozen) to help forget all those underwhelming performances by multimillion-dollar buffoo . . . er, athletes during 2009. Aside from the Arizona Cardinals' miraculous berth in the Super Bowl, it hasn't exactly been a banner year for our city's sports squads. Steve Nash and the rest of the Phoenix Suns crashed and burned (thus missing what would have been their first playoffs since 2005), the cellar-dwelling Diamondbacks just wrapped up one of their most vile seasons ever, and don't even get us started on that whole Coyotes debacle. The good news is that the Lighthouse's barkeeps can pour 'em long and strong, regardless of which mind eraser you'd prefer, whether it's a Long Island iced tea, Red Bull vodka, or any other $4 well drink. Their $3 shot specials and $4.25 pitchers of Budweiser, Michelob Ultra, other domestic drafts can also help scramble memories of Eric Byrnes' tantrums or Shaquille O'Neal's entire tenure with the suns. Drink up, hard drinkers, and remember that eternal mantra about how there's always next year.
Having opened way back in 1979, Max's is definitely old school, just like us. We've got golden memories of watching some of Phoenix's biggest ballgames from within the darkened confines of this West Valley sports institution. (Like when our voice went hoarse cheering on Sir Charles and the Phoenix Suns as they beat the dreaded Chicago Bulls in triple overtime during game three of the 1993 NBA Finals.) Sure, a host of bigger and flashier jock joints, like McDuffy's and Marc's Sports Grill, have sprung up nearby over the past three decades. We consider Max's the antithesis of those jacked-up, high-adrenaline establishments. At Max's, you can stay abreast of the latest sports action on almost 100 TVs, check out the collection of more than 250 football helmets on display, or head over to the off-track betting area to make a wager. It beats having some tatted-up, Ed Hardy-clad bro yelling in your ear while the game's on.
There's a lot to like about Teakwood's Tavern and Grill in Gilbert — great food, plentiful TVs, friendly staff — but we have to admit what we like best about it, sports bar-wise, is the way they allow you to re-create the experience of being at the game by tossing your peanut shells on the floor. That's right, even though this is a pretty nice place — not some juke joint on the outskirts of town — you're welcome to crack, eat, and discard. On the downside, anyone with a severe peanut allergy could probably die just driving by this place, but on the plus side, it's as close to Chase Field as you can get in the flatlands of the San Tan area.
We know what you're thinking: How could we not name Sluggo's the best Mesa sports bar? Well, we are (sorta) because the legendary Sluggo's is now Diamond's Sports Grille. The bar was opened by former Cubs broadcaster Harry Caray and his partner in the booth, Steve Stone, and it's gone through a few names en route to its current one. The ties to the Cubs, who are immortalized in murals on the walls of this bar near the Cubs' spring training site north of downtown Mesa, are still strong, though. We hope they get a less generic name paying tribute to the spot's history — "Holy Cow's," maybe, or "Something Funny Will Farrell Said in That SNL Sketch" — but even if it that never happens, Diamond's is still the best sports bar in Mesa.
Tempe probably has five of the 10 best sports bars in the Valley, so picking just one spot is a challenge. Luckily, Doc & Eddy's has a little bit of everything, making it easy to justify our choice here. It's just dive-y enough to feel homey, but with clean and plentiful restrooms, varied seating options, good service, and great food. It always seems to be just busy enough — never dead or overcrowded — and we enjoy the fact that the pool hall and game area doesn't feel segregated from the rest of the restaurant, making it a fun place to hang out with a big group of rowdy fans, some who prefer to take in the game while shooting some pool.
Seeing this place on a Saturday night, you'd never know that this hip club is actually a fantastic sports bar during the day — even better than perennial favorite Duke's. The high-end modern furniture looks a little fancy for watching the big game, but it turns out it feels just like a Laz-Y-Boy. Your ass won't know the difference. Trust us. Toss in a nice collection of well-placed screens, great drinks, and a decent menu, and you've got a place Scottsdale types can watch the game without feeling too déclassé. The name is the biggest drawback. (How are you going to tell your buddies to meet up at "American Junkie" to watch football?) But once you get past the name, it's clear this place is doing a lot more than making their food-to-liquor ratios by serving food during daylight hours.
We'll admit it: We aren't as young as we used to be. Heck, some of us even have kids now. But in spite of that fact, we want to get out of the house every now and again, go someplace low-key, eat greasy bar food, and watch the game. It's times like these that we're thankful for Mac's. This quaint little sports bar has everything a fan could want: good beer, good food, multiple TVs, and an atmosphere that is good for the whole family. In fact, the food and drinks are so good that we've even considered stopping by during the off-season. Why not? You're only young once.
You probably remember watching the Arizona Cardinals suffer a narrow defeat in the Super Bowl, after officiating that made Tim Donaghy's showing at those Phoenix Suns playoffs games look professional. Would you like to relive the humiliation of that beating? Just head up north to Cave Creek, that little outlaw hamlet that's housed rapper DMX and Hell's Angels founder Sonny Barger. Up there, you'll find a bar called Harold's that caters exclusively to dirtbag Steelers fans. And those fans — every single one of them, up and down the bar — are louder, tougher, and more dedicated than any Cardinals fan in Phoenix. This bar is a little piece of Pittsburgh, readily showcasing what you'd find in a real NFL city, from wall-to-wall memorabilia to ridiculously fatty food and whiskey on tap. They may be "White Trash America's Team," but the Steelers also have a fan base Arizona should envy in every way. Go up for the game, but leave your red and white at home.
So you go to a dive bar and you have your choice of darts, pool, or electronic trivia. With those generic options, you're bored out of your mind. No wonder you're such a drunk. Find alternative stimulation at Paradise Lounge, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it dive bar that has a selection of board games unlike any other. Once inside, you'll find a mountain of games like Pictionary, Taboo, Loaded Questions, Skip-Bo, and just about every version of Trivial Pursuit on the market. It's free and it's fun, as long as you can keep your wits as you drink. And if you're in the mood for an old standby, they have darts galore, too.
Though it looks a little like a barn from the outside, Tempe's Boulders on Broadway is pure class inside, with a sophisticated brick-floored lobby and a cozy, ski lodge-like loft upstairs. They've got great beers on tap, a well-placed tabletop Ms. Pac-Man game, and a Tuesday night team trivia competition that's our pick for the best in town. First, obviously, the confines are comfy; then there are the questions, which aren't too hard or too easy. Toss in some great people from the grad-student-and-above age group in that area of Tempe, and you've got the makings of an enjoyable evening of head-scratching, whispering, and cheering.
Imbibing copious amounts of alcohol while throwing sharp, pointy things usually ends with someone at the hospital with a dart lodged in his or her ass. So it was no surprise when most of Arizona's pubs and clubs started ripping down their dartboards. Stinger's Sports Bar in Glendale compromised, eschewing lawsuit-provoking metal darts for plastic ones and a traditional board for four electronic ones. We come here because dart games are cheap, and the bar isn't too dive-y, despite the $2 beer specials and free breakfast from 6 to 9 a.m. If you're serious about darts, Troy Vending hosts a seasonal league at Stinger's on Wednesdays and Sundays. Though you'll likely miss the feel of sharp steel in your trembling functional drunk hands, at least with the electronic boards you don't have to keep score. Or hear how your buddy got "nailed in the ass" by a stranger.
Okay, so one of our favorite nightlife offerings starts before it gets dark, but the party often goes far into the night. Close enough. The DJ duo of Jared Alan and William Fucking Reed are two of the biggest party monsters Phoenix has to offer. Their respective Saturday night wingdings Cheap Thrills and Shake! have drawn in the hipsters and big-sunglasses crowd like stylish moths to a flame. So it seemed only natural when these two nightlife kings joined forces last year to create the popular summertime pool party series. Every Sunday afternoon from Memorial Day through Labor Day weekend, Alan and Reed spun scintillating mixes of indie rock, electro, and hip-hop for the swanky and tattooed masses at downtown Phoenix hotels. Organized by socialite maven Jen Deveroux, the swimming soirees (which were originally held at the Hotel San Carlos before moving to the Wyndham this year) became the place to be seen for hipster boys or funky, bikini-wearing femmes. Guests DJs also visited every week (ranging from local mixmasters like Benjamin Cutswell and Tricky T to such marquee-level names as Deee-Lite's Lady Miss Kier and UK breakbeat legend Adam Freeland) helping give the parties an extra aura of cool. Call us crazy, but Adult Swim makes us wish summer lasted all year long.
Most of Phoenix's seedy pool places pale in comparison to this Mesa billiards establishment, since it's (gasp) clean, safe, and well lit. It's ruled by tough-looking bouncers and counter help, so you'll never worry about a cut-throat game of eight-ball resulting in your throat actually getting slit by some shark. All jokes aside, Main Street Billiards offers 42 tables (the most in the Valley) where you can rack, chalk, and break by the hour for $4 per person (or $8 per hour for two or more), with the quarter-munchers running for a 75 cents a game. Adult refreshment is offered in the form of beers and mixed drinks, with mugs of draft brews like Shock Top or Amber Bock and Budweiser for $3.50. Just remember to use a coaster, ace, as your brewski might eff up the pristine green felt.
Don't let the name fool you, as this watering hole on the edge of downtown Phoenix is actually pretty clean (well, as far as dive bars go). Frankly, the dirtiest thing here is the longshoreman-grade obscenities we've heard coming from regulars who are as colorful as the décor. Besides a few murals depicting an array of funky blues artists lining the walls, there are also numerous neon beer signs, an ancient Simpsons pinball machine, and even a deer head wearing a thrift store-worthy neck noose. Speaking of tying something on, we do just that at Philthy Phil's with regularity since the drinks get poured pretty strong and are dirt cheap to boot (including $1.50 Busch cans and $2 well drinks during the daily happy hour).
But no matter how inebriated we may get, we always keep one eye on the security monitor above the bar to make sure our car doesn't get jacked.
If you haven't been to the Great Escape anytime in the past year or so, be prepared for a huge shock. The rough-and-tumble dive you'd grudgingly grown to love is completely gone. As in 86'd. Vamoosed. Even the free popcorn machine that spat out wilted, tasteless kernels, you ask? Yup, it went away when the bar was sold last year to Dilip Bansal, who changed the name slightly and remodeled the place with more upscale furnishings and a posh décor scheme. (He even managed to squeeze an upholstered chair or two in the closet-size establishment). If you don't mind the new Z Gallerie-esque look, the good news is plenty of high-octane booze and brews are still available (including Guinness and Heineken on tap) just as cheap as before: $3 wells and call drinks, $2.50 mugs, and $2 pints.
It's time to bust some science: Centruroides sculpturatus (a.k.a. the common Arizona bark scorpion) comes out only after dark, constantly on the prowl for places that are cool. Because of this fact, our fearsome arachnid friend is not unlike the patrons at this Glendale watering hole, who tend to flock here during the evening in search of the rampant post-dusk fun. After the sun goes down, Stinger's bartenders serve plenty of $3 Seagram's vodka bombers until 6 p.m., while the live entertainment schedule is loaded with weekend gigs by such punk, alt-rock, and blues outfits as Tell Me About the Rabbits and the J. Powers Band, as well as uproarious karaoke sessions on the nights without live music. Just be sure to slip back under your rock, er, we mean underneath your sheets by morning.
Formerly known as QC Cafe, and Jim's Cantina before that, this bar and restaurant at the center of Queen Creek recently underwent renovations to make it a little more in step with the influx of yuppies making their home in this former cow town. It's still, along with Rudy's, a major landmark in town, though, and a comfortable place to plop yourself down for a drink or three. In an area overrun by chain restaurants and their associated bars, it's a nice little slice of old-time rural Arizona, where all the regulars know a little too much about each other and the happy hour prices cater to folks on a laid-off construction worker's budget.
The term "Cheers-style" gets thrown around a lot in the discussion of neighborhood bars, but we're certain it's not usually as appropriate as it is with Mesa's Pub 'N' Grub. This little corner dive has fryers behind the bar and a selection of cheap domestic beers served in frosted mugs or hearty pitchers. It's a consistently pleasant crowd, mostly folks from the Dobson Ranch neighborhood, but also a few bikers who don't seem to take their badass role too seriously. The bartenders are just a little sassy and there's always somewhere to sit. The food — pretty much all of it fried golden brown — is just what you want from pub fare. Oh, and everyone knows your name. Or will know your name if you come in twice in two weeks.
So many bars have an informal dress code — a sort of de facto aesthetic agreement rendering anyone who doesn't fit the bill uncomfortable in the establishment, even if they're not, technically, unwelcome. Not Tempe's Time Out Lounge. This is the sort of place where, when a girlfriend asks your advice on what to wear, you can say "anything" and be absolutely and irrefutably right. Some of the regulars wear Stetsons and boots, others are ASU kids in hoodies, and you're bound to see a few hipsters ending their night there any time after midnight. Yet all are welcome in the well-worn booths of this cash-only bar. Seats are comfy, drinks are cheap, patrons are friendly, and bartenders are snarky. What more could you want in a neighborhood bar?
There aren't any high-stakes Texas hold 'em poker games to be had at the El Dorado. The same goes for goldfish races, "name that tune" competitions, or any other kind of bar game or nonsense. Just a bunch of surly regulars downing alcohol, and lots of it. So why are we highlighting this dour-sounding booze bunker? Because it's an under-the-radar kinda place at the ass-end of Scottsdale where one can slip off from work for some undisturbed day-drinking amongst fellow barflies. Bottled domestic beers and well drinks are sold for $2.50 each on weekdays from 6 a.m. until 7 p.m. (just in case you really wanna get an early start). The bartenders also are known to bring in free pizza from time to time, so if there's a daytime Diamondbacks game or some re-runs of Law & Order on, it just might be a perfect afternoon of playing hooky from the rat race. (We promise not to tell the boss.)
Everyone knows that Casey Moore's is a great place to down a brew and eat delicious pub grub, but did you know it's haunted? The story is that an ex-ASU student was murdered on the second story. Now her ghost throws the occasional plate or two at guests who disturb her in the afterlife. As long as those plates contain fresh oysters or a tasty burger, we don't mind. In fact, if it will keep her from possessing our mortal souls, we'll even buy a happy hour pint for the dear old ghoul.
Now, let's be clear about one thing: Nobody here is promoting the idea of excessive drinking while children are in your care. But anyone with small kids knows that the typical dining experience is about as much fun as a visit from the IRS. So what a welcome change it is to have a relaxing time sipping, say, a nice frosty margarita while the kiddos are happily occupied for more than five minutes. Thanks to a big patio, a not-too-stuffy atmosphere, kid-friendly food, a pond, and some very tolerant ducks, Aunt Chilada's has the perfect setting to enjoy your own personal happy hour, plus they serve a pretty decent margarita. Until Makutu's Island gets a liquor license, your options are limited. So give it a shot . . . maybe two.
When you're getting a little long in the tooth, it's all about strategy. You've gotta embrace your age during the day (mostly because there's no other choice with that damn sun highlighting your wrinkles) by playing it classy and conservative. Then at night, go away from the light — get as far away as you can and stay there. Black Forest Mill Restaurant understands. It's a nice German restaurant by day, but transforms every Saturday night into a dark, debaucherous club with DJ Jared Alan's biggest weekly DJ night to date, Cheap Thrills.
Those of us who are pushing 30 (or even 40) love it there. The lights are way, way low and the club is big. Keeping your face veiled by darkness and distance, Cheap Thrills provides a perfect combo to hide your age.
Then, by the time everyone's good and sauced, you can lure a young fawn to a darkened booth for a little ageless make-out. Not to mention, the music is current and so danceable that you'll be shaking it as if you're 25 again. Or even 35, depending. Just make sure you catch a cab before the house lights come on at 2 a.m. and expose your shame.
Bar and club owners have a love affair with the underage crowd during these threadbare times. Though barely legal types cant pop bottles or down a few drams of Stoli, they can clean a place out of Red Bull and other non-alcoholic drinks. No one knows this better than the cats of Platinum Nightlife, whove seen big turnouts at their weekly 18-and‑over shindig at Myst. DJ Breez and his partner Slippe rain down electro hits and Top 40 songs for the hundreds who cough up $15 of mommy and daddys money for the chance to hang out at the Scottsdale nightclub each and every Thump Day. Guest DJs like Swerve and the party monsters of Silver Medallion occasionally drop to help add to the raucous, off-the-hook atmosphere. Party on post-adolescents!
Chyro Arts has booked some amazing shows in the past year — including an unforgettable night with banjo-playing bluesman William Elliot Whitmore — and it has a cool vibe. Plus, the sound is great in this dark and cozy room. Oh, and we love the collection of mismatched couches and futons lining the walls, which tend to make seeing a show a lot like hanging out in your friend's basement as a teenager. Because Chyro makes its home at the dark end of Papago Plaza, there are plenty of bar options nearby, including Papago Brewing and British Open Pub, a fantastic tavern just two doors down and crawling with folks from the show.
Tucson's Calexico, a Western- and Latin-tinged rock act that's arguably the biggest indie band in the state, plays Phoenix only every few years. When they do, though, they go all out, as evidenced by their April concert at Heritage Square. The show was promoted by Stateside Presents and Chris Bianco, proprietor of the famous pizzeria next to the wooden structure that sheltered the crowd. Everything from the candle-lit merch tables to the high-end beer to the gorgeous custom tapestry behind the stage was first-class, and Calexico, along with their opener, a classic Latin Big Band called Sergio Mendoza y la Orkestra, put on a magical show. After a night like that, it's a shame we don't see more of Calexico, and more shows at Heritage Square, probably the most beautiful outdoor concert space in town.
When a band's latest album is less than a half-hour long (as Los Angeles-based noise-pop act No Age's is), it's not surprising when their headlining set comes in under an hour. Actually, the band behind Nouns — one of the best-reviewed releases of 2008 — played only 45 minutes in Phoenix. But, oh, what a 45 minutes it was, packed with Dean Allen Spunt's largely unintelligible but still effective vocals and Randy Randall's rattling guitar. It was short, sweet and very, very memorable — the way great club shows should be.
Charlie Brand works the self-deprecating-artist shtick better than any other musician we've met. Where most artists may brag about touring with marquee-level acts or getting their faces on TV, the soft-spoken guitarist/vocalist for indie quirk-poppers Miniature Tigers tends to shrug off their numerous successes. So we estimate that Brand's been shrugging a lot over the past 12 months, as he and bandmate Rick Schaier have been on a major roll since last fall. After having the infectiously catchy songs as "Cannibal Queen" and "Dino Damage" broadcast on taste-making SoCal college station KCRW, the Mini T's (who are signed to Sony-funded indie label Modern Art Records) performed to packed houses at October's CMJ Music Marathon in New York. Earlier this year, they were chosen by Ben Folds to accompany him on an East Coast tour, and they followed that up with an appearance at South by Southwest and by winning an online contest that got their videos played on MTVu. We're betting that if you're a frustrated musician in an unsigned Valley band, chances are you hate Brand even more than he detests himself.
Hundreds of Valley bands toured this year, but no one did it with as much panache as Jimmy Eat World, who played their 1999 magnum opus Clarity front-to-back in 10 cities across the country. Sure, those confused, lovelorn teenage anthems like "Can You Still Feel the Butterflies?" sounded great in the suburban bedrooms of a typical Millennial's childhood, but the record that forever linked "Arizona" and "emo" has also aged surprisingly gracefully. We were the tour's last stop, a sold-out Marquee show where Jim Adkins and Company tapped the same opening bands as they did for the CD release party 10 years earlier at the now defunct Green Room. That's classy. The show was nothing short of phenomenal, making many folks who are probably a little too old to lose their inhibitions at a rock show sing along like Gorbachev-era Russian teens seeing Bon Jovi for the first time.
Though they were already signed to a record label — and quite probably already tapped to make an appearance at California's Coachella music festival — before their Texas adventure this year, local indie act Dear and the Headlights seemed to make a breakthrough at Austin's South by Southwest music industry showcase. Leading a contingent of seven Phoenix bands, Dear and the Headlights played four shows in four days and networked like crazy. Like a lot of bands, they went there more to impress industry types than the handful of casual fans shelling out $600 for a badge, and it seemed to work, as something they did this spring opened up doors at the east coast's big festival, Bonnaroo, the Vans Warped Tour, and several influential blogs.
Quick. Name an Arizona-based artist who scored consecutive Grammys for 2007 and 2008? Alice Cooper, George Benson, or DMX? Nope. It's the Phoenix Chorale. Never heard of them? Then you need to wake up, because the choral ensemble formerly known as the Phoenix Bach Choir is a heavy-hitting enterprise in the classical music world, taking home a bronze phonograph statuette this year for Best Small Ensemble Performance. With eccentric artistic director and composer Charles Bruffy leading the 25-plus-person ensemble, they perform blow-you-away a cappella music roughly a dozen times each season, which runs from October to May. The group also opens up its home base, Trinity Episcopal Cathedral at 100 West Roosevelt Street, for free First Fridays rehearsals.
Okay, so the timing was bad: The Medic Droid broke up a week after we put them on our cover. But, we've gotta hand it to this MySpace success story. They broke up in style, starting with onstage spats and continuing through an exchange of online barbs. This electro-pop act (imagine if Perez Hilton had a band) was poised for serious success, having completed its first national tour and slated to play king-making indie fest South by Southwest. Instead, they flamed out quickly and beautifully, all in the public eye. If we have to have a band break up while an issue featuring them on the front cover is barely off newsstands, we're glad it could happen in such a gloriously entertaining way.
Attending open mic nights at Valley bars is often akin to being an excited kid on Christmas morn: You're hoping for something good, like an unsigned troubadour who croons beautifully, instead of something lousy, which in this case might be some no-talent freakazoid who should be singing only in the shower. Thankfully, the wanna-be musicians, comedians, poets, and other participants at the weekly acoustic/electric open mic at Goat Head generally fall into the first category. Sure, the tavern's witnessed a few Gong Show-caliber efforts (like one yukster noob whose racial jokes were a bigger bomb than Nagasaki), but most of the performers toting their instruments onstage for a three-to-four song set provide solid entertainment. While the music leans more toward the roots/Americana/country variety (as evidenced by the evening's folkster host Carey Slade), a few rockers are known to pop by occasionally. Just don't expect to see any participants on American Idol anytime soon.
What's better than rocking out to karaoke? How about doing it with a live band instead of a poorly translated laserdisc with incongruous video footage? The four-member posse of Rockaroke has a repertoire of oldies-but-goodies and a few newer tracks ready for you to obliterate with your drunken renditions. Try belting out The Beatles' "Hey Jude" or Radiohead's "Creep." Whatever you croon, it'll sound better with a backing band. If you think it sounds too good to be true, we have one thing to say to you: Don't stop believin'.
For the second year in a row, UnSkinny Bop, a local Poison tribute band, is the undisputed best in Phoenix. When we wrote about them last year, we discussed the amazing potential they have, given their physical resemblance to the original act along with their ability to either do spot-on renditions or go with the flow, reinterpreting the songs where appropriate — just like the real deal. Now, that potential is being realized, as they're appearing in John Cusack's upcoming movie Hot Tub Time Machine, playing Bret, Rikki, Bobby, and C.C. on the silver screen. Not too many tribute bands anywhere can claim such a compliment.
Throughout his decade-long career as a guitar-wielding country music star, Phoenix native (and Capitol Records artist) Dierks Bentley has penned many a heartfelt song for his fans. There's "My Last Name," an emotional number from his 2003 self-titled album in which he sings about his family's history and legacy, or "I Can't Forget Her," an aching and remorseful post-mortem of a broken relationship. But Bentley's most poignant and personal song, by far, to date is "Hey, Jordan," an upbeat and soulful acoustic ballad that's laced with melancholy and sorrow over the loss of Jordan Sterling, a lifelong friend and fellow Valley native who passed away in January at the age of 34. Sterling had spent his entire life battling cystic fibrosis (as had his sister Brooke) but took a turn for the worst last year after doctors accidentally pierced an artery near his lung. Bentley wrote the song as a tribute after Sterling's death, encapsulating his memories and feelings for his fallen friend in such lines as, "Hey, Jordan, do you remember all the good time we both had? / Hey, Jordan, it made me so happy, and oh so sad." He sung it at Jordan's funeral and publicly debuted it at this year's Last Call Ball at The Cannery Ballroom in Nashville, bringing a tear to the eye of many of his fans in attendance. Sterling's family was also touched by the song, as evidenced by comments left by a relative on its YouTube page: "This song is about my cousin! It's awesome that Dierks has taken [it] to the world. It was amazing to have him sing this song at the funeral." We're certain that wherever he is now, Jordan enjoyed hearing the song, too.
Are you a little bit country, but your friends are more rock 'n' roll? Then Graham Central Station in south Tempe is where you should head, partner, as everyone in your party will find a rip-roaring good time every Wednesday through Saturday night. While the multi-room nightspot boasts different club areas (offering karaoke, hip-hop, and retro music), cowboys are treated like kings here. In addition to line-dancing lessons on different nights of the week, cowpokes and their ladies can boot-scoot and bounce their badonkadonks to current country tunes (or the occasional performance by singing stars like Neal McCoy) inside the Rockin' Rodeo. There's also a mechanical bull-riding contest every Wednesday, which offers the chance to win a $500 cash prize. That oughta buy a lot of Wranglers, right thar!
The Chandler strip mall that houses Tom Ryan's is turning into a virtual ghost town, for all intents and purposes, with more than a half-dozen shuttered retail spaces looking more vacant than Boot Hill Cemetery at midnight. But the bar has managed to cheat death (à la Clint Eastwood's badass bounty hunter in Sergio Leone's A Fistful of Dollars), thanks to the loyal patronage of buckaroos and urban cowboys. One of the major draws is the bar's live shows, each Thursday through Saturday, by a Southern-fried slate of boot-scootin' bands like Mesa's country-rock trio Mogollon. Another regular is ASU poli-sci student Michael Easterday, a CMT Music City Madness contestant who performs along with a three-member backing band. Everyone at Tom Ryan's thinks the kid crooner will someday make it to Nashville. Guess they can say they heard him here first.
Every Thursday, The Blooze Bar dusts off its blue suede shoes and greases its gears for "Rockabilly Night," a roof-raising weekly that features some of the Valley's best rockabilly bands, including The High Rollers, The Jump Back Brothers, The Toomstoners, The Rhythm Dragons, and Voodoo Swing. National acts light up the stage, too, with performers like Johnny Falstaff coming from Texas and The Booze Bombs coming from as far away as Germany. Pabst Blue Ribbons are only $1.75 on Rockabilly Night, and the presence of numerous Valley car clubs — with their retro rods and custom classics, enjoying the perk of "VIP Hot Rod Parking" — adds to the ambiance.
The late Sid Copeland was reportedly a helluva guy. The former owner of this east Phoenix punk institution, who sadly passed away in 2006, had a reputation of being easygoing and generous. He was a much-beloved figure in the local scene, providing his customers with a shoulder to lean on in times of woe or making sure every musician who played got paid (even if it was only $5). In the shadow of such a legacy, it's only natural to feel Jugheads' current proprietors Donnie Phillippi and Chris Ceimo have some big shoes to fill since buying the place in January. We're happy to report it's been so far, so good. Like Copeland, they've booked a mix of established local punk and rockabilly acts (Grave Danger, Dephinger, Casket Life) with up-and-comers (Cosmeticators, Automatic Erasers). Besides being just as affable as their predecessor, the trio plan on keeping the PBR cheap ($1 a can most nights) and the jukebox stocked with tunes by the likes of G.G. Allin, Propaghandi, and Face to Face. We're sure Sid would be proud.
The rarity of live-music shows taking place in Valley homes isn't so much about a lack of interest as it is a by-product of our desert ecology. You see, the impenetrable Sonoran Desert prevents many dwellings from boasting a basement, so noise from amplified bands tends to leak into neighbors' bedrooms and, we imagine, peeve the neighborhood. That's why The Tribe House is so special: There's a friggin' basement, which showcases a wide range of hip-hop, singer-songwriters, noise ensembles, and local grindcore. Though the home's forever-rotating core of residents books some talented groups, they aren't too on-the-ball with publicizing the last-minute, donation-based concerts, so check area coffee shops for fliers or MySpace/Facebook for event postings.
It's been 13 years since Senbad (a.k.a. Sean Badger) first burst upon the Phoenix DJ scene, and a lot has transpired in that time: Nights have come and gone, killer clubs like Freedom in Tempe and Next in Scottsdale were born only to (sadly) die, and the musical tastes of ever-fickle crowds have constantly changed. (Remember big beat, anyone? How about electroclash?) Meanwhile, this 30-something "house music souldier" has remained a constant, slinging out the sounds alongside longtime partner Pete "Supermix" Salaz at venues across the Valley. Their long-running shindig Solstice, which also features hip-hop mavens Benjamin Cutswell and Element, is in its third year at Bar Smith, and their ample patronage shows no signs of abating. Keep battling on, Badger.
In 2007, Jimmy Martin-Nelson was toiling away as Kid Vicious behind the turntables at Scottsdale spots like Dirty Pretty and Pussycat — just another DJ working the monotonous club scene grind. Spin that Kanye remix, pimp that bottle service deal. Rinse, lather, repeat. Fast-forward to today: The 20-something is now known as Death to the Throne and is arguably a bigger name than his electrojock brethren Jared Alan and Epidemic, as he's been endlessly lauded, from Brazil to Belgium, on the blogosphere. How did he go from DJ drone to superstar spinster? When he wasn't at his regular job dealing with danceterias in Old Town Scottsdale, Martin-Nelson was at home crafting his wicked-sounding bootleg electro and disco-punk remixes of M.I.A. and Kings of Leon songs and dispatching them to tastemaking EDM sites on the Intarwebz. Online audiophiles began taking notice, as did the Web sites for Vibe Magazine and Rolling Stone, the latter of which summed up what he does as taking "a bunch of your favorite songs, and makes them better." Word.
The stylish Homme Lounge sets itself apart from other Valley gay bars by hosting an array of events for all kinds of people. In addition to the stereotypical house and electro dance nights with rippled, shirtless men, the club's also home to the monthly goth/industrial Sadisco* events, a weekly hip-hop night called "So Paid" on Thursdays, and the metrosexual hipster weekly "Party Foul!" on Fridays. Celebrated local DJs such as Kevin M.O.B., Tricky T, and Craig Citizen spin hot tunes while patrons enjoy cold drinks, and the scene is so diverse that newbies often wander in and party into the wee hours before even realizing they're in a "gay" bar. Gotcha! Go ahead and get down. Really. It's okay. Nobody's watching but that hungry-looking bear.
We're not saying all lesbians are lushes, but good drink specials can go a long way in attracting hordes of hot gay women. zGirl Club's got specials almost every night of the week, including two-for-one well and domestic bottles on Tuesdays and $2.50 pitchers on Thursdays. And despite its modest dance floor, the club always manages to get booties moving, with a little help from the turntable stylings of veteran DJ Domenica, who spins everything from hip-hop to electro-dance mash-ups. There's also karaoke on Thursdays and the occasional speed-dating event. The drink specials are good for those, too.
A humble confession: When we discovered this place, we rushed back to the office to see what we had written about it. Nothing in the archives. Well, friends, The Roadrunner Lounge shall not be ignored ever again, because it's soooo good. This rundown piece of you-know-what on Hayden Road north of Osborn Road is just steps away from Carlsbad Tavern, next to a curious Dutch-Chinese market, and across the street from a (for real) Starbucks. Things are definitely disconcerting from the outside — it seems as though the windowless joint is a mob front — but enter the decently lit spot in order to throw some darts, shoot billiards, and drink down a cheapo cocktail that's never shy on liquor. If enough word is to get out, the Roadrunner could very well be the next spot where south Scottsdale hipsters flock, though we prefer it to be our own greedy little secret.
The name of the game here is chillaxing, which patrons seem to do in spades. Although this Scottsdale nightspot sits only a few blocks from the Scottsdale club hubbub of places like Axis/Radius and Pussycat Lounge, it feels like the usual crowd of d-bags and trouts is miles and miles away. The Crown Room is almost atypical of Old Town in that the staff and doorman don't seem to care whether you're not wearing Christian Audigier. They'll serve you just the same. There's a DJ, of course, but the mixes tend to be more downtempo. The drinks? Kinda pricey, but at least you don't have to fight your way through bodies stacked 10 deep around the bar to get them.
Of all its many amenities (30-foot-long martini bar, handcrafted artisan cocktails, posh Mid-Century Modern furnishings), the main benefit of spending an evening at this lobbyside salon at the W is the nonstop cast of characters who parade by you. There's the ditzy chickadee with the fake-bake tan who's had a little too much to drink and can't seem to navigate walking down the stairs from the second-floor pool area in stilettos. Following her is the herd of spiky-haired, collar-popping bro-zillas who are running game on every piece of trim in sight. And we swear we saw DJ Jazzy Jeff (of Fresh Prince fame) checking in. We kid you not. But if being a looky-loo loses its flavor, the den-like lounge is stocked with a library of art and travel books.
Don't make the mistake of hightailing it home after dinner at Lon's, a longtime favorite restaurant of ours. Instead, saunter onto one of the patios around the old joint and curl up (alone or with a loved one) on a comfortable chair or couch. Now, experience one of Arizona's warmest, coziest, and most romantic settings. Perhaps (on certain nights) a friendly, acoustic guitar-playing minstrel will serenade you. For sure, you'll soon be mesmerized by the smells of the desert, the crackling of dry mesquite in the fireplaces. We know we don't have to tell you not to forget a nice after-dinner drink. By the time you actually do step into your car, you may feel as if you've been on a mini-vacation — right here in town. Every night at Lon's is a special event.
This Main Street spot doesn't look like much from the outside, but there's a grip going on inside this laid-back, off-the-radar watering hole. There's live music basically all the time, an 11 a.m. to 6 p.m. happy hour every day of the week, and awesome video games like Big Buck Hunter. Then there's the bar's namesake, an indoor smoking patio that's accessible from the main room. It's well ventilated and there's plenty to gawk at, such as a vintage television tuned to infomercials and dudes/dudettes choking down cancer sticks on Bike Night (as in motorcycles; you'll see plenty of 'em on a Thursday).
If I Dream of Jeannie's magically delicious heroine had a secret lair, it would be the Harem Lounge. Part coffee shop, part hookah lounge, this Moroccan-themed strip-mall jewel is bathed in sumptuous red light cast by stained-glass lanterns that twinkle in the sexy loft above the cave-like shop. Soothing, exotic beats blare in the background as customers mellow with water pipe in mouth. Homemade chai, coffee and Middle Eastern appetizers are all on the menu, but the main course is the shisha offered in more than two dozen flavors, including black licorice, cola, and double apple. Though the hookah prices are a bit steep, we think the ambiance and late night hours — until at least 1 a.m. daily — more than make up for it. Plus, there's a ton of cozy seating arrangements inside or outside on the huge outdoor patio, so you can always tap a couple of friends to rock this Casbah with you.
You saw your ex hanging out at downtown's Lost Leaf, but she didn't see you — under no circumstance do you want to cross paths with her — so you head over to the Bikini Lounge and run into the dude that's dating your ex. Ugh. You should just go home, but you're dolled up and rocking a sweet pair of drinking shoes. Where to? The answer is about three miles west of downtown on Grand Avenue at Renee's Grand Tavern. The spot looks a bit different from its previous incarnation — Renee's closed for six months so that new ownership could upgrade the outdoor fireplace and other cosmetics — but the place still rules. Plus, they're bringing it with some super-cool entertainment and club events six nights a week. You may not know anyone at this off-the-radar drinkery, but, hey, that's how you prefer it tonight.
You wouldn't think an all-ages, alcohol-free music venue that doubles as an art gallery would need an aggressive bouncer, but Modified Arts' Ami Johnson has stories that suggest it does. Like the story about the time some guy pulled a knife on her for giving him a small bottle of water instead of a large. Or the story about the time two bums dented her car fighting outside, pummeling each other until she chased them off. Or the story about the time a guy stole the venue's hand stamp and tried to sell it back to her. Through it all, Johnson, who's also probably the smallest bouncer in town, maintains an admirably friendly but firm attitude that'd be a great lesson to other doormen in town, most of whom work in much nicer neighborhoods. In fact, we're pretty sure she ought to teach a certification course for local bouncers.
Just because those officious bastards at the Department of Liquor License say you gotta stop boozing by 2 a.m., that don't mean it's time to hit the sheets. (Who are they, your effin' mother?) The nightlife game's still afoot in Scottsdale long after last call, and we ain't referring to what's transpiring at that Denny's over near Osborn. Nightclub entrepreneur Aron Mezo turned the former e4 into a virtual after-hours Pleasure Island awaiting those insomniacs daring enough to keep strong 'til the break of dawn. Obviously, there's no alcohol around (which allows the 18-and-over types to get in), but you can suck down Red Bulls or other energy drinks for a boost while DJs like EPHX and Nando keep the dance floor going until 4 a.m. A nonstop buffet of gourmet pizzas is served on the open-air patio alongside blackjack tables and TVs showing Japanimation porn. (Yowza!) If watching schoolgirls and tentacled aliens, uh, interacting doesn't keep you awake, then it may be best to call it a night.
Helen Hestenes, performance artist and owner of the Icehouse, on Jackson Street in downtown Phoenix, has never given up on her dreams for the city — or her arts venue. When she purchased the neglected historic property with then-husband David Therrien in 1990, Hestenes imagined an avant-garde gallery and performance space with an edgy, urban heartbeat married to a solid foundation of history. The faux-column façade, large open rooms and church-like "Cathedral Room" seemed the perfect match to her vision. In no time, Hestenes was bringing in the kinds of acts the culture-deprived community was missing: a 12-hour performance piece by Live Art Platform, the LIFE (Liberty, Independence, and Freedom of Expression) Festival, the Invisible Woman breast cancer exhibit and an international art exchange program made possible by a Rockefeller Foundation grant.
But her dreams didn't end with the property lines. Hestenes hoped that other artists would follow suit and revitalize the surrounding buildings into gallery spaces, cozy cafes and entertainment palaces for underground art. Think an American version of Paris, minus the Eiffel Tower. The city of Phoenix had different ideas; namely, razing many of the nearby historic buildings to make way for parking garages, more jails, and a morgue — plans that never came to fruition.
Hestenes has always been outspoken about the need to preserve Phoenix's historic properties. After the Borden Dairy building was demolished, The Icehouse staged a mock funeral complete with tombstone and eulogy. Admittedly, it was a little quirky.
Nearly two decades later, the building stands as a testament to Hestenes' resolve. Despite numerous code violations, cease-and-desist orders, and demolition permits, the Icehouse hosts art shows, raves, and private parties. Recently, Hestenes offered a large-scale painting by the late Phoenix artist Rose Johnson during the summer's barter exhibit in return for a handicap-accessible ramp or repairs to the venue's elevator system.
It's proof that Hestenes still has plans for the Icehouse.
The extracurricular activities of Chromatest J. Pantsmaker are just as colorful as his nom de guerre, if not more so.
As a member of such DJ collectives as the Salacious Beat Slingers and Warsaw Pact Entertainment, the 33-year-old broadcast engineer has spun pulsating breakbeats and glitch-hop at more raves and desert parties than you can shake a glowstick at. He's also participated in plenty of experimental noise jams, built gigantic pieces of installation artwork, and made multiple treks to Burning Man (natch) where his playa name is "Ben Monkey." Chromatest is also quite the prankster at heart, as demonstrated by his participation in the Arizona chapter of the Cacophony Society.
Never heard of it? Here's the lowdown: Created in 1986 by some Burning Man participants in San Francisco, it's an informal group of like-minded practical jokers, countercultural types, or anyone looking to engage in some zany fun. Author Chuck Palahniuk reportedly patterned Project Mayhem from Fight Club on the society and their madcap activities, which include everything from flash mobs and stripper bingo to gonzo sports like mondo croquet and pumpkin shooting. Chapters have formed in cities around the world, including Phoenix, thanks to Chromatest.
He'd heard about such shenanigans from Burner cohorts and decided it was the kinda thing that could make Phoenix a more freaky and interesting city. Along with friend Dr. Doctor (who'd participated in Cacophony in Seattle) they founded the Valley version in February 2007 by holding an Iditarod urban shopping cart race.
Based off the iconic Alaskan sled-dog race, it involved teams of five participants (some in costume) hooked up to the rolling basket and pulling it through the streets of downtown Phoenix while attempting to sabotage other players. Pit stops were held at bars like the bygone News Room, where a few beer-drinking challenges took place.
Drinking is a big part of AZ Cacophony events, as is the desire to dress in costume, cause a scene, and obtain quizzical looks from passersby. Hence the nature of "Santarchy," which is a mass bar crawl through Old Town Scottsdale in December featuring a drunken, chaotic mass of faux Kris Kringles. Come March 15 (or thereabouts) they also hold the annual "Brides of March" in downtown Tempe, where both men and women dress in wedding gowns and (you guessed it) get soused at bars like Gordon Biersch and Rúla Búla.
Anyone's welcome to join in the fun by surfing over to the Web site (www.azcacophony.org), where members discuss over e-mail what's gonna happen at the next outing.
"We're also brewing up some other fun stuff, and we're always accepting fresh ideas," Chromatest posted. "If anybody has some idea about culture-jamming, group-think rewiring, or just downright silliness, suggest it to the list!"
Zach Sciacca, a.k.a. Z-Trip, is arguably the biggest DJ ever to come outta Phoenix. Enjoying a level of superstardom that many local turntablists and mix masters can only dream about, the 38-year-old Valley native has spent the past decade and a half using his stellar scratching skills to propel himself to international fame and glory.
His list of coups and kudos is both lengthy and legendary: Long before he started touring venues around the world and commanding six-figure appearance fees, Sciacca was a member of the renowned Bombshelter DJs — along with Emile and Radar — in the mid-'90s. Painting local clubs and raves with virtuoso soundscapes, Spin magazine cited the trio in 1999 as some of the best wax workers in the nation. And the praise kept on coming.
Rolling Stone dubbed Sciacca the "king of mash-ups" (based on his popularization of the turntablism art form long before it became a danceteria cliché) and gave his 2005 disc Shifting Gears four stars, the highest rating doled out that year. The 16-track album also included a guest appearance by Public Enemy's Chuck D., who's become a regular collaborator, as has artist Shepard Fairey. (And Z-Trip's most recent honor is probably his biggest to date, as readers of DJ Times magazine chose him as "America's Best DJ" for 2009.)
Not bad for a self-taught spinster who started out DJing at friends' house parties, huh?
While Sciacca's success led to his relocating to L.A. almost eight years ago, the Valley native remains intertwined with our electronic dance-music scene. Almost every DJ in the PHX is connected with Z-Trip in some fashion, if only tangentially. His protégés Tricky T and Element can be found burning up the record decks at such weeklies as the Blunt Club in Tempe or Bar Smith's Pinky Ring. Whenever Sciacca comes home, once or twice a year, he not only draws hundreds to his gigs, but also serves as an occasional lecturer at the DJ classes taught by Emile and Radar at Scottsdale Community College. There have been countless cats who've been inspired to follow in Z-Trip's footsteps.
In October, Sciacca will extend his influence to the virtual world, as he'll become a playable avatar in Activision's DJ Hero video game. Much like its predecessor Guitar Hero did for wanna-be ax-slingers, the interactive beat-juggling title will undoubtedly inspire a crop of future dance club superstars; some of whom will wanna scratch just like Zach.
SideBar is so elegant, and has so much bon vie, that when we first walked in, we couldn't believe we were standing over a Pei Wei on West McDowell Street. Believe it. The best new bar in the Valley is a happy, social, stylish place — a place where you're just as likely to run into an old friend as make a new one. And don't even get us started on the cocktail list. Every drink on this menu is a gem, from the Cucumint Martini to the Lynwood Palmer. We recommend coming early and staying late — not surprisingly, considering all the aforementioned qualities, this place can get packed.
We're not sure whether it's the small-batch Scottish Hendrick's gin they use, which boasts "infusion of cucumber and rose petals," or the housemade tonic water, or that thin slice of cucumber garnishing this refreshing adult beverage, but the combo rocked our palate. Beware, once you've experienced this magical toddy, you might not settle for a G&T anywhere else, ever again. Don't say we didn't warn ya.
When Hollywood Alley debuted in 1988, bands didn't exactly beat a path to its door.
Back in those days, the epicenter of the local music scene was undoubtedly Mill Avenue and such venues as Long Wong's and Chuy's, and not some pissant bar and grill off the beaten path in Mesa. In fact, owner Ross Wincek didn't start booking bands until months after he opened.
More than 20 years later, it's hard imagining a Valley without Hollywood Alley, as it's become a mainstay of the music scene while other establishments have come and gone. It's no surprise, considering the place has all the ingredients that make any rock club great: dim lighting, kitschy décor, black leather booths, and an ample stage that's hosted shows almost every night of the week for the past two decades.
Plenty of nationally known artists have performed at the Alley, running the gamut from spoken word/art rock chanteuse Lydia Lunch to psychedelic indie rock band The Apples in Stereo. (Public Enemy even stopped by for an impromptu show one evening in 2007 after getting booted from the Marquee Theatre). More importantly, however, the joint has served as a launching pad and stomping ground for some of the biggest bands in Valley history.
The old-school punkers of both the Sun City Girls and Beats the Hell Out of Me were regulars way back when, as were such members of the '90s Mill Avenue movement as The Refreshments, Gin Blossoms, and Dead Hot Workshop. Local legends like Jimmy Eat World and Authority Zero used to rattle the roof constantly before graduating to more mainstream concert halls. The modern-day tastemakers of Back Ted N-Ted, What Laura Says, and The Love Me Nots also regularly include the Alley in their gig schedules.
In addition to its myriad musical talent, another draw has been the extended family atmosphere provided by the three generations of the Wincek clan working behind the scene. Famished patrons and starving rockers alike have feasted on the delicious homemade recipes of Ross' grandmother Rachel and his late mother, Lucy, from the kitchen. Meanwhile, 67-year-old paterfamilias Roger helps make the place spotless after the last drunk has ambled out the front door.
Thanks to the Winceks' untiring dedication, you can undoubtedly look forward to another 20 years of hanging out at the Alley.
Though we've had a feud or two with the Blunt Club posse in recent years, it's time to man-up and give 'em much respect for putting on the biggest and best weekly in the city. After all, mic-wielding luminaries like host Emerg McVay, as well as turntablist talent Pickster One and remix king Element have done their Thursday-night thing for more than seven years. In that time, they've brought in bodies by the hundreds, not to mention a rogue's gallery of local hip-hop heroes, including freestyle freaks The Insects, the golden-voiced Golden Tung, and rhyme-spitter extraordinaire Span Phly. The lineup of underground and alt-rap superstars who've visited in recent months is equally as impressive, ranging from Scarub and the other members of L.A.-based collective Living Legends to the Grammy winners of Digable Planets. Even Public Enemy were in the house back in 2007, with Chuck D. and Flavor Flav collaborating and performing with the Blunt Club boys. And if that isn't the ultimate sign of respect, we don't know what is.
Before there was a First Friday or a Roosevelt Row, the best — and for a while, the only — place to find alternative contemporary art was Alwun House. Folks looking for a funky, big-city art scene had only Alwun, downtown's first gallery, to rely on for "something different," art-wise. The first independent non-profit art space, Alwun set the current trend of galleries' advocating for artists with its Alwun House Foundation, the first local arts organization to address the significance of historical buildings.
The name is phonetic for "all one," as in "we're all in this together," a principle that Alwun House founders Kim Moody and Dana Johnson have clung to since purchasing the old, dilapidated property and commencing their rehabilitation on the house and property in 1971. Built in 1912 by shop owner John Sedler, Alwun originally rested on five acres on the northeast corner of 12th Street and Roosevelt, overlooking alfalfa fields south of Roosevelt, before there were even sidewalks out that way. Following its funky restoration, Alwun House quickly became the first gallery in downtown Phoenix, and has stayed on as a maverick torchbearer for the downtown arts community. Its central floor houses an art gallery; its basement is home to a multi-media theater, and its rambling backyard gardens and patio are the settings for poetry slams, music concerts, and exhibits by local visual and performance artists. Alwun's annual Exotic Art Show showcases uncensored and frankly naughty works, and its bar and cafe make this a jumping joint for any kind of off-hours party. Alwun's a three-decades-old mainstay among those of us who need an alternative art fix.
Bob Corritore arrived in Phoenix in 1981, figuring he'd be here only for a year, at most.
Almost three decades after the fact, the Chicago-born harmonica player is still around, and local blues connoisseurs are grateful he decided to stay put. He's been plenty busy in that time, using his lifetime love of the blues to help the Valley get hip to the down-home genre personified by B.B. King and Bo Diddley.
Since 1984, he's served as Phoenix's reigning blues guru, broadcasting choice cuts from his ample album collection and sharing an infectious fervor for the American-born art form every Sunday during his weekly KJZZ 91.5 FM program, Those Lowdown Blues. Meanwhile, Corritore has also devoted the past 18 years to making his CenPho joint the Rhythm Room the preeminent spot for blues and roots music.
It's become a hallowed ground of sorts, having featured gigs by such giants as Pinetop Perkins, Leon Redbone, and Jimmy Rogers. A number of renowned artists have also recorded live at the Rhythm Room, including the Fabulous Thunderbirds' Kim Wilson and the late Robert Lockwood (stepson of the famed Robert Johnson). Corritore has also provided a home for Arizona's blues and R&B practitioners — ranging from Windy City-style trio The Rocket 88s to Texas transplant Big Pete Pearson — as well plenty of Americana, country, rockabilly, and other roots-oriented bands.
The place evokes the spirit of the South Side Chi-Town joints that Corritore haunted during his youth, blowing his mouth harp alongside legends like Honeyboy Edwards and Big Leon Brooks. In fact, his relationships with countless greats is why CenPho property owner Lenny Frankel asked him in 1991 to help transform a vacant cinder block building — which had housed everything from a '60s go-go bar to late-'80s music venue the Purple Turtle — into the Rhythm Room.
Corritore, who'd already been performing with local blues bands and booking shows at such bygone hangouts as Chuy's in Tempe, began bringing in buds like Louisiana Red, Junior Walker, and other marquee-level artists to who ordinarily might have skipped Phoenix altogether. (He'd already encouraged the late Chico Chism to relocate here in 1986, and the former Howlin' Wolf drummer became a frequent collaborator and a regular at the club before passing away in 2007).
It's helped Corritore (who became sole owner in 2001 after Frankel pulled out) build a devoted patronage and weather many a storm over the years, as has his recent practice of hosting a variety of indie and alt-rock acts. So regardless of what night of the week it is, you're guaranteed to find a good show at the Rhythm Room.
James Bond would not drink the Trashcan. Elegant, classy, or sophisticated it is not. It is, however, effective. Very effective. This mysteriously delicious elixir is served in a mini-pitcher and made with generous pours of whatever liquors and liqueurs the bartenders grab (we really don't believe it's consistent) garnished with a crushed can of Red Bull. Completed, it takes on an enchanting blue hue — the color of a mermaid's eyes, some say — and packs a powerful punch. Save a $10 bill (plus $1 for a tip) and don't order the Trashcan until after midnight, because after this drink, you're done. Oh, and after you've slurped it down through the handful of cocktail straws the bartenders toss in each pitcher, eat something or expect to wake up with the jitters, a flavor reminiscent of the top of a nine-volt battery lingering on your palate.