Bars & Clubs

South Miami is rapidly becoming like a miniature South Beach, with fancy cars, inconsiderate pedestrians, and a complete parking clusterfuck. Who’s to blame? We think hot newish restaurant/bar Town started the fire. Daytime, it’s ideal for an early afternoon drink-up on the weekend. By early evening it’s a classy, trendy, minimalist restaurant that specializes in “global comfort food” like brick oven pizzas and yummy parmesan-truffle fries. By night it’s bumpin’, with crowds of trendy 20- and 30-somethings, clutching martini glasses as they spill out into the street. The food is delicious — just try the grilled Caribbean jerk churrasco steak salad, it’s $15 and to die for — but we keep going back for the cocktails. Town’s got a classy clientele and a wide variety of actually delicious martinis, and a big beer menu that includes Chimay and other exotic ales. Try the Towntini — a swirl of Absolut Mandarin Vodka, Cointreau, pineapple juice, cranberry juice, and a mandarin orange garnish for $10. You’ll feel like you’ve been transported to an elegant hotel on Collins Avenue, even though the glowing sign of Sunset Place hangs in the near distance.

It’s 4:59 p.m. … one more minute. Just one more minute. The longest minute. You’ve worked hard all day. Why won’t that clock’s stupid little hand hurry up?! And then it happens: 5 p.m. and all’s well. The time has come for twenty- and thirtysomethings across the city to loosen their ties and unbutton their shirts. In the heart of downtown, this classy second-floor joint bathes its young and beautiful crowd in cool blue lights that spill out over a dance floor, multiple bars, and a frequently occupied stage. The 4 to 7 p.m. happy hour offers half-price drinks to the mingling crowd of young professionals looking to let their hair down after a long day at the office. Inside there’s a nightclub atmosphere, but you’ll find a more relaxed vibe at the outdoor bar, where you can kick back and drunkenly toast to the setting sun.

Cocktails are weird. They’re prim, in a Mamie Eisenhower kind of way, and yet they’re meant to get you sort of drunk before you eat.Plus they’re kind of expensive. So don’t try to beat around the bush by drinking your cocktails somewhere cheap and normal. Go to La Paloma. You’ve seen it before; it’s that restaurant on North Biscayne Boulevard that’s covered in Christmas lights.Step inside.The décor will make you feel like some kind of Swiss duke. There are cabinets full of strange porcelain dolls. Heavy wooden furniture and red carpet abound.Enjoy your white Russian (or whatever) slowly. It’s going to cost you about 10 bucks.

Don’t confuse this nautically themed viejo haven with the Los Marinos Restaurant or the Los Marinos Cafeteria. (They all share the same building, painted up kinda like a boat, across the street from the dog track).During the week, this lounge is full of smoky old men playing cubilete for dollars and drinking. On weekend nights, though, it transforms into the most awesome Miami experience imaginable.Things get magical around 8 p.m., when the cast of characters arrives: the cougars (heavy makeup, crimson dresses, peroxide hair), the couples (holding hands, waiting for their chance to tear up the tiny dance floor situated between a pair of battling DJ booths), and the mysterious Señor Amor (a dapper Lothario sporting a white suit and a mullet, who apparently gets the only tablecloth in the house). Ponytails, double-breasted jackets, and blue eyeshadow abound.

Don’t let the name of this club fool you. These are some real men — well hung and swangin’ that thang. Club Boi is the only black-owned gay club in South Florida, and it serves as a welcome alternative to the same old stuff on South Beach. There is nude male dancing, and the vibe is hot. Even for heteros, this club is a good time. On Friday nights, the Face-Off: Strippers Contest takes place. Are you a confident man? Do you think you’ve got what it takes? Get up on that stage and strip down naked. On Saturday nights, DJs Dias E and Gavin keep those beats pumping with some crazy house music. And Tuesday nights are right for a karaoke showdown. Get out of the closet and get down at Club Boi.

Dark, macho, foul-smelling sports bars are easy to find in every American city. What makes a great sports bar is its ability to incorporate the style of the town into its atmosphere. This is the beauty of Shuckers Bar and Grill: There aren’t too many burgs where you can sit outside comfortably to watch a December NFL matchup. The bar and bay-side patio are lined with flat-screen TV sets, so you can sit and sip a rum runner by the water while you watch the Dolphins lose … again (sigh). The food is good and cheap and includes all the sports bar standards — chicken wings, peel-and-eat shrimp, burgers, and fish platters. But the location, on the 79th Street Causeway, is what puts it over the top. You can park your car in the Best Western lot and just follow the smell of fried grouper to the back dock, or pull up in a boat, tie off, sit down in front of one of those flat-screens, and get your cheer on.

Ah, to drink where the booze is cheap; the bartenders are tough, hot women; and all the patrons are salty drunks. Look no further than the Happy Stork. Forget this town’s lame pretensions about dressing up to drink. Come to this place directly from work, order yourself an Anchor Steam, and strike up a conversation with someone who can really tell you what’s going on around here. Like the brilliant/crazy guy who has lined the walls with all of his weird straw sculptures. Or the ornery drunk who is about to get thrown out for refusing to pay his $30 tab because (he insists) his glass is dirty. Play a game of pool on the chalky, gray-green table, or enjoy a saucy game of strip poker on the coin-operated machine. Best of all, this place is managed by a dour little Irishman who, when he grumblingly rolls himself cigarettes, looks kind of like a pirate. (He won’t let you roll one, so don’t even try, Cheech.) After a few drinks, you’ll want to propose to your bartender and arrange to have your ashes spread into the dirty, dirty urinals.

“Lemon Green Tea Martini,” “Effen Black Cherry Cosmo,” “Elderflower Fizz,” and “Leblon Caipirinhas” are only some of the tempting concoctions luring cocktail lovers to this bar just off Lincoln Road. Already a must-stop on the gay and politico circuits, Halo Lounge is quickly becoming a favorite with straight locals looking for something a little out of the ordinary. While the drinks are colorful and complex, the bright, minimalist décor results in a comfortable, relaxed atmosphere. The low volume on the sound system allows you to actually listen to your date — whether you brought him along or just met him. (DJs turn up the volume a bit on the weekends, though.) The best thing at Halo might be what the place doesn’t serve: a whole lot of tobacco smoke. Smokers have to saunter outside if they want a puff, while patrons inside enjoy fresh, clean air. Prices are about average for the Beach, but stumble by in the late afternoon for drink specials that will leave you thinking you landed in Cocktail Heaven.

Calling all beer pong masters: If you’re on a quest to become the ultimate ponger, head to Billy’s on Wednesday nights for the eclectic bar’s weekly tournament. In addition to great prizes, there are beer specials all night long. The raucous event is one of the reasons Billy’s holds a place in the hearts of many area locals. Others are its inexpensive pitchers, diverse jukebox selections, and fun clientele. Located in the heart of downtown North Miami, near the Museum of Contemporary Art, Billy’s is a cheap and dirty place that has developed its own natural stink, which is what keeps regulars like 28-year-old Sabrina coming back. “You can find me and my friends on the collage of crazy pictures on the wall,” says Sabrina, who has been going to the pub since she was an underage freshman in college. “And I can’t say enough about the grime coating the walls, either.” You can get your drink on early at Billy’s, which opens at 11 a.m. every day except Sundays, when the joint opens at 1 p.m. Last call is always at 5 a.m.

PS14 is like the rec room that belongs to the coolest friend you had in high school (or the one with the most permissive parents). You can show up whenever, stay as long as you want (even past what would be your welcome at most other places), break things, and generally behave however you want, as long as it doesn’t endanger others and you keep it within the room’s confines. Plus there’s a pool table, always a predictably weird cast of characters, and some great tunes you’ve probably never heard before. But seriously — PS14 is like an undepressing dive, where the surroundings are slightly tatty but the people are interesting and, often, cute. Maybe that disqualifies it from “dive” status and instead just makes it one of the most unpretentious, fun little holes keeping it real since before downtown was happening. Every night promises a different left-of-dial flavor, from rock en español to new electro and booty bass to forgotten rock nuggets to the infamous monthly zombie parties hosted by Notorious Nastie and Otto Von Schirach. And its, errrr, intimate size makes it feel like a private party when underground legends Little Brother and Jeru the Damaja decide to take the stage. Assholes and douchebags, stay away.

This bar is Miami’s version of the Eighties sitcom Cheers, where everybody knows your name. “This place is like a family. I know everybody in here,” say Steve, a regular, as he waves to a “drinking buddy” across the bar. The vibe is friendly, the bartenders are sexy, and the pitchers are cheap ($6 domestic). Located across the street from Miami Dade College’s Kendall campus, LA Sports Bar and Grill opened six months ago, where the legendary College Park Inn once stood (next to Hungry Bear subs). The bartender brags about her martini skills: “I make them with love,” she says while measuring vermouth. The horseshoe-shape bar is surrounded by large plasma TV sets tuned to ESPN. Tuesday is the night for videogame players. In the restaurant area, patrons play Guitar Hero on a 100-inch TV screen. Wednesday is poker night. Thursday is biker night, when the patio becomes a scene out of some Hells Angels documentary. On Friday night, DJ Steve spins the wheels of steel. On Saturday night, a live salsa band called Grupo Select performs. And Monday — karaoke night — is the most jam-packed of them all. This bar’s food is amazing: Philly cheese steaks, pizzas, and chicken wings are surprisingly delicious. And yes, she makes a damn good martini.

Exactly how much of the mysterious, greasy fellow known as José El Rey is a put-on? We don’t know or care — and neither, apparently, does his rapidly growing legion of fans. His lo-fi renditions of tinkling freestyle and booming Miami bass, coupled with his flashy Miami Vice-era stage wear and rico suave sexual banter, cause unanimous commotion among the wildly mixed-up cross section of people in his audience. Old-school bros, roller rink queens, Wynwood hipsters — they all worship at the altar of this ladies’-man shaman. Seriously — so many girls jump onstage to shake their shit that El Rey’s trusty security sidekick, El Tigre, often has to lay the smack down, for real. The king has scored shout-outs from Perez Hilton and a recent full-page interview in Maxim en Español, as well as an appearance (as part of the Miami Bass Warriors group) at the holy grail of local Latin culture: the Calle Ocho Festival. José El Rey loves Miami, and Miami loves him right back.

What do you get when you cross a wiry, tattoo-covered Vincent-Gallo-look-alike batshit frontman, slashed-speaker Stooges-style power chord freakouts, and gigs at places such as adults-only female wrestling events? Pure fucking rock and roll, that’s what. Mad Martigan can’t even be bothered to put up a song sample on its MySpace page, but if you hit the local circuit enough, you will encounter the group. And if you’re weak, the band’s raw power will send you running back to the baby’s corner where you belong. More room for those of us who are ready to hail the homecoming of balls-to-the-wall, whiskey-fueled madness.

Sometimes you just want to kill everyone in Miami. The traffic, the sweating, the general idiocy.Cool down there, chief. You need to get your ass to Monty’s. Enjoy a quiet beer on the water’s edge. Stare out past the marina and watch the ships go by. Contemplate the vastness of the ocean and the insignificance of your worries.Or order a bucket load of margaritas and a half-dozen oysters, get yourself good and drunk, and giggle at the people getting their scuba certification in the swimming pool. They look like little seals!Soak up the sweet abandon of faux island tunes being pounded out on the keyboard by the guy in the Hawaiian shirt. No need to get angry. Life is but a Jimmy Buffett song.

Located in Little Haiti, Take One Cocktail Lounge is ghetto-fabulous. It’s a place where thugs chill, a small strip club with the stage directly behind the bar. The smell of ganja fills the air, and the staff makes you feel welcome. Most of the patrons are locals, and the strippers have some of the biggest booties you will ever see. One of these hot mamas has “100%” tattooed on her left buttock and “Beef” inked on the right. Go ahead and stick a dollar bill into her butt crack. She will shake that rump in your face. Oh, the joy of being smacked with some big ass and titties. Order a drink and consider getting the most inexpensive lap dance in Miami ($10). She will dry-hump you, bumping and grinding until you are satisfied. The DJ plays nothing but hip-hop; songs with lyrics like “Slob on my knob, like corn on the cob” create the perfect ambiance. Admission is free, but please leave your guns at home. Owing to a number of shootings on the premises, the bouncers will pat you down before you enter.

You couldn’t turn up your iPod loud enough to replicate the groove you’ll find at Miami Live. Sure, you could fork over some of your hard-earned bucks to Ticketmaster, but even then you probably couldn’t get closer than 100 feet to the artist; at Santo, no one is farther than that from the stage. Each Wednesday, locals and tourists mix with A-list sports, music, and movie stars for a night of live music and surprise performances. Walk through the doors of this chic restaurant not knowing what to expect, and you just might become incapacitated by the sheer grandness of it all: people dressed to the nines, an amazing band, and performances from the likes of John Legend, Lil Wayne, Rick Ross, and many others from your favorite playlists. The night begins with the “L.I.V.E.” Loves the Ladies dinner party and ends with you texting your friends: “Guess who I just saw onstage?” And if you don’t believe us, ask the folks who fly into MIA for the night just to see what the hell everyone is raving about.

We never thought Poplife would really go away. Hell, the party/crew/local-culture juggernaut can take the lion’s share of credit for launching the city’s indie-type scene, back when it was a little gathering called Life at an art gallery in Coral Gables. Since then, it’s turned into a watermark (brand sounds so crass) for progressive, creative thinking in a city that can seem so intent on anything but. Which is why we got a little worried when the Saturday-night soirée ditched its longtime digs at the now-defunct District, moved to a restaurant on Coral Way, and then seemed to grind to a halt. It semi-returned, absorbed into the short-lived Dirty Disco collab at Pawn Shop, but the vibe just wasn’t the same. Thankfully, our worrying was for naught. The minds behind Poplife were just turning the wheels and working on bigger projects still to come, and the party returned to much fanfare last fall, with a new home at White Room. It’s continued doing what it does best — exposing its crowd to next-shit acts that later blow up, stretching minds and genres at once.

With their infectious rhythms and dance-a-licious beats, Afrobeta’s songs are classic yet modern, borderline underground yet so Billboard chart-friendly. Cristina “Cuci Amador” Garcia’s pop sensibility resonates through a blend of bilingual proficiencies that even Shakira might covet, while Tony “Smurphio” Laurencio burns holes through his Moog keyboards with funky fire. It wouldn’t be surprising to find Afrobeta writing songs for the likes of Madonna or even M.I.A. But for now, Miami is lucky to have the duo performing on a regular basis; the two are a match made in disco-house heaven.

The average cool-kid record-store shopper probably can’t place Arnold Steiner by name. But if the same music fan has any taste for the finest in underground hip-hop and electronic sounds, he or she has probably seen his stunning, stomach-dropping artwork. Under the moniker AS1, Steiner has created breathtaking covers and imagery for the likes of world-renowned beatmakers such as Venetian Snares and DJ Dara, as well as homegrown talent including Otto Von Schirach, Plantlife, and Jason Tyler. His compositions are dense, tangled landscapes of biomechanical apocalypse, where contrasts are stark and the organic is strangled by the artificial. They’re so arresting they threaten to eclipse the music inside. And considering the discerning, innovative caliber of artists with whom he has worked, that’s a high compliment indeed.

It started out silently — but violently — whispering through the speakers of local strip clubs and on in-the-know radio DJs’ playlists. The voice flowing over the ridiculously hot beat declared, Shawty had them Apple Bottom jeanzzz. Then the T-Pain-crooned hook could be heard bumping out of Bentleys rolling down Ocean Drive, tricked-out Hondas roaring along Bird Road, and D’d-up Caddies cruising on NE 163rd Street. Boots with the fur. Soon the popularity of the song reached a fevered pitch and Carol City native Flo Rida was rockin’ the MTV’s New Year’s celebration, rock prince Travis Barker was remixing the hit, and The Step Up 2 the Streets soundtrack was even getting “Low.” The whole club was lookin’ at her. This song, born in Hialeah-based Poe Boy Studios, broke ringtone sales records and rocked charts and iPods worldwide. She hit the flo’. Next thing you know, shawty got low low low low low low low.

Born Algernod Lanier Washington, 32-year-old Plies launched his career when he teamed up with Akon for their chart-topping hit “Hypnotized.” Plies released his breakout album, The Real Testament, in 2007 and went from being best known for allegedly firing a gun into the crowd at his own show in Gainesville to becoming a celebrated representative of street life authenticity. His smash single “Shawty,” featuring Tallahassee’s T-Pain, quickly burned up the airwaves and gave Plies an opportunity to reveal the softer side of his hard-knock ghetto persona. Having recently signed with Ted Lucas’s Slip-N-Slide Records, Plies looks set to follow in the footsteps of hip-hop legends such as Trick Daddy, Trina, and Rick Ross. With a reality show in production and an eagerly awaited sophomore album (Definition of Real) due for a June release, the SoFla artist seems to have all of hip-hop under his spell.

Mixing traditional flamenco with modern sounds is not easy, but Spanish-born Rayito (a.k.a. Antonio Rayo) has a natural knack for assembling three-minute Latin pop gems. A child prodigy, Rayito learned to play Spanish guitar from his father, and by the age of 12, he had earned fame as a brilliant flamenco guitar player. After studying in Miami’s New World School of the Arts, Rayito went on to compose chart toppers for Latin superstars, co-writing “Jaleo” for Ricky Martin and “Llorare Las Penas” for David Bisbal. The 26-year-old came into his own with 2006’s Rayito an album that seamlessly blended his beloved flamenco with hip-hop, reggae, and Latin pop in songs such as the exquisite “Me Falta.” At a time when most Latin pop seems to wallow on by-the-numbers bubblegum, the velvety-voiced Rayito is bringing out some of the most inventive and exciting compositions around.

The term florist just doesn’t cover this gem, which moved to its current location in time to be covered by construction dust from Miami Shores’ downtown renovation. Not only does Flower Bar deliver some of the most stunning arrangements you’ll ever see, but also it’s an art gallery. And a tearoom. Plus, you’ll be able to buy gourmet sweets there pretty soon. Finally, don’t forget the greeting cards and fragrances. Started as an art gallery in a seedier neighborhood by a guy named Alex Rodriguez (not the baseball player, you ninny), it moved to its latest spot last fall. The place has garnered some of the classiest jobs in South Beach, providing flowers for the Tides hotel and Table 8 restaurant. Our favorite service is the flower cantina: For $125 a month ($275 for three months), you get a small but hugely creative floral delight. Or if you want to show your lady you really love her, try an orchid a month for three months at $160. And everything is delivered right to your doorstep, so you don’t have to drive through the Shores’ improvement mess. “That’s the way Miami is,” says 74-year-old part-time employee Donald Englert. “There will always be construction.”

Local quartet Black Tide has accomplished what few far-Kendall rock acts could ever even pretend to dream of doing. Within the past two years, they’ve been discovered by an A&R rep at a Florida music festival and been flown across the country as subjects of a major-label bidding war. They’ve landed a plum deal with Interscope and been duly carted off to Chicago to record a high-budget debut album. They’ve toured the States for half of last year’s Ozzfest, hit the UK with hard-rock heavyweights Avenged Sevenfold, and then returned again to England to headline their own tour. They’re heading out this summer as part of the megawatt Mayhem Tour. Can we blame them, then, for putting on hold those plans to finish high school? Yep, the old-school, thrashy metallers formerly known around the local all-ages scene as Radio boast an average age of 18. Frontman Gabriel Garcia couldn’t even get a driver’s license if he wanted to — the pint-size, long-haired dude with the ballsy wail is just 15 years old. He was a student at Claude Pepper — the elementary school — when he met the rest of the band, then-freshmen at Felix Varela High. Unable to legally play at most of the usual venues around town, the bandmates perfected their act by performing at house parties and the Kendall strip-mall spot Kaffe Krystal, until their first major break came at the 2006 edition of the Florida Music Festival in Orlando. Luckily they’ve got the chops to back it up: Light from Above, the band’s first full-length, was released this past March to fanfare from national mags such as Spin and hard-rock bible Revolver. Its 11 tracks are a sucker-punch of true old-school heaviness, all Maiden’ed- and Megadeth’ed-out, a refreshing change in a sea of teenage bands wedded to their makeup kits. Forget that — the debut puts many of the peers twice their age to shame.

The long-haired, natty Lazaro Casanova got his start playing at the old Malibu Grand Prix’s infamous Full Moon parties in the late Nineties. But he really became a local marquee name as the musical selector du jour for indie-ish dance parties in Miami, most notably at the long-running, now-defunct Revolver. But when pressing play on White Stripes discs got boring, Casanova branched out on his own — at home. Tapping into the burgeoning underground crossover dance scene when it was still in its infancy, Casanova cranked out filthy, searing bedroom remixes that quickly spread across the Internet. Eventually he hooked up with Canadian electro duo MSTRKRFT. They recruited him for a national tour, and soon he was playing sizzling, electroey-housey sets heavily featuring his own chunky, thumping compositions. Since then, he’s become a sort of unofficial third arm of that outfit, rocking international crowds of thousands both with the duo and as a headliner in his own right. In the meantime, Casanova still updates his blog, Shot Callin’ (shotcallin.blogspot.com), with the latest white-hot dance music, and issues his own heavily blogged rerubs while putting the finishing touches on an upcoming EP of original material.

Miami has its fair share of illustrious Latin bands. Still, the sizzling rhythms of Tiempo Libre stand far above the rest. Formed in 2001, Tiempo Libre — Free Time — plays in the style of timba, which blends traditional Afro-Cuban beats with fresh pop genres such as hip-hop, house, and jazz. Known for its ultravigorous live shows, the seven-member ensemble, led by pianist Jorge Gomez, is also a formidable studio band. Their brilliantly produced album Lo Que Esperabas/What You’ve Been Waiting For is packed with danceable tracks including “Manos Pa’rriba” and more traditional numbers such as “A Bayamo en Coche.” That record earned the members a 2007 Grammy nomination for Best Tropical Latin Album. More important, Tiempo Libre’s solid reputation as a first-class live band has turned the local boys into in-demand international touring celebrities. Still, the coolest place to catch them is in Miami, where all of their influences come together.

Remember when bands had magical powers and went on adventures and shit? Like the Beatles, for example, when they took that submarine trip; or Josie and the Pussycats, how they had their own spaceship; or the way David Bowie led that girl into his magical labyrinth just so she could be in his music video in the end. Nowadays, what the hell good is a band? A bunch of funny-hat-wearing wannabes, that’s all most of ’em are these days. But not Los Primeros. Hialeah’s very own boy band is made up of three young men — Pedro Perez, Andres Pita, and Ray Moreno, all homegrown. The group struck it big in 2003 with the hit single “Eslow Motion.” Since they performed for a quinceañera that just happened to be featured on MTV’s My Super Sweet 16, the stars are the limit. And although they might not have magical powers, per se — none that they’ve revealed, anyway — at least these guys have a purpose. When slot gambling at various Miami-Dade tracks was to appear on ballots this past January, historic Hialeah Park was left out from the list of potential beneficiaries. Los Primeros (with, it must be noted, the backing of Hialeah Mayor Julio Robaina) rallied to the cause, releasing the single “Save Hialeah Park.” Smells like Sixties teen spirit.

You know Rachel Goodrich. You were drunk, it was Churchill’s or PS14 or wherever, and there was this girl playing music, and you didn’t really give a crap, but then you noticed everybody else was paying attention, so you started to listen and — zammee! — you were, like, Holy shit. This girl’s pretty good. A blurry minute later, you thought, No, she’s very good. Maybe it was the ukulele she brought out; maybe it was the participatory glee she incited when she handed instruments to the crowd; whatever it was, you were digging it. And then the tequila took hold and off to the curb you stumbled — but Rachel played on without you. A Miami Beach native, the 23-year-old musical phenomenon has been writing her own stuff since she was 12 and began performing at age 16. The stuff she’s working on these days — music she describes as “shakeabilly” — is a little bit rock, a little bit country, a little bit crazy-woman, and generally a whole lot of fun. Her only regular gig at the moment is 190 Restaurant, every Friday night, but it’s not hard to find her playing somewhere on any given weekend. Check her MySpace page for upcoming shows. And if you’re too lame to go out and hear her live, she’s got an album coming out in a few months.

Jon Saxx was sleeping when the sound of a saxophone hit his preteen ears. The tones resonated in his soul, he awakened, and in that moment, he fell in love with the horn that makes us fall in love with him. He’s been playing ever since. A virtuoso on the soprano, alto, and tenor sax, Saxx plays by ear — closing his eyes and “playing what I feel and getting lost in the music,” he says. He would love to duet with Stevie Wonder on “Ribbon in the Sky,” which we could totally see (and hear) because one child prodigy definitely deserves another. Witnessing Saxx in his element, whether or not his eyes are hidden under one of his trademark hats, you realize you’re watching a man possessed by the spirit of jazz. He’s not reading sheet music; he’s hearing the band play or a chanteuse croon and following suit in a way that’s as natural as his own heartbeat. Now that’s soul music.

With Sandoval’s shuttered and Jazid following a more eclectic blend of funky music, Upstairs at the Van Dyke remains a hidden gem for jazz lovers — on Lincoln Road, of all places. Earlier this year, the café changed ownership, and with the new guard came a welcome infusion of energy and enthusiasm for livening up the music programming. While many nights showcase all kinds of global sounds, there’s still plenty to hear within the great realm of jazz. Recent offerings in the genre have included everything from the piano stylings of Silvano Monasterios to The Randy Singer Band’s harmonica-vocals combo. Besides the topnotch soundtrack, the space itself remains cozy and suffused with retro charm, with cabaret-style table service from classy cocktail waitresses. Completely unlike anything around for miles, Upstairs at the Van Dyke is a welcoming place with the intimate feel of a secret club.

As rumors flew that The Eat was spending a lot of time in a not-so-secret rehearsal space, the collective excitement felt across South Florida’s music scene was palpable as far and wide as our hipsters are astute and with it. The Eat, previously named Best Band of All Time by this publication, had not played in about a dozen years, so the news was almost earth shattering to fans. Arguably, The Eat was South Florida’s first punk band, releasing in 1979 a DIY single (“Communist Radio/Catholic Love”), which has likely changed hands more times on eBay than there are actual copies. But rarity wasn’t the only reason the group’s sides sell for hundreds of dollars — The Eat’s catalogue is chock full of musical and lyrical gems on par with any chart toppers from that period. Ever wonder how the Miami scene got its bizarre sense of humor? Just pick up last year’s It’s Not The Eat, It’s The Humidity compilation, and it will all start to make sense … well, more sense, anyway. Those songs influenced young bands (and other funny people) for years afterward. The compilation itself was perhaps the biggest reason Mike and Eddie O’Brien reformed the band with longtime member Kenny Lindahl and newcomer Mike Vullo (substituting for Chris Cottie, who passed away in 2004) to perform to a packed Churchill’s Hideaway on Groundhog Day. The band was spot-on, and audience members left with huge grins on their faces. The boys have already played at least one other unannounced set this year and promise more official gigs in the near future. We hope they really mean the actual “near future,” not 12 years from now.

When concert-production company Live Nation announced a rebranding of several storied music venues across the country, to be named after San Francisco’s historic Fillmore, more than a few eyebrows raised. But Miami was one of the cities to benefit most from the retooling, with the company’s takeover of the Jackie Gleason Theater. Sure, it boasted a star-studded past, but in recent years it had become a stale, moribund, pastel hulk used only intermittently. After several months of construction, the venue emerged, butterfly-style, a completely different being. With a cozy interior of dark colors and low lighting, tons of bars, and a revamped stage complete with stylish red velvet curtains, finally, here was a place where you’d actually want to hang out. And with a flexible capacity of several hundred up to a couple thousand, it fills in a much-needed venue gap in South Florida for bands that are too big for clubs but want to play a more intimate spot than an arena. The eclectic lineup has included everyone from Ricky Martin on opening night, to prog-futurists The Mars Volta, to no less than Jay-Z, in a pre-arena-gig “dress rehearsal.” In short, it’s a coup for both live-music-starved South Beach and for music fans who are now spared the drive to Broward and beyond.

This past December, it was just a little too easy for the local smart alecks to make cracks about Miami Beach regressing into a retirement community for musical has-beens. Kicking off Art Basel was one of the most influential bands of the late Sixties — led by rock’s most emulated singer (an adopted local no less) and joined by punk’s finest bass player. Too easy. But when Iggy Pop and the Stooges came out full bore, those same cognoscenti knew right away they’d be gnawing on their Grecian Formula-coated words before the night was through. The Asheton brothers thundered through their own classics as Iggy sexily pranced around like a boy one-third his age. Mike Watt, formerly of the Minutemen and a cultural institution in his own right, took over the late Dave Alexander’s spot to the delight of all — especially his own. At one point, Iggy welcomed the audience onstage for a couple of songs, and several dozen concertgoers took up the offer to wriggle around, singing “No Fun” and smiling at the irony. The only things that made the evening more brag-worthy were the free admission, the starry sky overhead, and the sand you had to shake out of your boots afterward.

The nonprofit Rhythm Foundation is celebrating its 20th year of spreading global musical cheer in South Florida, and each season seems to get better than the last. That’s a tough feat, given the group’s track record. Founded with the intent of showcasing the best in “world music,” the outfit has managed to shake that term’s sometimes boring and crunchy connotations via a program of the planet’s most exciting music, regardless of scene or language. For the 2007-2008 season, Rhythm Foundation has helped push pop forward and reinvent some of the oldest forms of folk. That’s meant hosting, say, the Argentine-Swedish singer-songwriter José González at the lovely Manuel Artime Theater in Little Havana, which provoked an enraptured audience into possibly the lowest noise levels ever recorded for a Miami audience. It’s also meant hosting Brazilian baile funk tricksters Bonde do Rolê at the soon-to-be-defunct downtown club Studio A, or Spanish disco-popsters the Pinker Tones at the North Beach Bandshell. Other times, it’s meant even legendary Bollywood playback singer Asha Bhosle and tabla master Zakir Hussain. The common thread? New explorations into sounds and textures, and some of the smartest, coolest crowds you could hope to amass in this town. The folks behind Rhythm Foundation prove time and again it’s a small world after all, but there’s room for all of us to dance in it.

Although most local bands figure the best way to start out is to play as much as possible, the Postmarks took the opposite tack. They didn’t play out — at all. Instead they holed up in a studio and polished their blend of bookish, sticky-sweet Anglophilic pop until it was totally ready for the harsh light of the South Florida day. And — voilà! — the band’s self-titled full-length, released by Unfiltered Records, boasts 11 nuggets of jangly, twee indie goodness. For good reason, it had everyone at Pitchfork, Spin, and even Rolling Stone in a lather, and the Postmarks watched as their star rose meteorically everywhere except at home. That’s changed a bit, and the band has thrown us a few bones by performing around the tri-county area a little more often. Meanwhile, the quality of the record has been so universally agreed-upon that it was recently released in its sort-of musical motherland — the UK. Time will tell if the scrappy hometown trio can beat the Brits at their own game.

“This is the best radio station in Miami,” says DJ Bo. “Go ahead and change the station — I dare you.” This is old-school, Miami-style pirate radio from the hood. “Fire it up and get loose,” he says. “It’s time for some booty music.” He plays hip-hop songs at high speed, so they sound as if the Chipmunks were rapping in the background. He talks over the beat — “For the love of God, say what?” — and takes calls on the air, always asking the same three questions: (1) What neighborhood you represent? (2) What school you represent? And (3) Who is your best friend for life? Don’t be afraid. Give him a listen and a call.

Who would’ve thought that a weekly night of quieter, strummed sounds would turn into one of punk dive Churchill’s best-loved regular events? Well, local duo Raffa and Rainer, the brains behind the operation, must have had some idea. They’ve created a weekly Wednesday event that’s as warm and welcoming as a group hug yet still attracts topnotch talent. Everybody gets a shot at the opening part of the night, a true open mike, with a scheduled performer taking the stage later. Since the event began last summer, it has attracted all the local luminaries, including Rachel Goodrich and Jesse Jackson, and even unexpected, uh, softer sets from acts such as Fitzroy, the Down Home Southernaires, and MJ of Awesome New Republic. Out-of-town guests, too, have gotten in on the act, including a somewhat baffling recent appearance by Michale Graves, former vocalist for the (post-Danzig) Misfits. In fact, CYRALS has established itself as a sort of friendly local proving ground. If a song can make it here, regardless of genre or electronic hookup, it can make it anywhere.

Tired of sharing the mike with those pesky beach tourists? For folks serious about karaoke, there’s nothing worse than listening to drunken amateurs ruin a perfectly good song. That’s where Tom’s NFL Club comes in. This relaxed neighborhood bar, the ideal local oasis for the dedicated karaoke enthusiast, has no cover charge or outrageous liquor prices. Instead Tom’s offers a weekly karaoke extravaganza for all the would-be jukebox heroes in the city. This attitude-free karaoke night packs every song imaginable, from country to New Wave; the karaoke DJ will likely have your most-wanted song. Sealing the deal, the dedicated but welcoming local crowd will make you feel at home — provided, of course, you can hold a note.

Somewhere between lounge, bar, and club sits The Vagabond, a lovably comfy new hangout in the old I/O space on NE 14th St. This is a place with a mission statement unlike no other in town: Everybody is welcome here as long as they dance and have a good time. Just see the club’s official slogan: “You are no one. You are every one.” Rock kids can come in scruffy Converse sneakers; house heads can show up to jam without worrying about not having an asymmetrical haircut. That’s because there’s a vibe for everyone in this indoor/outdoor playground, from the mod-futuristic main room to the bohemian-styled front bar to the urban-tiki weirdness of the back patio. The soundtrack can be anything from a mix of cutting-edge dance sounds to throwback soul to garage rock to all of the above, depending on the hour of the evening and the mood of the crowd. Prices, too, are superrelaxed: Well drinks go for $6, a better deal than at the bar’s downtown neighbors. Chilled-out and familiar but still fresh and funky, The Vagabond feels like … well, home.

Six signs of a serious afterhours party: 1. A crowd that goes to sleep insanely early, only to arise around 3 a.m. and then begin getting ready to go out. 2. A hard-core subset of that crowd that won’t deign to do afterhours, or even party much, anywhere else. 3. A 24-hour liquor license (!). 4. Marathon sets by some of the world’s superstar DJs, from Roger Sanchez to Dubfire, who show up after they’ve played gigs at regular clubs. 5. International mix CDs named solely for one geographical area — say, a terrace — of said afterhours party. 6. A crowd on said terrace visible from the highway until, sometimes, 2 p.m. the following day. Space Saturdays boasts all of these. Nobody else in town can, and they don’t even try. End of story.

You don’t need us to tell you which of the cavernous superclubs is “best” — that’s a matter of nightlife politics and the quickly shifting winds of whatever the crowd deems cool. Instead, our pick for where you can really shake it is a not-so-well-kept secret: Love Hate Lounge, just south of Fifth Street and blocks from any of the bling-bling spots. Infamous for being owned by the needle-wielding stars of Miami Ink, the place is known by locals as a no-fail, no-bullshit spot for getting down. Yes, it’s kind of small, but all the better; this means half the space isn’t devoted to bottle service, like everywhere else, and you’re almost guaranteed to have to grind into — or at least brush past — a stranger. And the narrow layout means the party often gets pushed upward — onto the couches, the chairs, and those strategically placed shiny poles. There’s never a cover, the dress code is tattoo chic, and the soundtrack is a bumping mix of mostly old-school hip-hop and party classics, a respite from the Top 40 and Euro house clatter of its northerly neighbors. If you can’t have fun here, you probably can’t have fun anywhere.

Induce is sort of like the dark horse of the DJ pack. What he lacks in superhigh-profile residencies at boring danceterias he more than makes up for in skill, deep musical knowledge, and diversity. A young DJ with an old-school mindset, he’s the type of guy who still lives with rooms of old vinyl and who doesn’t need Serato to school his weaker peers and move butts. An Induce set is always a tossup because he does with finesse what the best DJs do: plays to the crowd. And because of his encyclopedic mental library, audiences are startlingly wide in range — everyone from indie types at Poplife to hip-hop heads at Purdy Lounge to fashionistas at Gen Art parties to Zen types at The Standard to the swank and pampered patrons at The Shore Club. Just see the track list of his 2007 mix, More Iconic Less Ironic: Eric B. & Rakim, The Cure, the Neptunes, and Stereolab all get equal billing. Meanwhile, he’s been garnering web love for his own productions and for his turn as half of the duo, uh, Casual Sax, which has been blessed with Perez Hilton’s golden wand. Boring laptop jocks, eat your hearts out.

Shine, nestled inside the glam Shelborne Beach Resort, was a labor of love for DJ Jonathan Cowan, whose family has long owned and operated the hotel. With a veteran dance-floor conductor at its helm when it opened in the spring of 2006, the club quickly distinguished itself for its stellar Steve Dash sound system and even more stellar DJ lineup. For that year’s edition of WMC, Shine glittered with luminaries rarely seen in Miami, including Satoshi Tomiie and Frankie Knuckles. But by early 2007, weekly operations ceased and all kinds of rumors swirled — Miami New Times even declared it the “best club to die within the past year.”We were all wrong. Cowan was just on a break to take care of family business and retool the club’s programming a bit. So last summer, Shine came back with a bang, hosting special events during which the likes of Adam Freeland, Layo and Bushwacka!, and King Britt, among others, graced the decks. WMC 2008 saw the place slammed, with the return of Tomiie, for one, and parties by Ibiza superclub Pacha and legendary label Def Mix. The remainder of the year, the club continues to open for special events, treating local dance music cognoscenti to house, techno, electro, and the rest of the best in new beats. The moral of the story: Patience pays, and Shine still sparkles.

For a while, only the most intrepid venue owners and clubbers ventured to the edge of Overtown around NE 14th Street and North Miami Avenue. For several years, the medium-size indoor/outdoor club I/O flourished there, and then tiny watering hole PS14 opened a couple of doors down. Alas I/O closed, leaving PS14 alone. But then the megaluxury palace Karu & Y opened a couple of blocks west, to extreme skepticism, to say the least. Somewhere along the way, the strip of NE 11th Street known as the “Park West District” became a wall-to-wall strip of high-traffic spots, and at least the nightclub part of the Karu & Y complex did okay. The sparkly-white bohemian joint White Room opened on NE Miami Court, the old Ice Palace studios began hosting the occasional event again, The Vagabond took over the old I/O space, and not so suddenly there was an honest-to-goodness club district on the mainland. And unlike their glitzy counterpart left behind on the Beach, the areas around Overtown and Park West offer something for everybody, from scruffy artsy parties to strip club debauchery to live bands to superclub afterhours. It’s the kind of patchwork nightlife playground, relatively free of pretension, that made Miami Beach cool the first time around. Maybe on this side of the causeway, we’ll get it right this time.

Tobacco Road has provided a venue for local artists, and booze for its loyal patrons, for what seems like an eternity. (Actually, in Miami, the club’s 96 years comes pretty close to eternal.) But The Road stands out among its competitors for more than its longevity; you’ll be tapping your toes and rocking out any day you walk in. The open-air patio provides the perfect festival atmosphere, even if there is only one band playing. Sure, Tobacco Road isn’t as seedy as it once was, but what centenarian is?