Bars & Clubs

In the Boom Boom Room’s former digs, with the help of Cocaine Cowboys producer Alfred Spellman and tastemaker Keith Paciello, a unique lounge has blossomed. What keeps this Rose from wilting are reasonable drink prices and no shortage of debauchery. Bella Rose welcomes everyone. There’s no door drama. Yet it has attracted the likes of Calvin Klein, Josh Hartnett, Kirsten Dunst, and Mary-Kate Olsen. And to top it off, local scenesters Alexis Mincolla, Nick D’Annunzio, and Jochy Ortiz have given the bar’s patrons further reason to visit with the Saturday party Bella Donna and the end-of-the-weekend massacre, Black Sunday.

Ninety-six isn’t necessarily a cool age. Your diaper has to be changed every few hours, walks through the mall are as tiring as watching young whippersnappers such as that bow-tied punk Larry King yammer on your talking picture box, and Metamucil comes in only so many flavors. But if you’re a 96-year-old rock club that snagged the first liquor license in all of Miami-Dade after being frequented by Al Capone, you’re pretty kick-ass. Slap on a 96-minute (6 to 7:36 p.m.) Friday happy hour that commemorates your golden-oldie age by offering 96-cent well cocktails ($1.96 for premium booze) with a free appetizer, and you’ve just upped your status to supremely awesome. Whatever your age, there’s reason enough to celebrate with a Pink Lady or a Red Headed Slut.

Like a well-aged Brunello, Cavas Wine Tasting Room hits the (visual) palate with a complex burst of impressions. The décor lands first. Casual leather sofas rest near floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the masses wandering happily along Española Way. Chic, tall black tables with tiny candles fill the floor, and hundreds of wine bottles, attractively lit with soft bulbs, line the walls. But just when you think you’ve wandered into another casual wine bar, your eyes catch… the machines. Along each wall, 70 or 80 uncorked bottles of wine nestle inside the stainless-steel contraptions with glowing red LED lights and thin spouts, like espresso makers. Not only is the ambiance lovely, but also the devices are key to Cavas’s take on the winetasting experience. Here’s how it works: You buy a plastic card, loaded with however much you’d like to spend, from the front desk. You swipe the card in the machines, which can dispense one-ounce samples, half-glasses, or full glasses of any bottle on display. Before you know it, you’re wandering around like a kid with a charge card at the video arcade, trying one-dollar sips of cool, cheap Australian Chardonnay; nine-dollar ounces of oaky aged French Merlots; and eight-dollar half glasses of crisp Malbec. It’s winetasting from the future, homes. And it goes down smooth.

Here in Miami, there’s certainly no lack of talented Latin crooners. Still, the young balladeer known as Jean stands above the rest. This Puerto Rican-raised popster, who’s also the younger brother of Latin superstar Luis Fonsi, has been building a solid and loyal following through a unique take on Latin R&B. What makes Jean exceptional is his natural knack for mixing Spanish, English, and even Spanglish (some might say Miami’s unofficial language) with homebrewed beats from the finest urban Latin producers in the city. And though Jean has remained a local phenomenon for the past few years, that might soon change with the release of his sophomore album, Out the Box, which is beginning to get airplay on Latin radio.

One of the perks of living in Miami is the opportunity to sip a cold, refreshing beverage while basking in the sun and enjoying spectacular water views. Luckily, the outdoor Sunset Lounge at hipster hotel the Mondrian makes good use of its waterfront locale to offer sweeping vistas of Biscayne Bay amid a daydreamy landscape outfitted by Dutch designer Marcel Wanders. It includes oversize hedges, red-and-white paisley couches, and an adult sandbox. With more than 50 Brazilian cachaças on hand, the bar is constantly churning out something fruity, tangy, and strong like the litchi and elderflower caipirinha ($16), made from crushed litchis, limes, and elderflower liqueur.

This ain’t your great-aunt’s bingo night. Every Sunday, a mostly 20- to 30-something group of hipsters and other drunks packs into the comfortable Art Deco lobby of the Standard Hotel to dab with giant markers at paper game cards. The atmosphere gets a bit raucous, nudged on by the hilarious (and hot) female MC, who specializes in campy innuendo: combination B-10 becomes “beaten off,” and I-16 is announced as simply “statutory.” “What does it take to date Michael Jackson?” she implores time and again, until it gets old and then somehow becomes funny again: You must B-14, naturally. The bingo is free because the stiff drinks are expensive, but there’s at least a chance of going home with a real haul: Prizes include bottles of champagne, passes to the Standard’s amazing spa, or one-night stays at the hotel.

Have you ever had an old boyfriend for whom you always had a soft spot, despite the fact that he was, well, a little lacking in certain important places? Then a few years later, you run into him randomly, hit the sack for nostalgia’s sake, and it’s like, “Whoa! Where did that elephant’s tail come from?” And it turns out he was the product of a top-secret government experiment to create a centaur, but only one out of three legs responded to the treatment, and the only cogent response you can come up with is, “Will you marry me?”

Well, that’s kind of what it’s like going back to Bird Bowl since the owners recovered all 16 of their billiard tables with fresh new felt. The place has always been pure Miami — way out on Bird Road, wedged into a shopping center that reeks of failure, with a gigantic red sign that no small business these days would dare invest in — but they’ve committed themselves the past few years to updating things. Besides the all-important felt, in the past two years alone, they’ve expanded the game room, made over the restaurant, jazzed up the screens for bowlers, and added wireless Internet access, all while retaining that hollow plasticity that makes bowling alleys so acutely nostalgic.

The billiards room is comfortably sectioned off, with its own bar and a lighting scheme that makes the tables seem to glow. The sticks are in good shape too, and the $9.99 price per hour isn’t too bad. (FYI: That goes up to $14.99 on weekends.)

The exterior is in a state of partial demolition, which, honestly, they should just leave half-completed and flawed, disguising the monstrous, throbbing wad of entertainment indoors.

Bird Bowl, will you marry me?

It’s the kind of joint you’d see in Fight Club or a snuff film. It’s hard to believe the place could actually exist. Smack in the middle of South Beach is a grimy, real-life dive bar you’ve never heard of.

So you check it out. You head to the Floridian, a towering condo on West Avenue located a stone’s throw from the usual SoBe traffic pouring from the MacArthur Causeway onto Alton Road.

There’s no sign of any kind of bar, but with a wink, the security guard out front points you toward a locked side door. You press a buzzer and gaze into a security camera on the ceiling. You’re lucky. The guys inside decide you belong, the door buzzes, and you walk up a staircase and down the rabbit hole.

You immediately realize it’s everything you could have hoped for but didn’t dare to dream: ribbons of hazy cigarette smoke around a simple bar lined with loudly guffawing old men in white T-shirts and VFW trucker hats; yellowed murals of bald eagles and soldiers in Vietnam and WWII trenches; a jukebox spewing ‘ 70s rock; a tattered pool table in the corner; and Buds for $2.25 and Coronas for $2.75.

So dive in.

The Viceroy wants to make sure you never have a cocktail near or below sea level again. As part of the ten-acre Icon Brickell compound and one of the newest (and most fab) buildings to spring up on the Miami skyline, this place is chic defined. The 15th-floor pool deck is outfitted with a life-size chess game, scores of cabanas, and the most breathtaking feature of all — the magnificent view of Biscayne Bay and the surrounding areas. Since no dip in the pool is complete without a cocktail, Café Icon has more brews, grapes, and elixirs than you’ve ever imagined. With decidedly un-Brickell drink prices — only $12 for a mojito or bloody mary — you can spend an entire afternoon tanning and bellying up to the bar. Oh, and this casual eatery offers healthful Mediterranean food poolside to soak up all of that tequila in your tummy.

With truly serious cases of Sunday sickness, there’s absolutely no time for an experimental hangover cure. In these situations, the only acceptable remedy is a proven one: the ever-reliable bloody mary. And Clarke’s serves the staple right. Their version includes pulpy tomato juice spiked with vodka and seasoned with celery salt, pepper, and fresh horseradish. It’s all poured into a tall water glass over a fistful of ice cubes. There’s no unnecessary flair or surprise twists or dreaded factory-made mixes. It has just enough bite to blast the sinuses clear and enough body to settle an uneasy stomach. Like Clarke’s itself, the drink is a classic idea refined to the essentials. So order another or two more — it’s feasible at five bucks to nibble around the huge pimento olive garnish and prep for an Irish-style midday meal. The bloody mary and brunch — Sundays 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. — are a hug for your ailing gut.

In most parts of the world, the term neighborhood bar brings to mind those smoky holes-in-the-wall where you can comfortably wile away afternoons drinking with the regulars — a place where everybody knows your name. Well, this is Miami Beach, baby. And our neighborhood bar, like our hood itself, is ridiculously over-the-top, probably overpriced, yet worth every damn dollar.

Bleau Bar is the centerpiece of the recent two-year, $1 billion renovation of the landmark Fontainebleau Hotel. And in this case, a cool billion bought a glass floor and gently curved ceiling that glow irridescent blue like a Star Trek set piece. A towering glass pillar in the middle of the circular bar is pink, like a huge flamingo lightsaber. The bar is lined with high-end tequilas, rums, and vodkas, and the bartenders whip up cocktails conceived by master mixologist Michael MacDonnell.

In this neighborhood, we’ll take it any day over some chump who knows our name.

Aging cover band? Check. Blue-collar Betties dancing to “Hit Me with Your Best Shot?” Check. Dudes in Hawaiian shirts chugging Bud Light? Check, check. Said dudes in Hawaiian shirts hitting on blue-collar Betties? Check again. Spicy chicken wings on a table somewhere? Check. Sports game flickering on a flat-screen? Double-check. Two-for-one drink specials? Check, hiccup, check. Three-dollar margarita? Buuuurp, check. Drunk construction worker making awkward advances? Check, um, yourself. Overworked waitress with uncanny stripper-like qualities? Check, please. Sixty-ounce pitcher of beer for nine bucks? Nice check.

It seems like Mark Soyka’s 55th Street Station can do no wrong when it comes to providing urban dwellers with a one-stop gastronomic oasis. Soyka and Andiamo! have long been local favorites, and now the News Lounge is quickly becoming a preferred watering hole. The 1-year-old spot offers indoor and outdoor ambiance complete with a saloon-style bar, comfy couches, and porch swings. The drink menu features a wide selection of signature cocktails priced at $12, including a “deconstructed mojito,” made with 10 Cane Rum, as well as a concoction of Belvedere vodka, grapefruit juice, basil, and lime called the MiMotini. And if hunger pangs emerge, nibble on appetizers such as juicy beef sliders topped with grilled onions, bacon, cheddar cheese, and chipotle ketchup. The place is anything but boring; come sundown, there is usually a DJ or live act performing in the courtyard.

Kendallites love their chains. There are the figurative ones that seem to lock them to their red-tiled roofs and peach-colored walls. And they adore the literal ones as well — the Targets, Best Buys, Denny’s, and… honestly, did Don Carter’s and one of the last strawberry fields in the area really need to get demolished for another Staples and a Costco? But the most interesting thing about Kendall is that although it looks homogenous, it is in Miami-Dade and therefore is filled with tons of interesting characters. There’s the dude who drives around in a station wagon adorned with a weather vane, a wooden toilet seat, and dolls (Kendall people, you know you’ve seen him); he might be among those packed on the wooden patio of Bahama Breeze, a chain restaurant, one Friday night. He’ll be sipping a mojito made from freshly squeezed guarapo ($5.50). And if you can’t find him, you might bump into one of the many scantily dressed mistresses freely flopping their back rolls to calypso music as their married lovers leer and sip Black Label on the rocks.

Once you’ve tired of this scene and finished scarfing down a plate of tostones with chicken ($8.29), head over to Gatsby’s, a chain bar, for a slightly classier, mahogany wood experience. It’s a swanky spot decked out in cartoonish murals, dim lounge areas with leather seating, and pool tables galore. Sit down at the large, circular main bar and try one of the delicious oversize martinis; there’s the Jolly Rancher and the key lime martini ($11 each). Strike up a conversation with a tired Macaroni Grill employee and bet the person next to you five bucks you can guess which of the waitresses in insanely tight bustiers has real breasts. Or maybe watch a UFC match and fight off an Egyptian businessman who’s trying to get your number by swiping your cell phone and calling himself.

When the lights flicker on at 2 or 3 a.m., sample the underbelly of Kendalia at Kendall Village Diner. Formerly Starlite Diner, this joint serves up booze until 4 a.m. Monday through Thursday and Sunday. Friday and Saturday the service continues until 5 a.m., so the place attracts only the most sophisticated individuals. Swing by for the popular Thursday karaoke night and listen to myriad butchered versions of “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” Here, if you’re lucky, you’ll be served by an androgynous waiter with the voice of Michael Jackson, meet a drunken clown who makes anatomically correct balloon animals, or possibly make out with a dominatrix who’ll take you home and show you all of her whips.

Or, in true Kendall fashion, her chains.

Is Poison the Well a surprise pick? No, but it’s time to give credit where it is long overdue. Frontman Jeffrey Moreira reps Hialeah (hard), and the rest of the members hail from towns across South Florida. Poison the Well sprang from the same fabled anything-goes, late-’90s South Florida hardcore/punk scene as fellow success stories Shai Hulud and New Found Glory. PTW has reached the same cult level of underground/overground success (even releasing one disc on a major, Atlantic). But unlike its peers, the band never switched its original home base. No, Poison the Well deserves props for relentlessly touring the world, playing to frothing American and European crowds, and then returning home to joltingly sunny South Florida. What’s more, PTW puts the same level of balls-to-the-wall energy into its decidedly more intimate hometown gigs, playing for rabid longtime fans at places such as Churchill’s Pub. Further, the band has continued a path of out-there musical innovation, melding its hardcore roots into spaced-out, experimental workouts that play as well on a home stereo as at a show. The band’s latest album, The Tropic Rot, was released digitally this past May through Ferret Music. The physical release is this summer, and it comes an impressive ten years after the group’s debut full-length, The Opposite of December. Happy anniversary, guys.

It’s well documented that people from Milwaukee and other Midwestern locales enjoy an escape to Miami. Less known, though, is that Miamians sometimes want a taste of the laid-back, unpretentious, and inexpensive Milwaukee-esque lifestyle. But we don’t really wanna, you know, buy a plane ticket. Thank God for the Point Lounge, which is the Midwest encapsulated into tavern form. The price for domestic beers hovers around $3.50, the jukebox hasn’t been updated since the Reagan era, and the bartenders’ usual cantankerousness-to-chirpiness ratio is approximately 28:1. At the pool table, don’t hold your cue like a pussy, but do use the women’s bathroom — the men’s looks like Chernobyl.

On the road to equality, it’s important to stop at fabulous dance clubs. All of that droppin’-it-like-it’s-hot can only be good for morale. And sure, the Beach is still the best place for stylish gay boys and their stylish gay martinis. But for a grittier, more authentically Miami experience, leave your fancy clothes behind (someone will spill on them) and head to this sprawling, smoky drag performance club-meets-Cubana salsa disco. The warehouse-style venue is full of hip-shaking, mostly Spanish-speaking men and a generally intimate posse of women from the neighborhood. On Drag Wars Thursdays — a campy, cabaret-style show — gay and straight folks alike gather for a beer and a laugh. Parking is a breeze in the less-than-bustling part of town off Coral Way, and there’s no cover before 11:30 p.m. Afterward, it’s five to ten bucks.

Perhaps you’ve noticed longer lines to the bathroom at your favorite bar. Or you’ve seen revelers sneakily turning their bodies into nightclub corners to hide some illicit activity. It’s not Miami’s newest white-powder renaissance (that we know of). In today’s economy, it’s hard out here for a pimp — or a ho or a bus driver or a laid-off journalist or just about anybody else who wants to drink the night away but doesn’t have $12 for each gin-and-tonic. Eight dollars, which is what a flask full of reasonably good vodka or whiskey should cost you at a liquor store, sounds a hell of a lot more attractive. We’re not saying to slip Grandpa’s metal Thermos into the pocket of some loose-fitting clothing before going clubbing is the moral thing to do — somebody has to pay those bouncers, after all — but neither is you being asked to fork over an hour’s worth of pay for one beverage. At least that’s how we justify it to ourselves. If a bouncer catches you making the liquor-into-soda transfer, we never met. And even if all you get is a Sprite, please tip your bartender a buck.

“Is that a real freaking watermelon?” Get ready to answer this question from more than one tourist when you head for D’vine Hookah Lounge. At this Lincoln Road establishment, they don’t mess around with conventional hookahs. Order the watermelon special for $35 and you’ll get a hookah pipe rammed right down into half a fresh-cut melon, stuffed with premium watermelon-flavored tobacco. If melons aren’t your thing, D’vine has more than 60 other premium flavors for $25 a pop — or you can stick to the basic hookah for $18. Add in the best people-watching in South Beach, smack in the middle of Lincoln Road Mall, and you have the recipe for a perfectly legal smoked-out afternoon on the Beach.

Leave it to Guy Fieri — a cook who whips up dishes with names like “Tater Tot Halibut” prepared in a way that “would make your lunch lady proud” — to find escargots served in mushroom caps ($8.95) at a Kendall bar. This is precisely what he did in an episode of his Food Network show, Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, drawing attention to the little Irish pub known for friendly service, boisterous weekend cover bands, and its Cheers-esque vibe. Other appetizer standouts include fried green tomatoes (the way your mama made them, for $5.95), sexy oysters on the half-shell (six for $7.50, 12 for $10.95), Oriental-style chicken wings (teriyaki-glazed with a side of wasabi, for $7.95), and fried calamari served with melted butter sauce and grated Parmesan cheese ($7.25). Sandwiches are loaded with flank steak ($9.25) and mahi-mahi, which comes charbroiled or blackened ($9.75) or crusted with potato chips ($9.95). And if you find yourself at this bar knowing that bar food ain’t your thing, take a look at daily specials that range from surf ‘n’ turf to St. Louis-style ribs.

All of those residents in the new downtown and midtown condos finally have a cool place to get happy. Every Thursday from 9 p.m. to 1 a.m. at Out of the Blue Café, things get a little crazy with some great karaoke action courtesy of the most talented amateur singers in Miami. An excellent time to meet new people, karaoke night at Out of the Blue has the warm feel of a nice neighborhood hangout where unpretentious and eager singers celebrate their favorite hits. So whether you are into hip-hop, Latin, or even country music, the fervent karaoke folks here will nudge you into that blissful, pitch-perfect note.

This is Weezy F-Baby, and in case you ain’t heard, I am the greatest rapper alive,

Man, even Michael Phelps can’t get into my T-Mobile fab five,

So he didn’t get the text message invitation to my birthday soirée this past October 7,

When I took over Mansion and turned it into Cash Money Millionaire heaven,

Hooking up with models and sipping champagne bottles by the dozen,

Broke fellas trying to get in by calling themselves my cousins,

But they can’t get in, they can’t get in, they can’t get in

Not even if they are my goddamn twin,

Cuz I’m so rich I freeze hundred-dollar bills in ice sculptures,

Excuse me, Mr. Bouncer, but please keep out them vultures.

Before the night was over, and when I was far from sober,

My daddy Birdman handed me a briefcase made by Louis Vuitton,

Opened it up, and counted $1 million in stacks,

The greatest present for the rap game’s number one don.

It seems like all the best things in Miami crash and burn in a glorious spectacle. For example, Money Shot, which made its debut in late 2006 at the now-demolished Pawn Shop Lounge as a way to popularize indie hip-hop (or hipster-hop, to be exact). After a few months, it moved to Love Hate Lounge in Miami Beach. Then it went on extended hiatus. Finally it made a grandiose return in 2008 at the Vagabond. And though it never replicated the money-tank days at Pawn Shop, it still was one of the city’s best Thursday-night parties. Promoters Jake Jefferson and Xavier Burt launched the night, with Contra, Tom Laroc, and Induce as the resident DJs. There were special guest appearances by artists such as DJ Elle, Spank Rock, Roxy Cottontail, 2 Live Crew, A-Trak, and Klever. Its hasty exit by year’s end left us wondering how one of the city’s most heralded parties could leave us so suddenly. Here is hoping 2009 might see it rise from the ashes.

When Clear Channel-owned 93.9 FM changed its format to a guilty pleasures station that unironically played Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up,” jazz on commercial radio in Miami became a thing of the past. But serious jazz lovers knew they still had WDNA-FM (88.9). While other noncommercial stations devote blocks to the genre, 88.9 is the only FM station that lives and breathes jazz. Tune in and expect to hear the work of masters such as Stan Getz and Miles Davis, and the station’s early-afternoon block gives special attention to Latin jazz all-stars such as Tito Puente. In other words: No Kenny G allowed. Excuse the pun, but when you take jazz so seriously that it’s practically in your DNA, there’s no better station than this one.

There’s something truly refreshing about Hialeah’s six-piece Electric Piquete. They don’t seem to be concerned with following trends, so their fresh, jazzy Latin sound is miles away from that of any other local band. Founded in 2007, Electric Piquete debuted at Churchill’s yearly HialeahFest, where the sextet’s unforgettable performance quickly led to more gigs. Their sound collage is dominated by suave horns that slowly build up into a cool and steady Latin jazz vibe. The past two years have seen the band grow in popularity and land steady gigs at Jazid and Tobacco Road. And with more live appearances coming up every month — they are even going to play some Saturday nights at Marlins games this summer and fall — Electric Piquete will spread calm and breezy Latin beats to chill out our often-steamy city.

Operating under a self-imposed mandate to foster the South Florida indie scene, this Hialeah recording/rehearsal studio is a creative crash pad paradise. The design ethic is post-ironic thrift hipster, mixing sombreros, Christmas lights, retro sofas, and lots of blond wood. Likewise, the gear list is eclectic and old-school: a 1965 Silvertone Twin 12 amp, a 1957 Harmony steel-string guitar, and a Farfisa Pianorgan, among other decidedly rad stuff. Yet more than anything, this place is all about music-making. Literally 24 hours a day, seven days a week, any band can book a two-hour rehearsal for a fixed rate of $40, with each additional hour running $15. (The cost of recording time, however, is variable.) So shoot your promo photos in the lounge, rent some rare vintage equipment, or schedule your next marathon studio session, because the vibe here is exceedingly amiable. Of course, the Shack masters do have a couple of firm rules: (1) No smoking indoors, only outside in the established safe zone, and (2) everyone’s gotta recycle. Their motto: “Respect the place and it will respect you back. We promise.”

Not long ago, South Florida had a relatively thriving community of small, independent labels, mostly run by kids who released singles and their friends’ CDs out of their bedrooms. Some of these eventually grew (see: Fiddler Records), but most just fizzled out. For years, the true upstart indie label was a labor of love, centered around a core of musicians who mostly know each other, and usually focused on cool packaging and artwork. With the advent of MySpace, streaming audio, iTunes, CD Baby, and zShare, these have mostly gone the way of the dodo. So new Miami upstart Financial Ruin Records is a refreshing blast of willful anachronism. Not only is label head Dan going back to the old punk label model, but also he’s returning to that era’s media — not just vinyl, but cassette tapes too. Of course, vinyl sounds better — it’s warmer, etc. Tapes wear out, get tangled, and melt. Still, the stubbornness is endearing, and the releases show real work — limited-edition artwork and numbered packaging, for the most part. The music runs toward obscure punk and hardcore variants, catching some of the rawest underground sounds from Miami and beyond.

Living in Miami, it’s all too easy to feel like you already know everything there is to know about Cuba. Why on Earth, you’re already saying to yourself, would I read another sentence about the island’s past? We’ll tell you why: Because Tom Gjelten, a veteran NPR correspondent, decided to tell the history of Cuba through rum. Turns out it’s a history as refreshing and delicious as the best mojito ever mixed in La Habana. Who knew that a Bacardi was the first Cuban mayor of Santiago? Or that one of the company’s chairmen traveled to Washington with Fidel Castro in the 1950s? Or that the company patriarch bought his own B-26 bomber after the Bay of Pigs and planned to personally firebomb Cuba’s oil refineries? Stir up a nice nightcap, pour a little Coke into that rum, and learn something new about the Magic City and its favorite island to the south.

Every once in a while, there’s a band that gets everything right: the right sound, the right look, and, more important, the right vibe. The genre-defying Kayakman fits perfectly with our city’s eclectic ambiance. The group’s Latin American musicians love mixing things up, fusing sultry tango with Caribbean rhythms over a solid punk-rock beat. A main reason for the foursome’s tight clatter is singer/guitarist’s Leonardo Vega’s past gig as an axe man for Manu Chao, the international gypsy superstar. In the past couple of months, the band has scored a weekly show at Churchill’s on Tuesdays that has been attracting hundreds of new fans to the group’s biweekly shows on Española Way in Miami Beach. With a new album — the excellent Let’s Go Fellas — Kayakman seems poised to be one of the most popular bands in the city.

There’s something to be said about a killer rhythm section. A great drummer combined with a gifted bassist can make or break any band. Luckily, the stunning boys of Dangerflow know very well how to get down and dirty with thick-ass bass lines that will make you jump to the nearest dance floor. Formed in late 2007, Dangerflow is that rare Miami group that knows how to mix funky reggae with hip-hop and Latin. The band’s multicultural lineup — with percussionist Mauricio Estrada and drummer Jermaine D. Dukes — excels at keeping a cool and loose island vibe. Dangerflow also uniquely mixes the sweet, dancehall-tinged vocals of singer Eric Stinnett with energetic raps by MC Ocean. Like other great Miami groups (Locos por Juana and Spam Allstars) Dangerflow knows how to bring out the finest musical elements of its members’ respective cultures and then transform that sound into something distinctively Miami.

Straight up, Dino Felipe is weird. This should come as no surprise given the local label through which he releases his music. Schematic is home of fellow freaks such as the scatologically obsessed Otto von Schirach. Dino doesn’t tour much, blithely explaining it away with his lack of a job, driving skills, and a booking agent. No matter; he has gained a cult national reputation on the strength of his music alone, which can veer from experimental noise to post-punky cold wave, from ambient textures to strangely danceable rhythms. And if approval by geographic outsiders matters, well, last year the notoriously cranky critics at Pitchfork Media gave Felipe’s No Fun demo a 7.2 (out of 10). Of course, his legend has been helped along by the Internet as well. Out-of-towners can use YouTube to witness parts of his legendary, somewhat rare live performances around town, which usually find him naked and sweating, Iggy Pop-style. Felipe might be as elusive as Sasquatch but, we promise, is 90 percent less hairy and 300 percent more entertaining.

Sure, there’re the AAA, the Arsht Center, the Knight Center, and all of those wonderful monsters that fill our downtown. They are loud and cool and we love ’em. But the White Room, ah, the White Room! It has welcomed plenty of local acts to play on its modest stage, including Otto von Schirach, Astari Nite, José El Rey, Kill Miss Pretty, and many others. Some of the out-of-town acts that have played include Gravy Train!!!!, Calvin Harris, Chairlift, Free Blood, ADULT., Rye Rye, Amanda Blank, and Gameboy/Gamegirl. And while the setup might not exactly be Fillmore-esque, we haven’t heard anyone complain.

Local jazz fans are lucky to have a star such as Silvano Monasterios playing in our mist. A bona fide piano prodigy, he was born in Venezuela and schooled at the University of Miami’s prestigious music program. The always-cool Monasterios then stuck around the city and became the most admired and requested piano jazz man in town. He has performed with legends such as Paquito D’ Rivera and Nestor Torres. In 2004, he won Downbeat magazine’s Best Jazz Instrumental Soloist award. And in 2008, the Sammy Figueroa album The Magician — for which Monasterios wrote and produced two tracks — received a Grammy nomination for Best Latin Jazz Album. Monasterios’s active schedule takes him all around the nation, but he still works his magic in Miami, where he routinely plays gigs at hot spots such as the Van Dyke, the Globe, and the Adrienne Arsht Center. If you love jazz, chances are you’ve seen Monasterios perform somewhere in Miami, where his flawless and cool piano work inspired your passion.

Back in the ’70s, when Joe Collado was a boy living in New York City, he was lucky enough to witness many of the greatest percussionists in the history of Latin music. It was during that time when Collado — taken in by the rhythms of Fania legends such as Ray Barretto and Mongo Santamaria — decided to become a real life conguero. So he began practicing and soon developed an exceptional style that mixes salsa with other popular styles such as reggae, Latin jazz, and even some good ol’ rock ‘n’ roll. The past decade has seen Collado honing his skills around town with his superb group, the Latin Groove Project. He also moonlights with the exquisite Galo Rivera Band and a Santana tribute group. A truly creative percussionist, Collado has even played with some international salsa superstars, including the legendary Angel Canales. Never one to forget his salsa roots, and clearly passionate about his craft, Collado and his captivating congas will definitely lift you into a paradise of exotic rhythms.

Join us live, all stream-of-consciousness style, as we browse the MySpace page of local electro maven Kentsoundz, AKA Kent Hernandez. Oh, look up there in the music player. There’s his well-loved tune “Not Goodbye” with folkster Raffa Jo Harris. It reminds us of those simpler times when we first heard the warm vocals of a more twee-inclined singer against the gentle electronic swells in the Postal Service. Except, unlike “Such Great Heights,” we will never tire of this song. Ah, and here’s a new one: a banger called “Jungle Fever” with singer/rapper Jason Scott. Let’s take a look at the top friends: Junc Ops, his postapocalyptic rap project with PG-13; Tree Sounds, his soulful group with singer Treesa; as well as Cuci/Soundz, Sleepsoundz, and Inner City Bonfire, all projects Hernandez has been a part of. Unlike other hyper-collaborators, he’s not hiding his musical shortcomings behind a constant stream of guest stars and side projects. Kentsoundz is the real deal and brings the best to whatever project he’s working on.

Around the turn of the 20th Century, the New York City songwriting collective that came to be known as Tin Pan Alley turned out some of the most memorable hits from that era. Sixty years later, the Brill Building housed legendary songsmiths such as Carole King, Burt Bacharach, and Neil Sedaka, whose output is something of legend. Fast-forward to present-day Miami and you’ll find a similar songwriting force taking shape at Honor Roll Music — part label, part creative force for hire, all located in an unassuming white building in Little Haiti. Honor Roll and its founders — Nick Scapa and J. Reade Fasse — have amassed a roster of local notables including Awesome New Republic, Nick Kruge, Bob LaDue, and Dead Hookers Bridge Club (many of whom are graduates of UM’s Frost School of Music). They’ve scored commercials for big campaigns such as Geico, State Farm, and Visa. They also created the score for Cocaine Cowboys II and placed songs in prime-time TV shows. Perhaps their catchiest collective effort to date is ANR’s latest single, “Birthday.” Originally shopped around as a single for a pop chanteuse (Gossip Girl‘s Leighton Meester infamously recorded a demo version), the infectious tune features writing contributions from all over the Honor Roll family. Some detractors might dismiss it as a songwriting factory, but if this is what they’re capable of, we can only hope they make the assembly line work faster.

Die-hard Ramones fans will readily admit it doesn’t take a lot of technical skill to faithfully reproduce the New York punk rockers’ power-chord assault. What it takes, though, is a kind of scrappy joy that revels in that simplicity and harnesses it into a slap-happy party. South Florida’s Rockit to Russia has plenty of that, as well as a near-obsessive devotion to the Ramones oeuvre. Not only have the members individually renamed themselves as Ramones (i.e., Nicky Ramone), those Ramones then, uh, play the real Ramones (i.e., Nicky Ramone as Joey Ramone). Heck, the guys of Rockit to Russia have even commented on New Times’ music blogs in “character” (think, typing a lot of “Gabba gabba hey!”). You have to admire that kind of dedication and also the musicians’ equal-opportunity spirit. They’re quick to point out on their MySpace page that, among them, they speak Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, French, Italian, and Japanese — perfect for all of your multiculti Ramones booking needs. Hey, ho, vamonos?

This quartet’s appellation is as plugged-in, fuzzed-out, and likeable as its lo-fi garage punk.

Since the Remnants’ inception around 2004, the foursome had been a live favorite across the South Florida rock-dive circuit. The group was a grimy, swinging, rock ‘n’ roll outfit, led by firecracker frontwoman Cynthia DuVall, that described itself — quite appropriately — as “the Who fronted by Tina Turner.” In fact, in 2005, New Times awarded DuVall Best Female Rock Vocalist, describing her as “the ass-kicking, sass-spewing, rock-star love child Janis and Iggy never had.” Alas, day jobs and other real-life concerns led the Remnants to finally call it quits last year, giving South Florida a little less maximum rock and soul to go around.

It’s been a good year for South Florida’s quirky local indie darling, Rachel Goodrich, what with a glowing shout-out from the New York Times this past November and her official debut appearance at South by Southwest in the spring. It was all well deserved and timed with the October 2008 release of her debut full-length, Tinker Toys. Like the actual Tinkertoys, the album is sophisticated in its simplicity and a whole lot of fun. A real lover of whimsy, Goodrich eschews the typical singer/songwriter guitar in favor of a wider swath of instruments, applying liberal doses of harmonica, banjo, mandolin, ukulele, xylophone, and even kazoo. She toys with her voice as well, shifting from a breathy whisper to an almost bluesy sigh, sort of like Billie Holiday gone twee-pop (just try to imagine it). Rather than insufferably charming, though, the result is mentally indelible. For all her faux-naif trappings, Goodrich is an astonishingly mature crafter of melody, able to cinch clever wordplay and slightly hippied-out narrative into a recognizable pop structure. Occupying a rare creative space between the experimental stylings of acts such as CocoRosie and the polish of VH1 faves such as Sara Bareilles, Goodrich should soon rightfully take her place as South Florida’s Next Big Thing.

The underground metal cognoscenti revered the 2005 self-titled debut album by heavy hometown heroes Torche for its melodic take on sludgy sounds. But it was last year’s followup, Meanderthal, that won the band a wider audience and even more critical praise. (And even though at the time the album was recorded, half the musicians lived outside of their hometown, we’ll still claim ’em.) Torche kept the down-tuned riffage cranked to 11 but at the same time explored more left-field influences, with shades of My Bloody Valentine and Sonic Youth brought to the fore. It earned the group prime-time slots at a slew of international festivals, as well as glowing reviews from Mojo, Spin, Pitchfork, and pretty much every other magazine. On a bittersweet note, the record is also the last capturing of the band’s classic lineup; guitarist Juan Montoya, who wrote a large chunk of Meanderthal‘s riffs, was booted last year. Luckily, the album remains as evidence of Miami’s best recent heavy exports in their prime.

Playing live around town for less than a year, the shadowy character known as Panic Bomber has already developed some minor lore. Legend has it that once upon a time, Richard Haig was a local rock musician who got fed up with the grind of being hustled offstage in time for the night’s main event — a DJ. So he turned to dance music himself, supposedly in an act of defiance that’s explained, sort of, in a treatise on his website. Whatever. The music he makes, regardless of the reasoning behind it, is slick and dance-friendly. It works up to a funky electro-house groove that’s rough enough around the edges to belie its creator’s rock roots. And unable to fully relinquish a band’s spectacle of performance, Haig has devised a pretty sweet light-up costume. Look out for him at a more discerning — hmmm, some would say “hip” — dance club near you.

South Florida had two kinds of rock aficionados in the ’80s: those who whined about the barren wasteland before them and those who thanked their lucky stars for a musical oasis named Charlie Pickett. In reality, the scene wasn’t quite that bad, but mention Pickett to a roomful of veterans, and you’ll find a diverse assortment of grateful fans. Whether they liked the blues, punk, country or straight-up rock ‘n’ roll, there was Pickett (and various friends) grinding out a wicked set of originals and covers that pleased everyone. Thirty years down the pike, Pickett still owns the stages around town, and now he has a new anthology: Bar Band Americanus: The Best of Charlie Pickett and… It serves up a warm introduction to long-out-of-print hits and other great moments from Pickett’s distinguished career as a Miami institution. It’s a must-have for any local music connoisseur. Yet as great as this CD is, the fury and fun of a live Pickett show don’t quite translate to vinyl or plastic. It’s at the bar where it all really kicks into overdrive. Pick up this gem; then go see Pickett play.

The sudden cancellation of the Langerado Music Festival this year was one of the sadder events of the local scene. Critics, however, would say it was expected. Long ago (well, in 2003), Langerado began as the brainchild of hometown promoters Ethan Schwartz and Mark Brown. At first, it was an informal jam-down at the smallish Young Circle in Hollywood. By 2005, it had blossomed into a two-day event at the larger Markham Park in Sunrise. But it was still an informal jam-down based on communal camping and dancing till the wee hours to tripped-out sounds from the likes of Umphrey’s McGee and String Cheese Incident. Later years saw the festival grow even larger in attendance and length (three days). It also became more inclusive in its musical lineup, inviting a host of indie-rock (Vampire Weekend, the Walkmen) and even hip-hop luminaries (Beastie Boys, the Roots). The jam-band crowd, however, fretted that the festival was losing its original soul, and all message-board hell broke loose when organizers announced the 2009 edition would take place in downtown Miami. There would be no camping, and the lineup would be decidedly less jammy — its headliners including acts such as Snoop Dogg and Ryan Adams. The result? Poor ticket sales — so poor that Langerado pulled the plug barely a month before the assigned date. It remains unclear whether it’ll bounce back in time for a 2010 edition. Langerado, we hardly knew ye.

Once upon a time, Ultra was a one-day beach party, a rogue daytime rave coinciding with the annual Winter Music Conference. Some 11 years after its birth, though, it has morphed into a two-day, multistage extravaganza that long ago received the official WMC blessing; it’s become an international destination on the festival circuit. Every important electronic act has played at Ultra, and many of the biggest names — such as Tiësto, Paul van Dyk, and Carl Cox — have made it basically a requisite annual gig. And with the live performance bookings of the past few years — the Cure, Bloc Party, Perry Farrell — Ultra’s promoters have wisely helped expand the masses’ notions of dance music. This year, an estimated 70,000-plus revelers attended. And can that many people be wrong about a good time?

When was the last time you went to Bayfront Park for any reason — besides attending a music festival, showing around tourists, or boarding a casino boat? If you can’t remember, don’t worry. The folks at the Miami Downtown Development Authority gets it. So this past spring, they started the DWNTWN concert series at the park. On regular early Friday evenings, the DDA has booked some of Miami’s best live favorites to play a series of free sunset concerts. Shows have spanned genres and demographics, featuring everybody from young party-starters Afrobeta, to live-circuit staples Spam Allstars, to Latin greats such as Conjunto Progreso and Arturo Sandoval. With hot music and cool drinks from the pop-up full bar, a DWNTWN show is truly a happy hour in paradise. Stay tuned to the DDA website for the opening date of the next round.

Almost three years ago, ¡Mayday! released its self-titled debut solo album to serious Internet buzz and positive critical reception. On the strength of that disc’s breakout single, “Groundhog Day,” which featured Cee-Lo singing the hook, it seemed like ¡Mayday! was ready for national play. But after a couple of years on the grind, founding members Plex Luthor and Bernbiz decided to switch things up and get back on their hometown’s radar. As such, they’ve ditched their earlier, sampler-heavy sound in favor of a more organic, live band approach. They’ve added four new members, including battle champ MC Wrekonize. The new equation has proven to be alchemy — Luthor, Bernbiz, and company have stepped up their live game, laying down a soulful hip-hop funk with an electric energy. We’ve heard that at an occasional residency at Jazid, their live jams have inspired people to disrobe. You’ll have to see for yourself.

Danny Daze has been doing the DJ/producer thing for a while now, but he has definitely been getting plenty of attention. He spends as much time on the decks at clubs around the nation as in Miami, and when he’s here, you can catch him at South Beach bashes such as LIV’s Wednesday-night Dirty Hairy party and Rokbar’s Good Clean Fun on Thursdays. He really shines during rare downtown sets at the Vagabond and White Room. Freed from the shackles of the Beach’s Top 40 inclination, Daze delivers raw and energetic sets that are drastically different. And there’s more. He sometimes produces his own music and works with Midwest DJs Joe Maz and Gigamesh as part of the production trio DicoTech — which has produced remixes for the likes of Kanye West, All-American Rejects, and Chris Cornell. And, oh yeah, he’s working on his new collaborative project with Gigamesh — Señor Stereo.

For many among us, there’s nothing better than walking into a well-stocked record store and discovering a cool new artist. And while there’s nothing wrong with getting music through the computer, there’s still something magical about a real record palace. This being Miami, one of our most cherished record stores caters deeply to the Latin music aficionado. Located between Sunset Place and the University of Miami, Spec’s offers a Latin music section that stands as one of the best in the nation. The shop’s extensive selection covers everything from tango to reggaeton and those classic romantic Mexican boleros. Cooler still, the used CD section offers deep discounts on many top-selling and rare albums. So whether you are into the latest Calle 13 reggaeton rump or on the hunt for some unusual old-school Latin recording (that’s not available on iTunes), the place to hit is Spec’s in Coral Gables.

Churchill’s has pretty much stayed the same for 30 years while fancier newcomers have come and tanked. Why? Because the place has stuck to the magic formula of successful, no-frill rock clubs: a strict commitment to live music (no bullshit DJ nights), cheap drinks, and regrettable bathrooms. Pretty much anyone can play here, and as any number of local micro-scenes are born and die, they all, at some point, touch on Churchill’s. Anything goes here, from sold-out shows by touring blog-buzz bands, to experimental theater, to low-budget porn shoots. So the place, thankfully, seems to repel gentrification. It’s a good bet that after the nuclear holocaust, the survivors will still gather at Churchill’s, blithely awaiting the first of ten bands to go on at midnight.

The upstart warehouse venue Goo is quickly becoming something of a Churchill’s Junior, with a bustling near-daily schedule of music and art shows. The important distinction, though, is that this place is strictly DIY — no bar and earlier start times make it friendly to the underage crowd. Still, it’s no kiddie playground; there are plenty of clued-in legals showing up to hear multiband bills that largely fall along the punk/hardcore spectrum. Goo is a no-frills operation run purely out of love by volunteers, so please, please don’t screw it up by acting like a jackass.

Traditionally in Miami, all the top Latin clubs have resided somewhere in Little Havana, but this year there’s a new sweet spot. Downtown’s newly christened 90 Degree is now boldly bringing Latin vibes to the house-music-oriented club strip on NE 11th Street. Every Saturday night, the place’s Sábados Elegantes party jams with the latest reggaeton, merengue, and old-school salsa. Even better, the downtown venue is getting into live music, recently throwing a concert by the legendary Gran Combo — arguably one of the greatest and most acclaimed Latin orchestras of all time. With more live performances on the way and the finest Latin DJs in town keeping things moving, 90 Degree is an undeniably central destination for Latin rhythms in Miami.

To call these guys simply a “rock band” would be woefully leaving out a large chunk of their musical stew. Disco, soul, funk, and a large dose of the Purple One all figure into the sound. Still, it rocks. And though they broke up for a minute a couple of years ago, it didn’t last long, and ever since then, they’ve been stepping up their game, touring and appearing at industry requisite events such as CMJ and South by Southwest. Around here, though, the band remains one of the most universally loved live acts, creating an instant dance party within the first few bars. Here’s further proof they’re in tune with the cultural Zeitgeist: Not only did they put their recent full-length, Rational Geographic Vol. 1, up for free download on their website, but also they somehow got Blair Waldorf herself — Gossip Girl‘s Leighton Meester — to record a cover of their song “Birthday.” For real. OMG!

Before Set opened in 2007, ultra-lounges such as Mynt and Mokai were popping up everywhere, aiming to taking over the Beach’s — and the Opium Group’s — high-end clientele. So what did these mega-club wizards do? They created a monstrous lounge with minimal dance-floor space but plenty of couches for VIPs looking to consume copious amounts of liquor. It’s a place full of contradictions that has us in a constant love/hate relationship with the venue. We hate it because it’s more difficult to get through Set’s doors than it is to get into the Jonas Brothers’ pants, and because drink prices ($12 for a standard well vodka and mix) make us wish Bernie Madoff had persuaded brothers Eric and Francis Milon and Roman Jones to invest in his Ponzi scheme. But we love it because there is never a shortage of superstar DJs taking over the decks; among those who have performed here are Benny Benassi, Fedde Le Grand, and Miguel Migs. And it’s so luxuriously decorated you feel like the excess of wealth might rub off on you. In other words, we love to criticize, but we are secretly envious every time we aren’t taking part in the fun.

As the Opium Group expanded to national locales in New York and Las Vegas, the last thing we expected was a new addition to its Miami Beach portfolio. But 2008 brought exactly that with the introduction of Louis at the Gansevoort South Hotel. And while most beach hotel lounges are slickly integrated into the lobby or pool, Louis takes guests completely out of the Gansevoort to a place where 18th-century French aristocracy meets contemporary urban hipster. And it’s topped off with a dwarf in full Napoleon regalia walking around the space. It’s dark and cavernous, with touches of hot pink and regal wallpaper. The door policy is just as hollow as its sister clubs, but for some reason the payoff seems greater when you gain access. Yes, everyone is gorgeous, and bottle service will get you noticed, but if you’re content with hanging out at one of the two expansive bars or cheering on whatever DJ is spinning, your pathetic normalcy is quickly forgotten.

We could have gone the obvious route and chosen a locale in the Park West district, but where’s the fun in that? In fact, for years there has been an (often-illegal) after-hours scene happening right under the city’s nose. Though the Wynwood Art District enjoys plenty of crowds during its Second Saturday gallery walk and Art Basel, 90 percent of the time, it’s an empty urban wasteland — a perfect setting for promoters looking to throw a party. Underground acts such as Audiofly, Steve Lawler, and Matthew Dear have performed at nondescript warehouses in the area. Totally cool and legal places such as Soho Studios, Charcoal Studio, and Awarehouse have sponsored shows that have lasted until noon the following day. Unfortunately, there is nothing scheduled, but staying in the loop guarantees you’ll hear about the next after-hours party.

Hipsters love irony. But don’t call the Sweat Records and ¿Que Pasa M.I.A.? crews responsible for this Thursday-night fiesta hipsters. That’s totally not what they’re trying to attract. They’re more interested in spicing the event with scrumptiously dirty 305 flavor and enticing those who enjoy an anti-South Beach party. They do very uncool quince-themed nights featuing grilled pan con lechón. And what could be nerdier than dressing grown men in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles costumes? Projecting original Nintendo games on a large screen for patrons to play? Or maybe cranking out old-school tunes that range from 2 Live Crew to the Buzzcocks? But it’s not like there’s Pabst Blue Ribbon (the official drink of the stylistically unwashed) on special during this particular night — just one-dollar Colt tallboys, seven-dollar gin ‘n’ juice, and seven-buck Dirty Shake combos (a tall boy and a shot of Jäger).

So if the organizers are not trying to allure hipsters, why does this undeniably fun, nostalgia-hawking, ultimately sarcastic shindig at the Vagabond draw them like coke on a key every week?

Uh, we’re not sure.

But it’s kind of ironic, doncha think?

So you secured a smoking-hot date for the evening and you want to be like Bruce Wayne taking out a Russian ballerina. Flash your credit card at the nearest exotic car rental, select that gunmetal-gray Lambo, pick up your honey, and head to LIV at the Fontainebleau. Find the VIP host and request one of the six skyboxes suspended over the main dance floor. High above the thumping, bumping party, you and your date will be completely isolated from all the regular club denizens battling each other to get to the bar, where they will fork over $20 a drink. You, on the other hand, will be balling outrageous, ordering up bottles of Santana champagne and getting your date so tipsy she will give an impromptu lap dance. But try to contain your friskiness, lest you want to get thrown out by security for conducting unsanctioned acts in the skybox. LIV is open Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays from 11 p.m. to 5 a.m.

M.I.A., Justice, Simian Mobile Disco, Girl Talk, Bonde Do Rolê, Chromeo, Moby, Cat Power, and many others graced its stage. It hosted a slew of infamous weekly parties, including Revolver, Plastik Fantastik, SceneWolf, and Misfit. It was the city’s only rock ‘n’ roll nightclub and its only midsize venue. Nothing hurt us more than having to say bye to Studio A in 2008. And to rub salt in the wound, Studio A’s sister club, Studio B in Brooklyn, continues to thrive and book acts we only wish would stop by Miami.

A few weeks before the demise of Studio A, British electroclash quartet Ladytron kicked off its North American tour in this downtown venue. News of Studio A’s closing was already public knowledge, making the night bittersweet. Ladytron put on an unforgettable show to a packed space, complete with walls of pulsating lights that made almost everyone present want to prevent the closing. We still can’t decide which song was a more fitting farewell for Studio A — “Destroy Everything You Touch” or “Seventeen.”

There are two kinds of acceptable sports bars. One is the dive: a hardscrabble, hole-in-the-wall with cheap drinks, bad neon, and a decidedly partisan clientele; it’s the kind of place where you’d be stupid to wear the visiting team’s jersey. The other kind is the upscale sports bar, which, to qualify, must be truly upscale, and thus may not even call itself a sports bar. By upscale, we mean state-of-the-art flat-screen TV sets with 1020 dpi and at least 42-inch monitors, and not a bad line of sight in the joint. We mean food that comes from an actual chef, not a glorified line cook with two felony charges. And the cuisine doesn’t have to be wings and burgers only — it might even be sushi. Why not, right? In terms of professional sports, we do root for two kinds of fish here. Upscale also means multiple, fully stocked bars. Five is a good number; one can never have too many bars. And let’s put leather club chairs around the bars, and gigantic leather booths along the walls — you know, the kind where you wouldn’t think twice about lying down to sleep after paying six bucks for an imported bottle of beer. It’s also nice to have something else to do if, say — and we’re just being hypothetical here — your team was getting blown out by the Atlanta Hawks by 25 points in the seventh game of the most boring playoff series you’ve ever witnessed, something fun and distracting like bowling. Yes, it would be nice to turn your back on Zaza Pachulia’s gloating face and go bowling. They could call the place “Splitsville.”