Bars & Clubs

According to Arboles Libres’ good buddy and label boss, Forward Motion Records exec Fernando Perdomo, this three-man crew of folksy Spanglish psychedelicists “can read each other’s minds.” And no doubt, there is proof of telepathy in the band’s recorded output, especially sonic trips such as “The Spirit Of” and “Yellow Man.” The songwriting is hyperintuitive, totally effortless, and superevolved. But live, that’s when you can really hear (and sometimes see) the psychic energy pinging back and forth among frontman Juan “Nacho” Londono, guitar guy Eddie Moreno, and drummer Anthony Genovese. Somehow, even in moments of complete disarray, Los Arboles makes it all seem perfectly seamless. Case in point: A midnight set at Tobacco Road on Friday, November 11, 2010. One cut ends and the next, “Comienzos,” begins with a silent countdown — one, two, three, four — as Nacho and Eddie ramble into the opening guitar riff and Anthony starts banging away. Nacho leans over the mike, smiling behind long hair. A cigarette dangles from Eddie’s bottom lip while he eats a plate of French fries between drags and chord changes. And Anthony is so excited that he can’t sit down. But then Nacho’s guitar self-destructs, four strings suddenly snapping. And just when lesser outfits might stop, stall, or step offstage, Los Arboles roll with the chaos. Eddie runs off to do repairs, Anthony rips into a drum solo, and Nacho leads a spontaneous sing-along as “Comienzos” corkscrews into completely unforeseen territory. It’s a song set free by disaster. And it’s being rewritten on the fly by a band blessed with collective consciousness, total fearlessness, and a strange sonic connection to the flow of the universe.

Society is getting to the technological point where grandmas soon will crack and hack open laptops and then call themselves electronic musicians. But you must respect someone who still hails from the analog arts. Enter Entresol, AKA Eduardo Rivadeneira. Using a variety of synthesizers, drum machines, and other electronic odds and ends, he composes lush dream beats that sound as if they’re made out of pastel clouds and neon bubbles. Drawing on Krautrock, New Wave, classic disco, shoegaze, and IDM, the music defies fads. It’s not tranquilized enough to be chillwave, yet far too up in the cosmos to be standard feet-on-the-floor dance. With the release of his first EP, Formal Matters, and a string of high-profile opening sets for like-minded national touring acts, Entresol and his machines have certainly been noticed in Miami. It’s only a matter of time until the rest of the world catches on.

As an official guitarist for Sábado Gigante with Don Francisco, Lindsey Blair has played alongside Puerto Rican reggaetonero Daddy Yankee, but it was Wes Montgomery who got him started on the guitar, and jazz is where his heart is. The Indiana native studied the form at the University of Miami for his bachelor’s and master’s degrees, and he has toured with Maynard Ferguson and played with Dizzy Gillespie. He also has collaborated for years with Gloria and Emilio Estefan and scored a gig onstage with Miami Sound Machine for Super Bowl XLI. But it is his current stint with local supergroup 7Crossing where his powerful, blazing Latin jazz truly shines.

There is something satisfying about feeling like you know something that has eluded others. We’ll let you in on a little secret: A band called Little Beard has been playing all over Miami since around late 2008. It consists of Michael Lee on guitar/vocals, Sarah Attias on vocals/keyboards, Edwin Beauchamp on bass, and Mario Fabregas on drums. Together they create a lo-fi sound that is surprisingly rich and textured. We cannot fathom why they haven’t been scooped up by a major indie label. They are Pitchfork-ready without being hackneyed. They transcend the dreaded Hipster Runoff-coined genre known as chillwave. They are just, well, fucking adorable. From the cutesy name to the enchanting songs, Little Beard has a big sound. It isn’t difficult to catch them live, because they regularly play around the 14th Street corridor, including the Vagabond, Eve, and Bar. Or check out their self-titled, four-track EP at littlebeard.bandcamp.com.

In summer 2010, a street-level consortium of local players — including SoFla swag supplier Last Rights, Fort Lauderdale producer Numonics, the C9 family, and Miami rap crew ¡Mayday! — drew up a mission statement (“Combine South Florida’s best up-and-coming hip-hop talent with the best up-and-coming national talent”) and launched the Rising monthly concert series. They were attempting to rally the 305’s independent operators, club hustlers, and studio thugs. In effect, it was a scene-wide call to arms. And the first order of action was a July showcase at Wynwood’s EZ Street Gallery starring Young Jeezy signee Freddie Gibbs alongside a few of MIA’s finer mike manglers. Another gallery gig with Curren$y came next. And then the Rising took up residence at Transit Lounge, bringing heavy hitters such as Co$$, N.O.R.E., and Freeway to the Brickell bunker’s back-yard stage. But no doubt the Rising’s most major coup was its December concert at the University of Miami with Wiz Khalifa, the skinny, tattooed Pitt city rapper who only a couple of weeks later was named The Source‘s 2010 Rookie of the Year. The OJ was spiked. The weed was sweet. And the rolling papers were free. After exporting its brand to SXSW in March, though, the consortium took three months off to regroup, re-up, and reorganize. But June 17, the Rising returns. One change: The series has left Transit, shifting a few blocks south to PAX. Otherwise, the mission remains the same.

The Overthrow is a creative collective made up of party terrorists. It is a favorite among the city’s glamorously debauched, and with good reason. No other local crew blends the fallen upper crust with the fabulously down-at-the-heels in settings that go beyond the usual ho-hum club décor, playing exciting underground soundtracks. To wit: Basel Castle, one of the best late-night parties during this past edition of Art Basel Miami Beach. It was one of the few public opportunities to employ the bizarre building where the Overthrow makes its headquarters; it’s a castle-shaped structure in Wynwood complete with faux drawbridge doors and gargoyles. Inside was a twisted artist’s carnival. While one room of the club sold macabre prints and limited-edition T-shirts, the drunk and disorderly could amuse themselves with a mini-midway of artist-designed games (alas, no carnies). Up-and-coming hip-hop/club crossover acts such as Rye Rye and Theophilus London worked up the crowd between cabinet-rattling dubstep DJ sets while dirt-cheap booze kept the party lubed till the wee hours. High- and lowbrow never met so sweetly in the middle.

There are a lot of reasons to love Lil Daggers. The neo-psychedelia meets punk is infectious in a gangrenous kind of way. And putting their sound to video only makes you realize they are worth losing a limb for. British-born director Matthew Prickett takes “King Corpse,” a sloppy rock ‘n’ roll track off the band’s self-titled debut, and makes it the soundtrack to gritty Miami street scenes. In the video, a hooded figure enters a convenience store, lifts some bottles of beer and cheap booze, and darts out the door. The shop owner runs after the figure in a sort of Wile E. Coyote-Road Runner scenario, minus the faulty Acme traps. The chase leads the viewer through a tour of dilapidated areas such as downtown and Overtown. Suddenly it ends when the shop owner can’t keep up with the mysterious thief. But then comes the twist, which we won’t reveal to you here. Just go watch it now. Click here to view the video on YouTube.

A love of words and wine is pretty much the job description for every position at New Times, so we’re predisposed to like this event. In fact, we’re drinking wine right now. Moreover, we are three sheets to the Caribbean sea breeze. So this makes us experts on open-mike nights. So we’ll fulfill our second job duty before we pass out. Try these words: American Legion. Veterans organization. Harvey’s by the Bay. Artists. Wine. Guitars. Indie musician guest stars from Portland. Wine. Breeze. Poetry. Community. Membership cards. Laid-back. Acoustic instruments. Dance. Stirring for your soul. Every Wednesday.

It can be hard keeping up with so many fulano de tals in the music biz. They show up, play a couple of local venues, and head off to more lucrative shores before you get a chance to memorize their names. Not so for the actual Fulano de Tal. The ’90s rock en español band did the hometown proud when it became one of the first U.S.-based groups in the genre to sign a major-label deal. And the frontman — a New York City-bred, Miami-based Cuban-American — instantly went from fulano to Elsten Torres when he began penning songs for the likes of Julio Iglesias Jr. and Alejandra Guzmán, and then scored a Grammy nomination for an indie-distributed solo release, Individual. Nowadays, you can catch him on local stages performing bilingual folk music to the tunes of acoustic guitars and violin. The name of the group is Hey Elsten. You might want to memorize it.

What wealthy, horny lady or randy, not-so-straight man doesn’t want a strapping, young man to help around the house. Perhaps said man would be best used in the cabana, where shirts are optional. To satisfy those of us without enough flow to afford paid “help,” there’s the Cabana Boy Pool Party at Lords South Beach. Muscles and banana hammocks are the norm at this Sunday gathering. Not only is it free, but also there are complimentary Jell-O shots and punch bowl drink specials. “Hullo, let’s get drunk and swim!” People start jumping in at 4 p.m., but the party goes on as late as can be. Lords is a hotel for the traveling gay. It’s a posh, friendly, and clearly sexy place to shack up with old or new friends just a block from the beach. You can also enjoy a fabulous time and play like a frat boy during Wednesday’s game night, featuring free flip cup, beer pong, strip poker, or, if you’re lucky, spin the bottle. The Cabana Boy Pool Party is hosted by Tony Ferro, Chris Aguilar, and Sookie Lowe-Stacks. Special guest hosts have included gay superstars such as Kevin Aviance, so expect the best.

This lady is a seriously impressive force on the drums. She beats out all other local percussionists. Born in Cuba, this Hialeah mujer is both an accomplished musician and artist. She has been drumming since 1991 and guides percussion for the popular trio Beings alongside other veteran musicians Mike Alen and Ivan Marchena. And as a member of the noisy rock band Holly Hunt, which also includes Gavin Perry and Nick Klein, she brings out a loyal crowd. She’s probably best known for her work with sludge band Floor; such heavy sounds typically aren’t made by a drummer wearing lipstick. Other groups she has made awesome are Human Oddities, Methadone Actors, Funyuns, Basils, and Cavity. Monteavaro was featured as one of New Times‘ 100 Creatives and is also known for her artwork, which she has shown around the world, from the Miami Art Museum to Galerie Emmanuel Perrotin in Paris. A book of her artwork, Quiet Village, was recently published. Do your homework, because if Monteavaro is in the band, you will enjoy the show.

Have you ever hung out in a cemetery at noon, sipped some Merlot, and sung along while Dracula played a short set of acoustic tunes on guitar and saw? Obviously we’re not talking about the Transylvanian bloodsucker. For one thing, if he were exposed to full daylight, he’d burn up like a mosquito in an oven. For another, vampires can’t sing. Instead, this particular Dracula is a local musical quartet — featuring vocalist Dorys Bello, guitarist Eli Oviedo, sawist Kian Seara, and percussionist Gyr Ofjudah — that specializes in quiet and haunting interpretations of folkloric music. “Some of our songs are American traditionals, others are taken from films, while others are Spanish pop singles from the ’70s, redone in a cumbia manner,” Bello says. “It’s really just us performing our favorite songs from anywhere.” And yes, Dorys, Eli, and Kian have actually strummed and sawed in a sleeping place for the dead, performing at the City of Miami Cemetery this past May 1 as part of a project with local nomadic art venue the End. But usually, Dracula simply sings by candlelight at places like Sweat Records. “The light of candles,” Bello explains, “is simultaneously gentle and ominous.”

Maybe it’s the Martian blood moving through his veins. Or maybe it’s the fact that his DNA has been warped by microwaving too many frozen burritos. But Otto von Schirach is not like the rest of us. He’s the mind behind sonic slabs of weirdness such as Spine Serpents From Sperm Island, Oozing Bass Spasms, and Magic Triangle. He oversees his own label, Triangle Earth. And his best friends are two dudes named Mr. Feathers and Alligator Jesus. Those, however, are just surface distinctions. In order to truly understand the inner awesomeness of Otto, you must witness one of his solo destruction sessions from the inside. So crack open your skull, look deep into the eyes of the 305’s strange bass ambassador, and focus on his pupils, swirling like ultrablack whirlpools slowly swallowing the bluish-gray seas that surround them. It’ll take a minute. Maybe two. But once you get locked onto his wavelength, the low-end vibrations of this particular human being’s psychic energy are unbelievable. Your ears will bleed. The speakers will get shredded. And your internal compass will be sent spinning at 1,000 rpm. Welcome to the Bermuda Triangle. This is the strange zone that Otto von Schirach calls home. And there’s no going back.

Kicking out the fuzz and causing minor chaos since 2007, the Jacuzzi Boys are the sloppy garage-punk princes of Miami’s rock ‘n’ roll scene. But the Boys’ hyperpopularity isn’t limited to the sweaty denizens of South Florida’s skuzziest clubs. These three dudes — singer and guitar guy Gabriel Alcala, bass player Danny Gonzalez, and drummer Diego Monasterios — are getting big all across these strange and scattered United States of America. Ever since the release of their full-length debut, 2009’s No Seasons, by Orlando-based outfit Florida’s Dying, the Jacuzzi Boys have gone north to south and coast to coast, spreading their message of sex, staying out late, and the shaking of fruits. They’ve made friends and fans in almost every outpost of awesome tuneage, from Chicago to Nashville, Kalamazoo, Toledo, and New Orleans. And they even hit the high seas aboard February’s inaugural Bruise Cruise, scoring a four-day weekend of endless daiquiris and serious stage time with Thee Oh Sees, Black Lips, and a bunch of other killer rock crews. Then, at the beginning of March, Gabriel, Danny, and Diego got their biggest break so far: inking a deal with Hardly Art, a Seattle indie label founded and codistributed by legendary grunge ‘n’ rock record company Sub Pop. It was awesome news made immediately awesomer when Hardly Art’s head honchos confirmed the Jacuzzi Boys were headed straight for the studio with plans to drop their second slab before the dawn of 2012. Now we all just need to place our pre-orders and try not to puke from overexcitement.

When a 300-pound punk dude named Father Damian (AKA Pink Eyes, Mr. Damian, Damian Abraham) strips down to his underwear, belly-flops onto the bar, climbs the walls, screams in your face, and then tries to shove the mike down your throat, you tend to remember the experience. You might be going through 16 stages of fear. You might even be shitting your pants. But strangely, you’re having tons of fun. And if you’re a fan of Canadian hardcore crew Fucked Up, this is the kind of incident you’d call superior entertainment. And these are the signs you’ve survived an all-out rumble with the biggest dude in the pit. Indeed, every time frontman Damian and his four cohorts — drummer Mr. Jo (AKA Jonah Falco), guitar guy 10,000 Marbles (AKA Mike Haliechuk), Concentration Camp (AKA Gulag, Josh Zucker), and Young Governor (AKA Ben Cook) — take the stage, it’s a full-out attack on the human body. And the couple hundred punks, music nerds, and casual sadists who made it out to Churchill’s September 14, 2010, left with scars — physical, psychic, or otherwise. Everyone got Fucked Up. And there were no regrets.

The Internet is killing the music industry. And it’s total suicide to start a record label in 2011. So why not just say, “Screw it,” preempt the inevitably shitty sales, forget making money, and put out an entire collection of uncompromisingly noncommercial stuff just for the thrill of building your own little scene atop the ruins of a dead system? Well, that’s exactly what local artist Jay Hines did when he launched his latest enterprise, Augurari, a DIY project described on the official website as “a nonprofit organization” that “offers a catalog of limited-edition sound works in various media formats,” all executed by visual artists who happen to sideline as musicians. So far, Augurari’s output totals five cassettes. And the most recent is a split release from distortion-happy duo Viking Funeral (Juan Gonzalez and Carlos Ascurra) and no-wave threesome Holly Hunt (Beatriz Monteavaro, Gavin Perry, and Nick Klein), while the rest of the back catalog includes tapes from Siren Cult, Daniel Newman, and Charles Dubé, plus Hines himself. To keep it simple, Augurari is all about arty noise. But if you’re wondering specifically what “uncompromisingly noncommercial” sounds like, simply listen to one of the tracks off Hines’s cassette, Diane Ream/Nags Head: It’s literally the sound of a belt sander destroying a microphone.

Founded in 1972 by Steve Cuiffo, Studio Center was a recording facility in North Miami where local Latin disco crew Foxy put its biggest hit to tape and television’s Flipper got soundtracked. In 1990, the operation was transplanted to its current 6,000-square-foot location in Miami Lakes. And over the past 21 years, Studio Center has hosted superstars, divas, and hustlers, including Madonna, Shakira, Whitney, Trina, Trick Daddy, Fat Joe, and Rick Ross, while megaproducers such as Big D and Scotty Storch manned the boards. Now owned by mother-and-son team Berta Aleman and Hector Mendez, the studio is home base for recently injured pop hit-maker Sean Kingston and Haitian hip-hopper Black Dada. Its main music tracking and editing suite, dubbed the Icon Room, is tricked out with a fully digital workstation, stacks of superpowered compressors, and a whole selection of sweet vintage gear. And if you’re aspiring to be a studio pro, you can score an internship with Aleman and Mendez’s crew. Mike Banger, Lil Wayne’s official engineer, got started as a Studio Center intern. So put in your time and maybe someday you’ll be smoking stogies, sucking back sugary coffee, and laying down all-night sessions with Weezy.

Drive time on I-95 sucks. And it’s not just the rush-hour gridlock, the waves of noxious exhaust seeping into your Escalade’s climate-controlled interior, or the fact that all these road-raging assholes won’t stop blasting their horns every 15 seconds. It’s the radio too. C’mon, just scan the airwaves and try to find anything other than reruns of the same old Top 40 crap. It’s a dead-end mission. You could be cranking that dial for days, unless you’re lucky enough to be stalled someplace within broadcast range of DJ Meat, 107.1 FM, and the rest of the Street Connect crew. Now, this is a pirate rap radio station, blasting unauthorized transmissions across Miami-Dade County in defiance of the Federal Communications Commission. So you’re gonna hear hard, expletive-laced versions of the hottest tracks from Carol City’s Rick Ross to the Opa-locka Goon (AKA Brisco), Deerfield Beach’s Ace Hood, Liberty City’s Iceberg, and North Miami’s Billy Blue. It’s the way this click-clack was meant to hit your ears — uncensored, raw, and 1,000 percent street, motherfucker.

Goldrush boasts certain intangibles that hoist it head and shoulders (and other body parts) above any other VIP room in town. All right, technically the club has 32 VIP rooms. Plus a few champagne rooms. But same difference. Almost. So what makes Goldrush’s VIP rooms so special? Well, nursing students, paralegals, and all manner of other women with respectable and perhaps totally fabricated daytime professions grinding their perhaps fabricated endowments against you for a nominal, prenegotiated donation. Which we suppose is really quite tangible after all. Besides, what other VIP room stays open 24 hours a day (except Monday and Tuesday, till 5 a.m.) to cater to the pervy whims that arise after a long night of imbibing?

For the bachata-, reggaeton-, trance-, and hip-hop-minded youth of Miami, this club in Little Santo Domingo offers the best in urban musical selection. The room temperature might be sweltering, but you will leave smiling, hot, and wet after dancing all night at the weekly all-you-can-drink, open-bar party. The club regularly hosts shows by live Latin bands and local rappers. Listen every Saturday to the live broadcast on El Zol 95.7 to get an idea of how DJs Koko and Liquid get down, but go to L’Boulevard Café in person for the true experience, and when you leave, hit the 5 a.m. chimi truck.

After you’ve been to the party, the afterparty, and the hotel lobby, there’s one more spot to hit: the after-hours club. There should be food, drink, women, gracious hosts, music, dancing, and a comfortable place to sit. El Palenque has all of these and more. The venue is Hispanic by nature, and attracts sureños and norteños from Homestead to West Palm. Early-morning booty dance contests have been known to go down, plus the place is centrally located for optimum access from any part of the county.

If you’re searching for a real happy hour, look in the Brickell area — home of the Magic City’s version of the bridge-and-tunnel crowd. In the canyon below office and residential high-rises, Barú Urbano is an oasis of drink that beckons suits chasing skirts. But this is Miami, after all, so instead of cosmos or Long Island ice teas, the drinks of choice have a definite Hispanic slant. Mojitos? Check. Caipirinhas? Check. Aguardiente? Check. And like the restaurant’s signature drink, the Barú — Veev açai spirit with blueberries — the clientele here is infused with South American sensibilities (with the Colombian and Venezuelan vibes most palpable). There are outdoor and indoor spaces in equal measure, merging the subtropics with the financial district. It also helps that the place sits under a canopy of dense vegetation, so it’s cool even during daylight hours. And if you needed further reminder of Miami’s creativity, an explosion of art, mostly by Venezuelan artist Andres Risquez, dominates the décor. It’s modern and definitely has a Latino flavor, much like the menu. Happy hour runs every weekday from noon to 8 p.m., with ladies enjoying complimentary champagne or sangria on Thursdays. The rest of the drink menu is 50 percent off.

Four thousand miles. That’s the distance between Miami and that thong-filled playground, Rio de Janeiro. Still, there’s no need to stay home blasting bossa nova while crying into your salgadinhos. Join other Brazilians and Brazilophiles at Boteco, a Portuguese bar perched on NE 79th Street just west of the causeway. After drinking your weight in Itaipava beer and caipirinhas, and getting the munchies, you’ll be glad to know this watering hole has some of Miami’s most scrumptious bar food. The menu satisfies the three basic requirements of a boozer’s palate: salty, fried, and meaty. Ease in with espetinhos ($2 to $3.50) — or meat skewers — because everything (including chicken hearts) tastes better torn off a stick. But Boteco’s petiscos — or small plates — are the reasons our drunk, hungry asses keep coming back. Dig into traditional dishes such as bolinho de aipim com carne seca ($8), yuca croquettes filled with shredded meat; and camarão alho e óleo ($13), shrimp sautéed with oil, garlic, and parsley. If you’re going to get wasted and eat everything in sight, this is the best place — after Rio — to binge under the influence.

In South Beach’s hetero-dominated nightlife scene, the choices are almost endless and hot spots change more often than a straight guy switches his plaid boxers. But gay nightlife on the island has become rather staid over the past decade. Score and Twist are still the rage, but sometimes you have to go 721. Thankfully, after more than a year in business, this place seems to have some staying power. Filling the former Laundry Bar space, it’s chic without trying too hard. Unless it’s supercrowded, it usually feels intimate but not claustrophobic. It also boasts a pool table, an anomaly among gay bars in Miami. Sometimes the Gaga-dancing hordes come out in full force, while other times it feels more like a bar that just happens to attract a gay clientele. It’s a nice change of pace and another recent addition to Miami Beach that reasserts the town as a gay-friendly place to live, play, and visit.

Sunday was invented less as a day of rest and more as a time to recover from Saturday night. (That’s not in the Bible, in case you were preparing to look.) As you sit at GreenStreet Café in the Grove, trying to keep your brains from oozing out of your skull, questions about the previous evening begin popping into your head, such as: Was it a good idea to mix tequila and Jägermeister? Was that a golden retriever, a French dude, Jamie Foxx, and two hookers at the bar? Just how much did the bar tab run, anyway? As you decide whether you’ll be able to keep down some eggs, your server brings along the only antidote guaranteed to flush the poison out of your body and turn you into something resembling a human: a bloody mary. GreenStreet’s bloody ($11) is presented in an extra-tall glass. As you lick the rim, encrusted in celery salt and cayenne pepper, shards of life start to return to your withered body. A sip of the salty, spicy elixir fills you with much-needed hair of the dog. The combination of fresh tomato juice, horseradish, pepper, and seasonings hits the spot as you lean back on a red-velvet love seat and finally notice — hey! — it’s a beautiful day.

“How do I live without you? I want to know!” LeAnn Rimes’s love song should be crooned into the mike and dedicated to the best karaoke spot in Miami. Studio has offered wannabe singers good and consistent karaoke for ages. You can belt out just about any song, in a group (Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”) or sad and alone (Patsy Cline’s “Crazy”). Your song can be out of tune, and your white knuckles can intensely grasp the microphone to canned applause and an audience of drunken bachelorette-party attendees. Located in the basement of the beachfront hotel the Shelborne, Studio is so dark you’d never know you were on a sunny strip of tourist heaven. There’s no place more open and more ready to put you onstage than this place. Not only is it open every night of the week until 5 a.m., but also every famous person, short of Barack Obama, has been spotted here, and photos on the walls prove it. The two-drink minimum sucks, but all the fancy working and just-for-show instruments beat the crap out of playing empty-handed air guitar. Even though Karaoke Nazi Ronnie is no longer there, don’t worry — he was replaced with a younger dude. Note: Flirting will bump you to the front of the queue.

It’s dusk and you’re cruising down West Dixie Highway in a black Cadillac at 66 mph. A pair of plastic dice dangles from the rear-view mirror, a stolen pool cue leans on the passenger seat, and a cheap vinyl bowling bag full of empty beer cans and melted ice sits in the trunk. Your back pocket bulges with a thick, wet roll of $5 bills. And you’re sweating like a scared pig on speed. The plan: Slide into Styx’s street-side parking lot, leave the Caddy near the door, swallow some cheap brew, hustle a game on a corner table, and triple your money in two hours before splitting as fast as possible without making anybody nervous enough to knock you out, slash your tires, or something worse. An hour and a half later, the bets are laid out on the bar, pinned under your third $8 pitcher of cold, watery Budweiser. The mark is feeding the table four quarters and racking one last round. On TV, the Dolphins are losing again and time is running out. But right here and now, you’re minutes from winning big, just trying to stay sober enough to clear the table, sink the eight ball without scratching, slip out the door, hop into the Caddy, and tear away at top speed with exactly the right amount of cash to get the hell out of Miami.

Real sports bars, just like true-blue fans, are usually a little rough around the edges. Think about it. When you watch the Dolphins pound the Pats at Sun Life, are the suits in the skyboxes the ones pumping the Aqua and Orange with energy? So why in hell would you expect to find real 305 passion in some slick corporate joint full of flat-screens and $9 appletinis? If there’s sushi on the menu, you’re not at a real sports bar. So leave immediately and head for somewhere grittier, somewhere full of the working stiffs who bleed black, silver, and teal, and the guys who save their paychecks to see D-Wade and LeBron in person. Somewhere like the Midtown Sports Bar. The bar’s ethos is painted right on its adobe walls, where proudly homemade murals for the Heat, Fins, and Canes mark the spot. Just in case you’re not catching the vibe, the “No Guns” sign on the front door and buzzer controlled by the bartender should clear it up. And once you’re inside, you’ll find a comfortable, dimly lit watering hole with plenty of TV sets and beer, including $1.75 domestic drafts every day. There are pool tables and darts for halftime. And as for the rough-looking characters crowding around the tiny tables at game time, they might not be headed for the corporate box seats anytime soon, but you can bet you’re ass they’ll be cheering on the MIA.

“Please allow your barkeep a minute or two to craft your cocktail with the finest spirits and freshest ingredients,” reads the cocktail menu at the Martini Bar at the Raleigh. It’s a notice that your patience will be rewarded with a carefully created libation. In fact, you shouldn’t mind if the bartender takes 20 minutes to pour such tasty concoctions. Our favorite, the Lola, combines Dos Maderas rum, passion fruit purée, basil leaves, jalapeño, lime juice, and homemade syrup into a sweet-and-spicy beverage that allows the smoky flavor of the rum to come through. This is just one of the well-priced $14 speciality cocktails. Drinks aside, when you enter the retro-refined space from the lobby, it’s easy to see why Details magazine in 2010 called it one of the “10 Best Hotel Bars in the World” and a “monument to forties Florida cool.” And don’t let the location fool you. You won’t find Jersey Shore knockoffs here. Locals love it because it’s still a slice of authentic South Beach glamour.

The neighborhood bar’s contributions to the community are various, and indispensable, as well documented in the ’80s sitcom Cheers. It can be a watering hole and public house, a sanctuary and second home. It serves local boozehounds, working professionals, and inebriated philosophers alike. At a place like Billy’s Pub Too, it can also serve some damn fine pub grub. But most important, it offers a place to kick back, unwind, imbibe, and forget your troubles for a while. And besides, sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name. But we digress. It’s hard not to feel at home in a place that offers events and entertainment such as Xbox 360 Kinect on the patio, Texas Hold ‘Em on Tuesday, hot honeys flaunting their stuff in bikini contests, $1 Jell-O shots anytime, and a full menu including apps such as mozz sticks ($5) and sliders ($1.50 each), burgers, wraps, and sandwiches ranging from $3 to $7.50.

Give it up, Coconut Grove. Your attempt at being a nightlife hot spot that can compete with South Beach or downtown is long dead (and we get the feeling some of you like it that way). Time to go back to what you do best: charming, no-frills watering holes that don’t come with exorbitant prices or velvet-rope attitude. That tradition was established back in the ’60s by the Taurus, the Grove’s oldest bar, and still its best. The Main Highway mainstay reopened in 2009 after a seven-year hiatus and found itself surrounded by a couple of Italian restaurants and fancy new condos. But it stayed true to its roots as a casual place to grab sanely priced suds and cocktails. Patrons can select from nearly 50 beers to down either in the spirited but cozy main room or out back on the quiet patio.

You’re driving deep into the underbelly of West Kendall and everything seems perfectly normal. A gigantic Walmart, duh. Rows of identical townhouses with manicured lawns, yep. A strip mall across the street, of course. A parking lot sectioned off with police tape and packing 20 motorcycles… Wait, what? Behind the super-dark-tinted windows of the sports bar in this shopping complex: leather-clad bikers, bros in polo shirts, indie-music-heads who are friends with the rotating bands that play on a tiny stage, secret gamblers glued to the videogame machines, cheapskates who love $2 drink specials, and football addicts transfixed by individual TV screens in booths. Go ahead — order a drink, kick back, and soak up the wilds of suburbia.

True story. The parking lot in front of Rumors Neighborhood Bistro and Bar in the Old Cutler Towne Center is like an experiment in societal and cultural interaction. Some nights you’ll see patrons parking pickup trucks decorated with Confederate flags. Other nights, hoopties will roll up with spinning rims (they’re a bit behind the times in South Dade). Still, other nights the parking lot will teem with young emo chicks who, let’s face it, don’t drive as much as they get rides. There’s a lot going on here on a weekly basis. But exactly what is highly dependent on the night. Rumors hosts country and western, hip-hop, hard rock, comedy, and other uniquely themed nights. And you know what? It works. Different tastes can share the same venue. After all, down south isn’t South Beach, where every storefront caters to a unique niche of debauchery. No, in Cutler Bay, it’s one-stop clubbing for all.

Seven years. That’s how long the title of “Best Dance Club” has eluded one of Miami-Dade’s most iconic nightclubs. Seven years. That’s a lifetime in club years. Mansion was basically the Susan Lucci of this category, so this is long overdue. Seven years ago, it filled the void left by Level, another legendary nightclub. Since then, superstar DJs such as Deadmau5, Bob Sinclar, David Guetta, Paul van Dyk, Laidback Luke, Benny Benassi, Justice, Calvin Harris, and others have given its sound system a proper workout. Let’s not forget the live performances too. Britney Spears, Nicki Minaj, Crystal Castles, Peaches, La Roux, Mickey Avalon, and hell, even the Chongalicious Girls (remember them?) have performed at this beautiful joint. Even through all the usual criticism — door policy, drink prices, tourist clientele — leveled at this place, how can you argue with a seven-year history of this magnitude?

With so many new and refurbished hotels popping up in Miami Beach, it’s easy to forget those that pioneered the A-list lounge concept. SkyBar did it before the current crop of D-list reality stars were being paid to plop their butts at a table for a couple grand. And while some prefer the intimacy and VIP status of the RedRoom lounge, our favorite area is next to the pool and close to the Rumbar — which gets it name thanks to an extensive rum selection. We also like RedRoom Gardens, pairing lush landscaping with Asian furnishings. This is where you come to understand why the expansive indoor-outdoor area at the Shore Club is called SkyBar. Many presume it’s a misnomer, but when you are outside gazing up, there is nothing to see but beautiful Miami sky. And while there is no gorgeous skyline to marvel at and the pool is pretty standard, SkyBar still attracts throngs of European tourists, gorgeous locals, and perhaps a sugar daddy or two ready to spend big bucks on a perfect view of the clouds. A standard drink starts around $15, which makes this a pricey but well-worth-it pool vista.

At 33 years old, Aristh Delgado’s resumé is something that would make most DJs green with envy. Under the alias Craze, he’s been declared the World DMC Champion three years in a row — a record that has yet to be matched by any other DJ in the world. Time magazine named him “America’s Best DJ” in 2001. And this very publication awarded him “Best Hands” in the 1999 edition, saying, “Those ten fingers weave just as magical a spell as any set of vocal cords.” Those talented hands take him all over the world, so when he mans the decks at a local club (most likely the Vagabond or Electric Pickle), it makes for a sweet homecoming. But what gives Craze the push this year is the founding of Slow Roast Records with L.A. DJ Kill the Noise. Under the imprint Fool’s Gold Records, the label serves helpings from both its founders as well as Codes, Klever, and Miami-based Señor Stereo. No denying this Nica boy has done pretty well for himself.

Miami needed a midsize venue. After Studio A’s closure in 2008, it was evident. The city lacked an adequate place to host midlevel national acts that dare to trek to the farthest reaches of the Florida peninsula. The only alternative was Fort Lauderdale’s Revolution Live or Culture Room, but it was unfathomable to think that a major metropolitan city like Miami couldn’t have its own music venue of similar size. So it was with much joy that everyone welcomed Grand Central into the fold when it debuted during Winter Music Conference 2010. Nite Jewel of Italians Do It Better and Brooklyn’s Tanlines popped the venue’s live-music cherry, and since then, acts such as Major Lazer, Kid Sister, Nitzer Ebb, Surfer Blood, the Drums, Crystal Castles, Sleigh Bells, and Golden Filter have performed in front of the venue’s signature LED curtain. Local acts have performed too — among them Afrobeta, Jacuzzi Boys, Modernage, Little Beard, and Old Wives Tale. Getting tanked ain’t cheap, though. Well drinks cost $9. But the price includes auto-gratuity — that’s right, you don’t have to leave extra dollars for a tip. Also, check into Foursquare for regular drink specials.

Known the world over as a dance capital — what with Winter Music Conference and all — Miami sometimes gets a bad rap for being a tough town in which to produce live music. But anybody making this claim fails to consider the ever-growing wellspring of musical talent, and new venues that blossom to support our artists — venues such as the Stage in the Design District, which opened this past February and has since been home to more than its share of both local and out-of-town performers. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill bar. The stylishly decorated and comfortably appointed space seems to sprawl around a center stage that’s surrounded by works from local artists. And the lush back patio with a clear view of the stage is not too shabby either. The Stage claims its goal is to “fuse the long-running traditions of live music, laid-back coffeehouse cool, and the present-moment awareness of a live theatrical venue.” It’s off to a hell of a start.

It was a scary moment when we heard this most hallowed of live music and boozing institutions was closing its doors after ten years of serving up some of South Florida’s most memorable performances. Then came the news that owner Will Edwards had saved the day by purchasing the land so he could keep the spot open. Thank Dios. Some of SoFla’s favorite acts have graced either the corner stage or the fairly recent outdoor patio stage. Or both. From Locos por Juana to Spam Allstars to ArtOfficial, and Lanzallamas to Conjunto Progreso to Suenalo, Transit has been a home to music in Miami. And that’s to say nothing of the many out-of-town bands that have visited the space, including Pinker Tones, all the way from Spain, and Palenke Soultribe from the West Coast. New Times and its readers raise a glass to you, Transit Lounge. We’re glad you dodged the bullet.

A hip-hop group might not be the first thing that springs to mind when you think Best Band. But why the hell not? ArtOfficial is nothing if not that — both a full-fledged band and some of the best musicians the 305 has to offer. Keyboardist Danny Perez, bassist Ralf Valencia, and saxophonist Keith Cooper lay down the live instrumentation: supple and seductive grooves that bob and weave among styles ranging from jazz to funk to rock. Meanwhile, MCs Logics and Newsense deliver deft and swift vocals, giving those jazzy rhythms their finely honed hip-hop edge. The five-piece has been earning well-deserved acclaim both locally and beyond ever since the release of its 2007 debut EP, Stranger, drawing comparisons to the Roots, and dropping music as far as Japan (2008’s Fist Fights & Foot Races, which was released stateside in January). The time has come to crown ArtOfficial Best Band right here in its hometown.

Plains isn’t one of the most prolific bands on the local circuit. Rather than flood the blogosphere with a million throwaway tracks, they drop a few at a time and prefer to release physical product on seven-inch vinyl. And rather than slog through the same five clubs weekend after weekend, they spread out their shows, but make each one memorable. Part of that, though, is because the members have plenty going on outside the band. Frontman Michael McGinnis, the heart of the group, is an engineer and stable artist at Honor Roll Music. Guitarist Jorge Graupera is an axe man for hire who has played in other lauded local acts such as the Brand. Bassist Jared McKay is half of the duo behind underwater artists Coral Morphologic. And finally, drummer Michael-John Hancock hails from ANR. When any of them can’t make it, others in the band’s extended family have subbed in, such as Jorge Rubiera of Animal Tropical and Can’t Stop. When the core lineup manages to get together in the same place, it’s worth it. Plains’ shambling blend of distorted guitar pop harks back to the college-rock radio days of old, when indie meant rock and the Big Muff was the pedal du jour. It’s something not heard much around these parts, but when it is, it’s welcome — quality over quantity, folks.

Meet our pick for Best Latin Band: Suenalo. What’s that, you already know it? Of course you do. Hell, even if you’ve spent the past ten years living under a rock, if that rock sits in Miami-Dade County, this local ensemble has gotten a party cranking within earshot of your geological habitat at some point or another. And we’re not choosing it as the best because it’s hands down one of the hardest-working bands on the scene. It’s because nobody busts la rumba like these dudes. New Times issues you this challenge: Catch them performing live anytime, anywhere you choose. Then try to not let your hips move and your ass shake. Good luck with that one. Suenalo’s signature blend — funk, reggae, Latin jazz, hip-hop, Afro-Caribbean rhythms, and electronic elements, among others — is the quintessential embodiment of Miami as melting pot. And the band’s irresistibly infectious descargas provide the perfect soundtrack with which to celebrate the harmonious melding of differences.

Take coarsely chopped pieces of cumbia, reggae, merengue, ska, and salsa. Stir in fresh-picked funk and soul covered in Spanish and English lyrics. Sprinkle in a dash of rock and just a little more R&B and hip-hop. Take a megasize spatula and work in some decorative dancehall. And just for the hell of it, because you’re feeling kind of crazy, throw in some kuduro from Angola and a bit of jazz. Now set the blender to “driving-down-the-highway-smoking-a-blunt-on-a-supersunny-day.” Serve immediately.

On a hot, sweaty night in late 2007, two dudes named Julio and Gordo were killing time in Coconut Grove’s Kennedy Park, joking, smoking, and guzzling a toxic cocktail of Olde English and orange juice that’s known to a certain kind of boozer as a Brass Monkey. Just a few days earlier, their band DIE-AREA had broken up. And that was a major bummer. But straight away, they decided to start up another crew for the purposes of playing what Gordo likes to call “pissed-off fast music.” The plan was nothing fancier than vox, drums, and guitars. Julio would handle the screaming. Gordo would beat the gong. And their friend Alex would choke the chords out of a mangled guitar. All they needed now was a truly brutal moniker. So the dudes began playing word games, riffing on Gordo’s initials — GP — and tossing out random matches. There was Giant Panda, Gay Parade, Gonorrhea Precaria, Grammy Panties, Giant Pterodactyl, and Google Porn. By far, though, the raddest result of this drunken exercise was still to come. As Gordo now recalls: “Someone mentioned Gorilla Pussy, and we just couldn’t stop laughing.” Thus, Miami’s most obscenely bestial band name was born. And although Julio has left Miami and been replaced by a singer named Raw Beef, Gorilla Pussy rages on.

Enter Beelzebub’s Cave. It’s the underground home of local heavy-tuneage heroes Jean Saiz, Janette Valentine, and Felipe Torres, a threesome otherwise known as Shroud Eater. They sleep here. They practice here. And as the Cave’s official Facebook page says, they “throw parties and call them shows.” It’s a bare-bones, BYOB situation where you’ll get mashed and mangled by local doom crews such as Masticator, Slashpine, Hollow Leg, and Ether — not to mention the gatekeepers themselves and a whole cast of marauding heavy-metal highwaymen from all over these dark, dangerous United States of America. Above the entryway, a pair of skeletons stripped clean of human flesh holds a banner bearing the words of William Shakespeare: “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” And slapped onto the backside of the main gate is a poster of a skull wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigar. It’s emblazoned with the warning: “No assholes, dicks, or pussies allowed!” In other words, this is a hard-core spot. So don’t show up unless you’re prepared to head-bang your way into a coma.

The only thing more imaginative than the Wynwood Walls backdrop at Wynwood Kitchen & Bar is the cocktails. Our favorites include the Nunca ($12) — named for the Brazilian graffiti artist — a caipirinha that replaces cachaça with Japanese sake along with muddled strawberries and mint. The fresh ingredients add a delicate sweetness that doesn’t overpower the sake. The Kenny Scharf ($12) pays homage to the American painter with a tequila and berry blend that starts out sweet but leaves the taste buds with a subtle kick of the spirit. For beer snobs, there are microbrews such as the North Coast Brewing Company’s Old Rasputin ($7) — a Russian imperial stout — and the Full Sail Amber Ale ($5). You’ll come first for the food, but you’ll return for the libations.