Bars & Clubs

Boxwood (AKA Jose Ferrer) says he almost exists as two separate entities. There’s the contemplative songwriter, at home in his warehouse space turned loft/studio, laying down each track of each song and penning thoughtful and often poignant lyrics that probe various aspects of the human condition. An examples is “There a Fire,” in which he sings, “And I know these things are going to have to wait/By the time you wake up they’ll be gone.” And there’s the artist you see at his captivating performances, where he constructs songs from scratch; the guy is a one-man band relying on an array of instruments and loop pedals as well as his own ingenuity. He’s reluctant to become known for the latter, preferring to focus on his content. But to the outside observer, it’s just more evidence of an incredibly creative and inventive songwriter and musician.

Apparently, size matters. In the past year, either owing to locals’ thinning wallets or attempts to evade tourist traps, smaller and more personable venues have made a huge comeback. Giant nightlife staples once reigned supreme, but today’s world is slightly different. Many local partiers are searching for smaller locales — or maybe they’ve just grown tired of the $20 parking, $20 cover, and $20 drink charges. This past December, the price to be in the presence of Lady Gaga and one of her science-project outfits at Miami’s larger-than-life Fontainebleau Resort was $425 — for general admission. That’s a lot of money to spend for a night out dancing alongside a slew of sunburned out-of-towers seeking photo ops. And then there are those MTV reality-show characters who keep making appearances with their camera crews at Miami’s mammoth clubs. Yet there are many night spots throughout the city where cover charges either don’t exist or are minimal, and the crowds are purely local. Try explaining the Electric Pickle to a foreigner. Or check out the recently opened Cafeina in Wynwood. Maybe Miami’s after-darkers have become recessionistas. Or perhaps they believe they are too good to mingle with tourists. Whatever the reason, the town’s holes-in-the-wall are enjoying the love.

A young Derek Miller, then the guitarist and one of the main creative forces of pan-South Florida hardcore band Poison the Well, told New Times in 2003: “We get a lot of grief from guys who just want to hear screaming, but you reach a point where you’ve said everything you can say with a scream. As far as I’m concerned, singing is endless. I can hear someone sing forever.” Soon after parting ways with PTW, which just wouldn’t move past all of that screaming, he began his search for the perfect singer. He slummed around for a while, trying to get a new musical project off the ground. At one point, he tried his hand in California, then moved back, and eventually, like way too many promising local musicians and artists, heard the siren songs of Brooklyn. That’s where he found vocalist Alexis Kraus, who, oddly enough, also has Florida roots and used to sing in a teen girl group. Together they formed Sleigh Bells. The rise was meteoric. Just one example: They took the top spot on New Yorker music critic Sasha Frere-Jones’s list of best albums of 2009. Never mind they’d released only a handful of MP3s at that point. To complete their debut album, Treats, they signed to M.I.A.’s record label. It was met with critical acclaim and even cracked the Billboard Top 40. While the band still reps Florida, we’ll always secretly wish that the two Floridians had actually, you know, met and formed here. We just hope that, unlike way too many Brooklyn-based bands, they don’t forget South Florida on their touring schedule.

After years of playing at local clubs, rapper/singer Platano (Ivan Rodriguez) has truly become a Miami original. His style is a mix of every tropical genre. Mixing Spanish and English, Platano combines all that’s cool in Latin music and delivers it with a clear sense of originality. Signature song “Helicoptero” is a kaleidoscope of throbbing bass lines and Caribbean drums that will get anyone and everyone jumping. With an established local fan base, Platano also tours outside of South Florida. To many people across the nation, his original sound represents what’s cool about Latin music in Miami.

A Miamian’s dilemma: You want to enjoy all the great things about Lincoln Road — the unparalleled people-watching, the sidewalk-café ambiance under gently lit palms, the crackling South Beach energy. But you’re a local. You’re not about to fall for the ol’ hot-Ukrainian-model-waving-a-menu-in-your-face ploy, and you’re sure as hell not going to spend 200 bucks just to relax in the shade for a couple of hours. Who would have thought that a wine bar, of all the bourgeois haunts, would come to the rescue? Eno’s Winebar Café is a slim and stylish storefront in the middle of Lincoln Road Mall, lit with an audacious red chandelier and stocked with hundreds of wines. Best of all, Eno’s rotating cast of vinos is hooked to a high-tech sampling machine. You can “charge” a plastic card with as much cash as you’d like and then taste away with a splash of that Armand de Brignac or a full glass of the Leroy Bourgogne Rouge. Shady outdoor tables alongside a gently gurgling fountain are the perfect setting for finally enjoying Lincoln like a local.

Competition for top honors in this category was fierce. As the informal capital of Latin America, Miami-Dade has an ample assortment of música del sur. But Conjunto Progreso makes a hell of a strong case. A Cuban jam band through and through, Conjunto offers sumptuous son that any of the masters might envy. With multiple vocalists, guitar, bass, piano, bongos, congas, trumpets, tres, clave, cowbell (for which we have a fever — the only cure being more cowbell), and guiro (which actually has nothing to do with Jersey Shore), Conjunto is a full-blown orchestra. And the band sounds like it. Much like Tula leaving the candle on in her room, the descargas they throw down at all of their frequent local gigs could be deemed a fire hazard. They seriously light it up.

When naming the leader of the Latin jazz explosion in South Florida, look no further than Sammy Figueroa. He has played on myriad records, providing the rhythmic structure for several mainstream hits. Born in the Bronx and discovered at age 18 by legendary jazz flautist Herbie Mann, he relocated to South Florida in 2001, where he discovered a rich and diverse group of Latin jazz geniuses. The next year, Figueroa and his Latin Jazz Explosion band made their first appearance at the Hollywood Jazz Festival. Blessed with a smooth voice and extensive familiarity of jazz, Figueroa has also found a calling as a radio host. His show, Latin Jazz Quarter, airing every Friday afternoon on WDNA-FM (88.9), is one of the station’s most popular. Figueroa not only plays Latin jazz but also allows listeners to experience the musical stylings of African drums, Middle Eastern folk, and Native American chants. At the end of 2008, he put together a band called Sally’s Tomato, an ode to the music of Cal Tjader. With two Grammy nominations and appearances with Diana Ross, Joe Cocker, Miles Davis, Mick Jagger, and David Bowie, Sammy Figueroa is truly jazz greatness.

Local neo-folk act Raffa & Rainer’s quirky, insightful, and downright haunting ditties of life and love leave little room on your palate for anything else. Comprising vocalist-guitarist Raffa Jo Harris and guitarist Rainer Davies, this duo has a sound that’s delightfully campy and evocative of other idiosyncratic folk artists such as Kimya Dawson, Kate Micucci, and SoFla’s own Rachel Goodrich. The foundation of their music is earnest and heartfelt songs crafted simply and beautifully. Check out last year’s release, No Mercy (a bit of tongue-in-cheek humor, considering their style), which includes “North Carolina Boys,” “Umbrellas,” and “Long Way Home.” The album benefits from four well-worn years of experience, during which time locals have seen the band everywhere from Wynwood Social Club to White Room.

For the past couple of years, the solo musician born Eric Lopez-Zareno quietly built his presence on the local rock scene. For a while, he was known mainly as a journeyman player in any number of the low-fi, garage-inflected bands firing up along the Biscayne corridor. At the same time, though, he was perfecting the sonic brew of his own solo act, a usually one-man show that traverses rock, atmospheric psychedelia, and movie-score-style sounds, all steeped in an ever-present, creepy synth. And that’s about as much as you can generalize about Teepee, who prides himself on never playing the same show twice. Some are straightforward solo affairs, in which he runs through shambling ditties with actual song structures. Other times, he aims squarely at left field, losing himself in wandering psilocybin jams. And sometimes his friends join him, when he circles back to shambling, three-chord, feel-good fuzz-rock. What he is, every time, though, is entertaining and unmatched in creativity by the usual boring acoustic-guitar strummers who otherwise crowd the “solo musician” field.

AJ the R&B General is a man who frankly speaks his mind. Take, for instance, this come-on from the song “Ape Sex”: “Baby, he might have good sex/But, baby, I got ape sex/I hit it like boom, boom, boom, ah, ah.” Then, on “Professional Dancer,” he sings, “The way she work that pole is so amazing/All the money in my pocket she gon’ take it/I ain’t never seen nothing so beautiful naked.” And of course, there’s the sweeping chorus: “I’ma throw my money at her.” And finally, from the most blush-worthy entry in the AJ oeuvre, “Satisfaction”: “Sitting on my face/Love the way you taste/Gripping on your waist while I’m making my tongue say/La la la la la la.”But the 24-year-old crooner somehow gets away with it all, thanks to a talent for writing scarily catchy melodies and choosing ultrahigh production values, mostly bolstered by beats by local producers Phat Boy Beats. He also has a mellifluous tenor that holds up live as well it does on record, a rarity in a sea of industry wannabes.

Run by a tiny rock chick named Nicole Irizarry, this local booking-slash-whatever agency made its debut with last year’s first So Raw Festival. It starred peeps such as the Jacuzzi Boys, Melted Sunglasses, and Lil Daggers. Since then, Irizarry and her coconspirators have brought free beer and scuzzy garage punk to the Miami scene on a bimonthly basis. The whole thing culminates June 18 with the So Raw Fest. On the eve of this big moment, New Times spoke with Irizarry about party philosophy, piñatas, and pizza.New Times: What was So Raw created to protect?Irizarry: Fun on the cheap. We wanted to bring attention to the local music scene and show off everything we love and hate about Miami. If we had to protect something, it would probably be fritas and tallboys. NT: Can you recap the So Raw season so far?Irizarry: We’ve put on seven shows since the first festival. Because every show has been at a different venue, it’s been pretty hectic. We’ve had all the bands cancel 20 minutes before the show. We’ve had fights. We’ve also had piñatas and a mummifying contest. All in all, it’s been awesome.NT: What will So Raw Festival Part II look like?Irizarry: The truth for the 2010 scene is that we have a temporary store this year for the months of June and July, so we’re gonna be able to represent even more music through record sales. We’ll also have snacks and coffee. As far as the rest of the year, we’ve got more shows and more free stuff coming along. If we had to be clairvoyant, we’d say we would have our own venue/gallery space with unlimited free drinks and pizza, a pool table floating on top of a real pool, and one of those giant pianos you play with your feet, like in Big, in front of a light-up mural of Tom Hanks.

South Florida’s airwaves are full of quality Caribbean music and cultural programming. You can catch brand-new choons, hours of reggae classics, Kreyol language broadcasts, and early-morning bashment music across the dial. But the premier station is 96.1 Mixx. This is where you’ll find the streets of Miami, a gladiator school for Caribbean music DJs, and the dancehall/soca party circuit’s headquarters. It’s the very station where a young DJ Khaled made his Miami debut. From Cancer Hi Power’s Warbeezy to Jah Stream, to Springer, Fergie, and Walshy Killa, Mixx’s roster of daily spinners keeps the air horns blowing.

Two years ago, jazz aficionados were aghast when WMIA dropped its jazz programming and changed its format. The new slogan: “Move to the Music.” But since then, WMIA has turned itself into the Willy Wonka of local radio. It’s an unapologetic dispenser of kitschy pop. When that afternoon lull comes around, DJ Sama pulls out enough saccharine to trigger an amphetamine-like rush: Dee-Lite’s “Groove is in the Heart” bleeds into Britney Spears’s “Toxic,” which bleeds into Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff.” The jazz snobs might scoff, but who needs jazz when that cheeseball sonata comes on? During the rest of the day, the DJs flit between Gaga and Miley, but they really hit their glorious confectionery stride when they monkey-wrench the expected Top 40 playlist with some weird classic like “Relax.” Keep it coming, WMIA. We want candy.

Sweat Records’ five-year anniversary, dubbed Sweatstock, was certainly cause for celebration. In a city that hardly rewards independents, the continued success of the little-record-store-that-could is a symbol of hope for both the music retail business and Miami entrepreneurship. Thanks to the store’s constant booster efforts for the local scenes, everyone has only good feelings about it, and every micro-scene converged on Sweat’s fifth birthday party, held in the short, closed-off block adjacent to the store. For one day, crust punks, bicycle nuts, dance club hipsters, underground hip-hop lovers, freaks, and squares alike enjoyed a relaxed day of the best in local entertainment, fueled by cheap beer, cheap food, and a peaceful vibe. Things got progressively more rambunctious as the evening wore on, though, capped off by a set by the visiting punkish L.A. duo No Age, which incited dancing so feverish that various wires came unplugged every few minutes. It was a gleeful in-your-face to all the naysayers who write off the city’s possibilities for live music and community-building.

The Down Home Southernaires were rightfully beloved around town, with a truly multiculti blend of sounds that drew in the usual hipsters as well as other curious global sonic tourists. The group tackled swamp-rock, Afrobeat, gospel, soul, and even country with equal aplomb. It boasted the kind of catchy, sing-song vocals that could recall New and No Wave greats such as Talking Heads. Still, nothing gold can stay, and eventually the band, which had become a regular fixture at nearly every show at places including the now-defunct PS14, fizzled. Or so it seemed. What they were really doing was devising a master plan. The band was quietly reborn late last year as Animal Tropical. It’s basically the same lineup, but with a new name and a new, sweeping ambition. Animal Tropical is now officially based in both Miami and New York, flying back and forth between cities in the hopes of playing more shows. It seems to be working. They have played local events such as Cinema Sounds and Sweat Records’ five-year anniversary party. So consider it not a breakup but a breakthrough.

Chances are you’ve hummed the pop culture-heavy Champs tune “Tequila” before, maybe even done the Pee-wee dance while under the influence. Or you might have had a Sandlot-esque moment. Tequila is not for the faint of heart, and El Scorpion has boldly created a long, backlit bar that houses more than 120 blue agave spirits, including Patrón’s golden child: Gran Patrón Burdeos. First it’s aged in American and French oak for at least a year, and then it’s racked in vintage Bordeaux barrels. A shot goes for $100. Don’t come here expecting all of those frou-frou drinks you’ll find at the chain bars. El Scorpion sticks to the basic goods. And the bar food includes five guacamoles and four salsas, so “Tequila” might be the theme for many nights to come.

The band’s name is short, simple, sun-fried, and sweetly sinister — just like its brand of raucous punk rock ‘n’ roll. While other local bands trying for memorable names head for puerility and overcomplication, succinctness is often best.

In a splintered local musical climate, Day-Glo duo Afrobeta is beloved by all. The band can credit some of that to its members’ varied musical pedigrees. The duo’s instrumental mastermind, Tony Smurphio, has tickled the ivories for Latin-scene staples such as Suenalo and Bacilos, and even Pitbull. Frontwoman Cuci Amador has earned major hipster cred with her cartoonish style and has even laced a track for reggaeton group Calle 13. Then add sonic confections that straddle many genres and spin them into something futuristic. Sometimes Smurphio’s synth lines squiggle and thud with the best vibrations of Miami bass; other times they head for a sweeter, almost radio-friendly electro lite. Amador goes for sassy, almost-rap spitfire; then lets out a freestyle-esque, lovelorn sob; and then goes for all-out next-wave pop princess. No matter the direction of individual songs, though, it all comes together in a sweet form that goes down easy and makes locals proud that the band continues to rep Miami in ever-widening global circles.

Three years ago, concert promoting giant Live Nation took over the historic Jackie Gleason Theater, celebrating the opening with a concert by Ricky Martin. Though there was some initial grumbling about the theater’s corporate control — and its choice of a first act — most skepticism has fallen away. While the new Fillmore Miami Beach preserved the exterior of the old Gleason Theater, on the inside, it is a distant relative to the old venue. This new version is darker and sexier, a place where you might actually want to hang out rather than suffer through yet another production of The Nutcracker with Grandma. Where some acts would previously have been routed north to Broward County, they have been trickling into the Fillmore instead. In fact, just during the past six months, the venue’s booking has really begun to cook, with names such as Wilco, Band of Horses, and the Arctic Monkeys all playing in a spectacular April.But the future of the Fillmore hangs in the balance. Miami Beach commissioners have agreed to hear a proposal that would raze the theater and turn it into yet another hotel. At the same time, Live Nation posted a loss again on the venue — and that might repeat next year. A grassroots campaign is underway on Facebook; search for the group Save the Fillmore at Jackie Gleason Theater. Music and culture fans of all stripes are banding together to sway Beach commissioners. If the hotel plan is approved, it would be a major blow to both historic preservationists and those with hopes for Miami’s position as a music hub.

If you have any notion of paying a couple hundred bucks for your garage band to cut a demo here, quickly dispense with it. The Hit Factory is for the big boys. And to get here — just like Carnegie Hall — you’ll have to practice, practice, practice. In the ’60s and ’70s, the nondescript North Miami converted warehouse complex was a musical oasis for rock and soul musicians. It had amazing acoustics and a serious stockpile of equipment. This was the studio, after all, that cranked out James Brown’s “I Feel Good,” Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumors,” and even Black Sabbath’s “Heaven & Hell.” The studio bustled steadily until it was purchased in 1999 by New York’s Hit Factory, officially becoming Hit Factory Criteria. Things only went up from there. While digital setups and updated facilities came in, so too did a new generation of producers and artists of a broader range of genres. These days, the Hit Factory is the local ground zero for high-chart hip-hop, pop, and R&B. The most anointed producers usually take up long-term residence. Scott Storch, for instance, had his own reserved parking space in the golden days. Moving up to the Hit Factory is a coronation of sorts, with the crown this year belonging to hungry young industry stars such as Usher- and Beyoncé-hit-maker Rico Love. No matter who’s there, though, the studio remains the star, its storied history and great acoustics imbuing every track with a bit of rub-off magic.

Mention Miami to a connoisseur of fine adult beverages and an array of exotic specialties spring to mind: minty mojitos expertly ground with mortar and pestle; tangy caipirinhas flush with fresh cachaça; golden Puerto Rican rum on the rocks. But one American staple has never quite made the local list: good, old-fashioned suds. Give a Miamian a Budweiser or a Presidente to tide him over between rum punches and he’d probably be happy. But those times, they are a-changin’. Gourmet burger and beer joints such as B&B and 8 oz. are popping up all over South Beach with dozens of specialty brews on tap from both coasts. In downtown Miami, the Democratic Republic of Beer brings an ever-shifting menu of 400 beers from around the world, from Argentina’s Otro Mundo to Vietnam’s 33 Export. Longtime specialty-beer purveyors such as Zeke’s, the Abbey, and Abraxis are packed night after night. And New Times‘ own celebration of all things cerveza, Brew at the Zoo, sold out as thousands of people sampled a few dozen brews imported from Colorado, New England, and Coral Gables’ Titanic Brewery. No one will mistake Miami for Milwaukee, but beer guzzlers — at last — aren’t second-class drinkers in the Magic City.

Summer in Miami pretty much spells out one thing: B-E-A-C-H. And for most people, the turquoise waters, half-naked bronze bodies, and holy-crap heat are the reason to stay in the Magic City from June through September. But for those of us who don’t really like sweat invading every inch of our body while baking in a 350-degree oven known as July, there is an affordable, cool, and tasty alternative. It’s Miami Spice restaurant month! Eager for a fine-dining experience but not sure if you can afford eating out at one of Miami’s finest restaurants? Let Miami Spice come to the rescue. During August and September, Miami’s top restaurants offer three-course meals (lunch $22, dinner $35) featuring signature dishes created by world-renowned chefs. Some of the participating restaurants include Vida at the Fontainebleau Miami Beach, Smith & Wollensky, Red Fish Grill, and Bizcaya at the Ritz-Carlton Coconut Grove. Foodies and those looking to stuff their faces with ridiculously expensive cuisine for the first time, discover the diverse fusion of ingredients that makes Miami dining so wonderful and unique. It’ll leave you screaming, “Caliente!”

Think fast! What’s the capital of Uruguay? Who won the 1982 World Series? Who in hell sang the hit 1964 song “My Girl”?! You’re slamming pint after pint of frosty imported beer — such as Slovakian Golden Pheasant, Ayinger from Germany, and Belgium’s Wayerbacher — and banging your head against the table in a futile effort at pummeling your brain into cooperating. There’s a lot on the line here. Abraxas Lounge, a cozy converted house in the South of Fifth neighborhood jammed with low-slung couches and scarred bar stools, is packed as always on a Tuesday night. A dozen teams are squinting at the video board, desperately trying to talk their way into an obscure bit of trivia locked in the lower depths of their subconscious. To the victor: a sizable chunk of cash toward the night’s bar tab. To the loser: the eternal shame of not remembering Montevideo, the ’82 Cardinals, and the Temptations, you idiot! It’s free every Tuesday at 8:30 p.m.

After drunkenly dipping the tip of your cue stick into a stranger’s beer, you somehow sidestep a fistfight. For a moment, your luck looks good. But there’s still this last shot, and it’s a tricky one. The eight ball is trapped against the cushion between the three and six. You chalk up. You take your shot. You scratch. You lose. You pay out another $20. Man, it’s time for more tequila. The clock says 5 p.m., and this is happy hour at your favorite pool hall. There’s grit and smoke and tough old hustlers working their evening scheme. Behind the black bar, lurid red neon spells it out in a cursive scrawl: “Sharp” to the left, “Shooters” to the right. Suddenly, some boozer kicks the jukebox and Merle Haggard begins singing: “Hell, we’ll wake up the roosters if we drink them real slow/Well, let’s have a double and a six-pack to go.” Those words make you feel like Minnesota Fats. You order a $8.10 pack of Marlboros and another round of cheap booze. A table usually costs $6.50 a person per hour, but two happy-hour drinks get you free games till 8. This reposado is your fourth. It’s time to play again.

The demise of Bella Rose is still lamented by South Beach locals who patronized the glam hole-in-the-Beach for the 16 months it was open. Not only was the scene fresh and unpretentious, but also the drinks were reasonable and there was no VIP crapola. While co-owner Keith Paciello has been in nightlife seemingly forever (yes, his brother is notorious club king Chris Paciello), business partner Alfred Spellman has an interesting pedigree as a producer of films such as Cocaine Cowboys and The U. Together, the handsome duo reinvigorated nightlife on the Beach with Bella Rose’s anything-goes atmosphere. Celebrities such as Jared Leto, Josh Hartnett, Kirsten Dunst, Calvin Klein, and Mary-Kate Olsen made low-key, late-night appearances at the 1,500-square-foot space on 16th Street. And the weekly Black Sunday parties, featuring Alexis Mincolla and crew staging fake crimes, garnered a rabid following. (Admit it: You gleefully watched the jittery postmortem video every Monday morning.) Unfortunately, the economic downturn done in this after-hours joint. It’s hard to make the rent when hipster patrons are drinking beer only between 2 and 5 a.m. Since Bella Rose closed last August, Spellman has returned to filmmaking (he’s working on a TV version of Cocaine Cowboys with Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckheimer), while Paciello can be found smiling sardonically as he mans the door at RokBar. It’s not all bad news, though: The best friends are looking for another space to resurrect the funky times.

Sundays might be a day of rest and reflection for the general population, but promoter Alexis Mincolla and friends aren’t exactly holy rollers. His devotees are among the most dedicated night crawlers. So in early 2009, Mincolla begat Black Sunday at Bella Rose, a weekly party that seemed to start as more-or-less standard electro-hipster fare and morphed into something much more darkly decadent. As time went on, each happening took on performance-art proportions, with Mincolla and company staging elaborate fake murders of various scene personalities, and documenting the schadenfreude and bloody chaos in copious photos. The faux-crime-scene documentation would then be displayed in little flipbook-style videos that were so realistic and provocative they were temporarily banned from Facebook. Well, who said nightlife was supposed to be conservative?Still, something so in-your-face is unlikely to last long, and although there was no big implosion for Black Sunday, it disappeared. Several key figures left Miami, with Mincolla heading to the Big Apple to helm a new health-drink project, Prometheus Springs. There has been a happy reincarnation, though. Mincolla’s minions have organized into a collective now known as the Overthrow, whose creative chaos can’t be contained by one lousy little school night.

Thursdays belong to hip-hop, bass, and selected cheese at the Vagabond, where the welcoming yet discerning Shake crew rules with packed dance parties. But for all the crowd-pleasing of the hands-in-the-air bar room, once a month the main room turns a whole lot darker with Get Low, Shake’s monthly Thursday-night party-within-a-party devoted to dubstep. While devotees of the more aggressive electronic music style had been getting their wall-rattling groove at scattered locales, Get Low, with the help of local scene pied piper Juan BassHead, gave them a fixed spot to congregate. With BassHead and the Shake crew’s help, Get Low has introduced Miami to some of the world’s rising dubstep stars and almost single-handedly helped create a dubstep scene. Considering the number of those artists who returned to Miami to rule the roost at Winter Music Conference this year, Get Low has clearly remained one step ahead.

Conceived in February 2009 by downtown revelers Poplife and Overthrow, Wednesday night’s Dirty Hairy has become the best reason to go to work hung over Thursday morning. And while the pairing might seem odd — a hipster dance party in Miami Beach’s poshest nightclub — it seems to have worked. There are typical South Beach elements: emphasis on bottle service, expensive drinks, and a cover charge based on gender and looks. Still, Dirty Hairy is a downtown party at heart. Acts such as the Juan Maclean, Sneaky Sound System, the Misshapes, Amanda Blank, Kid Sister, MSTRKRFT, Uncle Luke, Flosstradamus, Dan Black, Joaquin Phoenix, Calvin Harris, and many others have performed under LIV’s domed roof. Though Overthrow has departed from this partnership, the party shows no signs of slowing.

These days, it takes major cojones to bother starting a record label, the kind that makes physical product and sells it. That’s why those who do are usually extremely interesting, willfully obscure, just willful in general, or all three. Enter Matt Preira, a 24-year-old devoted to putting out his favorite weirdness and never getting too perturbed about the result. Actually, Preira is onto something. By keeping production small and releasing material only on vinyl or even cassette, the limited-edition cache has attracted a devoted following. Roofless Records has slowly snapped up full runs of releases by, say, underground house party bands from Tampa, or “psalms for lonely slackers,” as the label’s site describes a cassingle by local act Flux Forces. While Preira’s output is idiosyncratic, to say the least, his great contribution to the scene is promoting shows under the Roofless banner. At venues such as Harvey’s at the American Legion on the Upper Eastside, or at Bar in downtown Miami, he continually showcases the latest exciting bands from Miami, the rest of the country, and outer space.

The average man is a fragile creature cursed with an overactive inferiority complex. And guys who happen to be comics are even worse. So when they run into a chick who’s better than they are in almost every way, it’s like dream date and nightmare all rolled into one. Meet local lady standup Jessica Gross. She’s almost six feet tall. She’s pretty. She’s funny. And if that isn’t enough to force her male cohorts into paroxysms of fear and pleasure mixed, Ms. Gross is also a brutal truth-teller. She out-dudes the dudes, running the show at the Miami Improv and Sweat Records’ Casa de Haha while tossing off jokes about hilariously dumb stuff like poop, midget boyfriends, and half-assed karaoke. She’ll even let all of you bros know you’re nothing but a tool to tickle her urinary tract infection: “And you thought that pretty lady with the pink drink was bumping and grinding on you ’cause she liked you. Nope, she was working a scratch out on your leg.” Tall, cute, zany, and possibly afflicted with a UTI… Where does Jessica Gross go from here? Network effing sitcom. Or at the very least a Vagisil commercial.

Everything about Karu & Y seemed wrong from its 2006 opening date. There was the mysterious name, the molecular gastronomy menu, and the confusing layout with concentric rings of warring nightlife “concepts.” Then, of course, the most glaring problem: It was a sprawling luxury complex where the average cocktail cost $15 — in Overtown. The moneyed patrons who would frequent the same club on different turf were at first afraid to go; if they confronted their fear, they were escorted by security back to their cars. Everything was tumultuous from there. Chefs were hired and fired, the restaurant closed permanently while the club stayed open, and marquee-name concerts were promised and then failed to materialize. The biggest weekend of the year for the club always seemed to come during Winter Music Conference — a few days’ stretch definitely not inhabited by locals. And then, this year, there wouldn’t even be WMC for the club. Days before Conference, with little fanfare, party promoters announced the club had been swallowed back into the sprawling event space from whence it came — the formerly next-door Ice Palace Studios. And with that, the median drink price instantly plummeted.

Miami has a fickle music crowd. Your chances of winning over an audience increase only if you are behind turntables at a megaclub. When Art Basel Miami Beach organizers took a risk in booking British avant-garde R&B-meets-punk songstress Ebony Thomas — AKA Ebony Bones! — it definitely piqued our interest. This postmodern Grace Jones had barely played in front of American crowds, let alone those in Miami. After Yelle’s lukewarm reception in 2008, Thomas gave the event the avant-garde jolt it needed. What worked in Thomas’s favor was the international crowd that usually makes up any Basel event. Plus her performance featured an enormous backing band, colorful outfits, and an out-of-this-world performance that made it hard to look away. Couple that with an infectious melody that felt retro yet contemporary, and the concert was a highlight during a week that has become Miami’s South by Southwest.

It’s 5 p.m. on a steamy Tuesday, and the plumbers have disappeared. So too the electricians, the produce truck driver, and the neighborhood retiree in ratty golf clothes. Intrigued, you spot Jim, the welder wiping his brow, tossing his tools in his pickup and heading along Red Road. So you follow, past Coral Way, into the heart of West Miami’s main artery, where Jim parks next to a rusty blue jalopy with a surfboard strapped to the roof and buoys dangling from the tail fins. The sign is a little confusing: “Se7as Bar,” it says. But when you wander in, it’s all forgotten: From floor to ceiling, the perfectly dim, smoky enclave is packed with yellowed nautical doodads: naked mermaid mastheads, wooden ship effigies, diver suits. And there, drinking dirt-cheap Buds around a solid wooden bar, are every workmanlike fellow and lady in the hood. The bartender knows their names. She’d like to know yours too.

Let’s face it: Rock clubs per se have a rather tormented history in Miami. In order to survive, venues need to either moonlight as discos or stop strictly curating their lineups. Oh, of course there’s Churchill’s, but that’s an institution, seemingly likely to survive unchanged into the next century. Other than that, most so-called clubs are expensive anyway. The real best places to catch underground rock shows are at warehouses, and there is one for almost every micro-scene. There are the semiofficial spots for the all-ages pop-punk and post-hardcore circuit; the supposed art galleries that are little more than raw space; and the living-working spaces that open their doors to strangers. These spots change names and open and close faster than print allows, but head for the forgotten parts of town. There you’ll find the most fun shows for the least money. Good places to check for listings are sorawfestival.com, which maintains an events database of its own and other promoters’ shows, and the blog for the Guest Lab (guestlab.tumblr.com), an artsy-minded collective that hosts shows at the venue of the same name, as well as shares information about others.

You don’t have to look hard to hit this hot sweet spot. Situated in the center of Miami’s comeback kid, Calle Ocho, it’s the ideal place for folks in search of authentic Latin rhythms. The venue offers top live orchestras, such as the three-time Grammy-nominated Tiempo Libre. Even better, La Casa de Tula has one of the most spacious dance floors in the area. The club also offers an open patio that serves as a nice chill-out mecca for dancers who want to rest and mingle. The venue truly comes alive during the Viernes Culturales art walks, held the last Friday of each month, so be sure to check it out.

With three Miami locations, Lily’s Records is the center of Latin music in the city. The main store — located on Calle Ocho — remains a busy intersection of all things Latin. Even in these hard economic times, people line up for new releases and appearances by their favorite artists. Big international names — such as Calle 13 — along with local up-and-coming artists make Lily’s their main stop in Miami. And not only are the shops up-to-date on all the trends, but also this is the place to get your fix of classic salsa and other old-school greats. Whether it’s Latin jazz, pop, or old-time tropical, all three Lily’s locations have what you’re looking for.

As music goes cold and digital, an ever-growing contingent of music fans and artists is turning back to the snap-crackle-pop of vinyl. For those who continue buying actual physical music, the big surprises of an actual record far outweigh those of the disappointing CD. And of course, vinyl will likely always appeal to obsessive collectors. But most crate-diggers in town are reduced to doing so virtually or picking through mounds of holiday-music albums at thrift stores. This is no longer so if they head to Cutler Bay, miles from hipster central. In a strip mall next to a sports bar lies Musicians Discount Center, which, at first glance, looks like just what it is — a small, family-run musical instrument store that’s a decent place to snag your first guitar. But head to the back of the main room. There the store sells crates upon crates of old vinyl collections. It’s a curated one, though, and it’s a digger’s paradise, with records conveniently sorted by style but priced as though they were still languishing next to those holiday albums. The average price is $5. Gaze upon first pressings of New Order 12-inches from the ’80s, paw through early hip-hop LPs by acts such as Kool & the Gang, or snap up rock classics by artists such as Chuck Berry and Santana. Just don’t spread the word too much — oops.

If you’re older than 25, you might remember the now-defunct Friday-night party Off the Radar, an indie/electro/what-have-you night organized by Poplife founder Ray Milian. It was never much of a success, partly because it was way ahead of its time and also because it changed venues too often. Milian, though, isn’t a man who surrenders easily. He has put all the musical knowledge to good use to give Miami its answer to popular music blogs such as Gorilla vs. Bear and Stereogum. Off the Radar (the blog!) boasts Milian in the DJ seat, but instead of a turntable, he uses Blogger. He receives help from a group of contributors including Lillian Banderas, Caroline Geys, Michael Unger, and Erika Ordoñez. Though the majority of the blog doesn’t focus on Miami music, it offers plenty of downloadable tracks for connoisseurs with more developed palates. In other words, if you’re expecting this blog to discuss Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga, move along.

At the beginning of the year, Sweat Records announced a contest for amateur filmmakers to create a video for local sweetheart Rachel Goodrich’s latest single, “Lightbulb.” The winner would receive bragging rights and $500. Thirty-seven artists uploaded their entries to YouTube for Sweat and Goodrich’s consideration. The song, like much of Goodrich’s work, is quirky, unthreatening, and full of kazoo. It’s sunny and hummable enough to land in a Crayola commercial. So most of the would-be video directors submitted similarly twee clips and animations. Not Lucas Leyva, the young, upstart member of the local Borscht Film Festival. The Miami native is diehard 305 till he dies, and his version went for reality. Filmed in the streets of Wynwood, the video shows a gang of street children on bicycles, tattoo artists, and thugs with gold vampire teeth — all lip-synched along to Goodrich’s happy-go-lucky tune. Some are loading guns or rolling dice. Oh, and between each of these vignettes, there’s plenty of booty-clapping for emphasis. The entry was completely unexpected, and the predictable offended comments on YouTube were as funny as the concept itself. Leyva scored second place in the contest, but he’s the winner in our book. (You can see it by searching Leyva and Goodrich on YouTube.)

During one of Germany’s numerous bloody battles, an officer, hoping to boost the morale of his troops, announced that if they kicked the enemy’s ass, he’d drink beer out of his boot. His troops soon emerged victorious, the battlefield lined with carcasses. While the dying enemy choked out its last breath, the officer raised his boot, filled it to the sweaty brim with beer, and drank as his men cheered. Germans still drink from boots — they’re really two-liter Stiefel glasses — in a sort of hazing drinking game that tests the resilience of livers. One of the best places to play Pass the Stiefel is the Royal Bavarian Schnitzel Haus, nestled between Little Haiti and the 79th Street Causeway. This isn’t a tourist trap with beer wenches in braids who hand out plump pretzels and Heinekens. It’s a deliciously kitschy Bavarian restaurant, complete with pungent cabbage dishes and premium German beers on tap. Order one of the oldest German black beers, Köstritzer Schwarzbier, brewed in Deutschland since 1543, or one of the best-selling drafts in Germany, Bitburger Pils. The wheaty Falkensteiner Hefe gets better as it warms, and the Paulaner Märzen will make your Oktoberfest celebration much more authentic. But spill beer from the Stiefel and suffer a public embarrassment of your cohorts’ choosing. So unless you don’t mind wearing your underwear as outerwear, perhaps it’s best you stick to the Schnitzel Haus’s more manageable .05-liter Steins. Prost, damit de Gurgel net verrost. (Cheers, so that your throat won’t rust.)

Yeah, yeah, so Black Point Ocean Grill has one exquisite waterfront view — thanks to its locale in the mangrove-lush paradise that is Black Point Marina — but that’s only a fraction, maybe half a cup’s worth, of its charm. Food, such as fresh seafood packed into sandwiches, burgers, and tasty smoked fish dip, earns this South Dade gathering place another quarter of charisma. But a good chunk of its appeal is the vibe. Cool and laid-back, it’s the perfect spot to swig a few frosty brews after a long bike ride on a Sunday afternoon. Or if you like the nightlife, join the gray-haired, khaki-shorts-loving, fishing-themed-T-shirt crowd every Friday and Saturday night as it gets down to a live band that covers every song you’ve ever heard on Big 106 or Magic 102.7. Add in a dash of flavor for the arbitrary bicycle hung over the dance floor, friendly service, and a twist of craziness due to the mermaid-kissing, scurvy-carrying, and squid-wrestling characters who come here fresh from the sea; shake well; and you have yourself one hell of a cocktail. Cheers!

There’s nothing about the Room that’s reassuring. It’s a damp, dark grotto on the southernmost tip of the beach. Conversation is inaudible and overlapping, like in a Robert Altman movie. Seats? Forget about it. The leather barstools, back bench, and misplaced ottomans in this gulag are invariably taken up by the regulars who get there at 7 p.m., when the bar opens. Yet this seven-year-old joint is comfortingly familiar. It’s far removed from the usual mess of South Beach, so there’s never much foot traffic outside the concealed hole-in-the-wall on First Street. You might run into a couple of lost, vacationing Australians from the hostels in the neighborhood. Inside, it is spa-dark, with a few candles sputtering behind the counter, as if the bartender wants to rub your shoulders while telling you a bedtime story. This is a place that would welcome the weariest drunk after a nightlong bender. And the sprawling beer menu — almost 80 brands from around the world — make it an inviting place to get shit-faced. The Room is the Epcot of booze. Owner Craig Weiss says he didn’t open the place just for beer snobs; he did it to educate South Florida’s palate. So bartenders don’t scoff when someone asks for a Corona. Instead, they suggest Costa Rican lager Imperial ($9) or a Japanese Hitachino wheat ale ($9). The Room is open seven days a week from 7 p.m. to 5 a.m.

We thought local business impresario Amir Ben-Zion would retreat quietly into Miami nightlife history after he shut down Domo Japones in the Design District. We were wrong. This past October, he opened Bardot, which reminds us of the late Pawn Shop Lounge. Knickknacks and suggestive artwork from Ben-Zion’s personal collection are strewn across the space. Though the address says North Miami Avenue, the entrance is located in the back. The only hint of it is a simple red awning. Get there before 11 p.m. and beat the mad rush; capacity is limited due to fire codes. During the high season, the lounge hosts a two-for-one happy hour from 6:30 to 9 p.m. In the summer, though, doors are open only from 8 p.m. until 5 a.m. Well drinks start at $9, but try the specialty cocktails for $12. There’s the “honey mule,” a mix of Russian Standard vodka, ginger beer, honey syrup, and fresh-pressed ginger. Or go for the namesake cocktail, the Brigitte, which blends Russian Standard vodka, crème de noisette, and Kahlúa.

Some people call it Space Southwest because of the night-to-morning party-monster atmosphere. Here you’ll find the club youth of Kendall who prefer big-room house to ale house. Expect a dress code, cover charge, and hours of thumping bass. Chongas and chicos de la saguesera throw down intoxicated dance moves under flashing colored lights. When you leave in the morning, you’ll notice the club is in a suburban Kendale Lakes strip mall behind a Wendy’s, and it will just add to the experience. ¡Dale!

Burger & Beer Joint has taken South Beach by storm with its delicious and reasonably priced hamburgers, unpretentious atmosphere, and consistency. The real draw for sports fans and tipplers alike is the adjacent bar, where eight flat-screen TV sets show every game imaginable — from football and basketball to baseball and boxing. This is the go-to spot during big-ticket events such as UFC matches, the Final Four, and the Super Bowl. For the inaugural Super Bowl presentation this past February, the action also moved upstairs, where a 120-inch projection screen was set up for the New Orleans Saints-loving crowd. Miami’s European, soccer-crazy community should look elsewhere, though. B&B is strictly an Americana zone. Nevertheless, drinks are cheap (for South Beach), especially during happy hour (half-price Monday through Friday from 5 to 7 p.m.). The sports bar is open daily beginning at 5 p.m. during the week and at noon on weekends. B&B’s full menu is served until 5 a.m., making the place a late-night haunt for bartenders, hostesses, and waiters from all over South Beach. Where else can you get turkey burgers, alcohol-spiked milkshakes, and the highlights from the Fins game at 4 a.m.? Plus there’s no doorman, bullshit attitude, or bottle requirement at this locals-friendly watering hole.

Perhaps you’ve eaten the homemade dim sum at Miss Yip and wondered what the heck is going on upstairs. That’s Buck15. Nestled on the second floor, it is a no B.S., funky-fresh, lounge-meets-art-gallery getaway. If South Florida allowed for basements and attics, this is what you’d want yours to look like. Comfy brown couches contrast with changing art installations such as bright graffiti by Atomik or murals by Victor-Hugo. Each night, the music covers everything from electro to hip-hop, adding to the overall sensory satisfaction. Nightly drink specials are cheap, there’s no cover, and the place is open until 5 a.m. Get Buck, Miami.

The last place anyone expects to find anything remotely hip is Ocean Drive. But the renovated Betsy Hotel has done just that with its speakeasy space, B Bar. Described as a “jewel box,” the lounge transports you to something akin to an obscure New York hot spot. Even if you stay at the Betsy, chances are you won’t easily find the lounge. To arrive at the entrance, you must descend a small set of stairs, walk through what looks like a service hallway, and knock on a nondescript door. Once you are permitted to enter (not everyone is so lucky), you’ll find the most gorgeously decorated space in all of the Magic City — a stark contrast to the safe design of the rest of the hotel. Let your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and take in the dark hues, softly lit bar, and cozy yet elegant space. The real shocker here, though, is the low ceiling covered in reflective vinyl that can feel disorienting — particularly when a DJ turns up the bass and it vibrates.

There is a plethora of possible reasons the Gansevoort named its 18th-story, rooftop pool bar Plunge. If you fall off the building, you could plunge to your death, or you can take a plunge in the pool. Regardless of the apellation’s origin, Plunge hits the damn-this-is-nice mark the second you lay eyes on it. Though the pool is reserved for hotel guests until 8 p.m. (except during spring/summer Saturday pool parties), anyone can come up and sit at the bar or lounge on the sofas. The Plexiglas walls afford ridiculous views of the Atlantic Ocean and the Magic City (even from the bathrooms), and the breeze never seems to cease. During the day, it offers anyone an excuse to unwind and try the signature pink elephant (vodka, champagne, lime, fresh mint, and strawberries); at night, Plunge transforms into a party playground.

Miami has enough velvet-rope-and-$25-valet nightclubs to keep Ed Hardy and your local Ecstasy dealer in the money for life. What it doesn’t have enough of, though, is the sort of bar where you can show up in casual clothes, have a conversation without screaming over club music, and spend a night getting tipsy on premium beer accompanied with a good nosh. That’s why we’re so happy to welcome Lou’s Beer Garden, an understated outdoor poolside bar and kitchen in the courtyard of the New Hotel in Miami Beach. It’s like a taste-bud-friendly Miami version of Cheers: You show up for one beer but end up getting sloshed on five high-octane brews such as Bieres de Chimay Triple and Rogue Brewery’s Double Dead Guy Ale while cracking wise with the other barflies. You’re given carte blanche with the single flat-screen’s remote control, and the bartenders are all regulars who never left. When you get really trashed, feel free to jump into the pool with your clothes on. And make sure you don’t have a reason to leave; the bar that bills itself as “Miami Beach’s first gastropub” has a menu full of gourmet grub including tasty pizzas, eight-ounce Black Angus burgers, and Ibérico squid.

This local watering hole has a nocturnal name, but it does a fantastic job catering to early-morning boozers. Nite Cap opens at 7 a.m. six days a week. The first happy hour runs from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. So if you’re in the mood for a beer or a Jameson on the rocks for breakfast, head to this 30-year-old wonder. There you will run into easygoing locals from North Dade and maybe even Southeast Broward who enjoy a low-key party vibe and low prices. The joint’s walls, bar, and tables are decorated in ancient Miami Dolphins regalia, commemorating the team’s glory years. Stop by and get to know bar wench Kelly, a peach of a lady who knows all the regulars. The place officially closes at 2 a.m. but — shhh, don’t tell the Man — has been known to operate extended hours. On the Lord’s Day, however, Nite Cap gives patrons a chance to go to church services and repent by opening at 12:30 p.m. During NFL season, the bar offers free hot dogs, kielbasa, and sliders all afternoon on game days.

Pop quiz. Yard House is totally bad-ass because:A. you met Yard House, and he is a very naughty donkey. B. the draft beer selection includes Stone IPA, Abita Purple Haze, Old Speckled Hen, Magic Hat, Spaten Optimator, Rogue’s Shakespeare Stout, Arrogant Bastard, Erdinger, Delirium Tremens, Pumpkinhead, plus 99 others (not bottles, nor on the walls) on tap.C. it has half-price happy hours: Every Monday through Wednesday from 3 to 6 p.m. and Sunday through Wednesday from 10 p.m. to close, you can stick up a pinkie with pride while sucking down a pint (or goblet) of brew for just $3.50 to $5. And yes, there are two happy hours Monday through Wednesday! D. it offers a beer sampler. It comes with six revolving five-ounce beer shots for $8.95. Selections change every Tuesday. E. it has beer blends and floats. Sure, most snobs think black-and-tans (Bass Ale and Guinness Stout) are blasphemy, but apparently they haven’t tried a black velvet (Woodchuck Pear Cider and Guinness Stout), a rose garden (Hoegaarden and Lindeman’s), or a Young’s Chocolate Stout float served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. F. All of the above, with the exception of A.Supersecret answer: F

Do you love beer? Then join the Democratic Republic of Beer. Natty Ice swillers need not apply. But if indeed you fancy yourself a connoisseur of finer suds, it’s absolutely crucial you expatriate at once. The beer menu is deep at 400 brews in house at any given time. And the menu is updated weekly, offering frequent surprises. Perusing the substantial, geographically organized bill of fare, one is easily overcome. But slow, good traveler. This is a marathon, not a race. Sample the wallop-packing Delirium Tremens from Belgium ($11, 8.5 percent alcohol), or England’s Old Speckled Hen ($5). There are German brands you’ve never even heard of. Or if you’re craving American micros, go nuts. It’s all here, from varieties of Dogfish Head, Abita, Flying Dog, Kona, and Lost Coast to Left Hand Stout, Shipyard’s brews, and every Sam Adams and Rogue you can think of. The options are dizzying! Literally.

When you think South Beach, sports bar might not be the first type of watering hole that comes to mind. But if Frankie’s South Beach Hide-a-Way owner Frankie Faria (who also owns a long-standing Doral location) has anything to say about it, that will change. Sports bar prereqs, such as a bevy of HDTV sets, are present and accounted for, and there’s even a center-stage cage in case you want to be incarcerated. Low booze prices — like $3 for PBR, Bud Select, and Frankie’s own No Crying Ale — might just get you there. And food is a real standout. “Amazing wings” are just that — slow-roasted and then char-grilled and only $8.95 for ten or $16.95 for 20. Addictive sliders come in burger, chicken, fish, and meatball varieties for $3.95 a pair, $5.95 for four, or $8.95 for six. And $9.95 gets you decadent seafood nachos — crustacean-packed fried won tons (not tortillas) covered in piping-hot cheese sauce.

It’s 4:40 p.m. You have refused to do any work during the last half-hour of your day. You peruse Facebook, juggle your phone, and glance around hoping the big boss exits a few minutes early. The clock ticks slower than a bureaucratic dweeb. Awaiting you at 5 o’clock is your sweet reward: happy hour. There are few things sweeter than cheap drinks after a long day. Consider $2 domestic drafts, $3 imports, and $3 wells. This is a place where top-shelf prices top off at $5 for things such as the elusive Black Label and the loosening Goose. Here the bartender engages in sports-related conversation and strangers aren’t creepy. You’ll get it all at Jada Coles, where such delight is at your fingertips Monday through Friday from 4 to 7 p.m.

If you wanna listen to the certified medical professionals, booze isn’t a reliable preventative or cure-all for ailments such as the common cold, seasonal flu, or imminent plague à la H1N1. They say it kills your liver, sends you into deep dehydration, and numbs you to the actual symptoms of your illness. But we call bullshit. Really, what the hell do those quacks know? As habitual heavy drinkers, we’ve done the research and we can testify to the magical medicinal effects of alcohol. Take Mercadito’s $8 el pirata, whose five active ingredients chase away the flu. First, the El Jimador Blanco tequila pickles your body’s sick cells. Second, the pineapple juice replenishes much-depleted vitamin C and natural sugar supplies. Third, a heavy dash of house spices kicks dormant salivary glands back into action, flooding your dried-out mouth and throat with natural lubricants. Fourth, hot jalapeño peppers spike the snot from your sinuses. And finally, there’s that dose of beer, wrapping your brain in a beautiful booze hug, dulling the senses and bringing sweet drunk relief. Cazart! You are cured!

Caffeine and alcohol can make you feel like Superman’s boozy brother: tossed off the sauce but still invincible. Which is why some folks in Utah have pushed to have the concoction banned. Thank God Miami isn’t one of those wimpy places. If it were, we might not have the café con leche martini, a $10 creation that tastes like it was invented by a barista witch-doctor genius. Found only at Wynwood’s Cafeina (as far as we know), the cocktail consists of coffee-infused vodka, Amaraula South African cream liqueur, and crème de cacao, topped with ground cinnamon and three espresso beans. It’s served in a martini glass by a knowledgeable but unpretentious bartender. And don’t worry — there’s not enough espresso in the thing to keep you up all night, like that time at the cabin when you drank four Irish coffees, took off all of your clothes, and shouted, “I’m the queen of the world!” Or maybe that was just us.

Last night’s hangover in dire need of a cure? Head to 660 at the Angler’s Resort for brunch and choose the bottomless bloody mary bar. The red spicy concoctions are served from a rolling cart, where an attendant dispenses house-made bloody marys. The cart is stocked with clam juice, chianti-cured salami, cornichons, caper berries, celery, queen olives, and house-made fennel salt. Choose what you’d like, and the attendant will mix your cocktail — ahem, cocktails — the way you like. Really, where else does $14 get you an endless supply of good bloody marys on South Beach? Anyone? We thought so. Just don’t forget to have some food with that libation. The bottomless bloody mary bar is offered Saturday and Sunday from 11 a.m. and 5 p.m.

Go to the American Legion and order a goddamn drink. Yes, the American Legion. A little patriotism won’t kill you, you fucking hipster. Sit your ass down and have a fucking beer. A fucking Bud Light. There’s a fancy place around the corner if you want to be a pussy, OK? Take a swig of that shit and ask for Sean. He’s a bartender and he’s a real straight talker. He’s fought in some wars. Just shut the fuck up and listen to him. The dude tells some good stories, you asshole. Also, watch the sports on the motherfucking TV set because that’s what you do at a motherfucking vets’ hall. Seriously, look it up. Man, sometimes I want to shoot you with my fucking hunting rifle.

You got fired. Your live-in girlfriend dumped and robbed you. The rent check bounced. The car has a flat. There are ants in your cereal. Your own dog mauled you. The sun is going down, and the electricity just got cut. When fate is pressing its sharpest knife to your throat, a three-day, beer-soaked vacation from reality is the only option. Behold South Miami’s bender mecca, Cervezas, a no-bullshit sanctuary from the ever-increasing absurdity of human existence. This place is cool, dark, and packed so full of brew that you could easily drink for 72 hours and never see the bottom of your bottle. There are 200 kinds of local, microbrew, import, fine, and not-so-fine suds, including Florida’s Native Lager; Cooperstown’s Ommegang Abbey, Canada’s Labatt Blue, and Belgium’s St. Bernardus Abt 12. Almost nothing costs more than $6. So get drunk and wash the curse away, if only till sobriety brings your bad luck barreling back again.

Our incarnation of L.A.’s celebrity hangout has emerged as South Beach’s leading elitist lounge. Located in the lobby of the Gansevoort, the lavish baroque-style parlor with plush banquettes and gold, leafy lighting is inspired by a fictional woman named Coco de Ville, who is so elusive and alluring that few men, or ladies for that matter, have been able to claim her affection. In fact, you better be wearing Barneys duds and trailing six or seven skinny models if you expect to get into Coco’s inner sanctum. But once you do, you’ll enter a whimsical lounge where cocktails such as Coco’s “cotton candy” (a combination of Tu Ku Soju Vodka, citrus liqueur, and lime shaken and poured into a tumbler) are sure to rev up your Dionysian urges. Coco is also home to Tuesday-night party Favela Chic, a gathering of beautiful South Beach people shaking to the sounds of DJ Ross One and his crew of Brazilian-samba-pop-music mash-up DJs.

Brickell Irish Pub gives Miami’s scene stealers a fresh new place to get gritty. Opened last year, it’s a place where cosmos and Cuba libre’s are traded for Guinness and Jameson. The place is regularly slammed with a crowd that overflows onto the bar’s outside terrace. Inside, it might take you a minute or two to reach the bar, but kilt-clad waiters and waitresses keep the $12 drinks coming. Live bands frequent the 6,000-square-foot warehouse-style bar at least six nights a week and play on a stage that resembles an antique library. The pub also keeps the clean and sober occupied and content with a pool table, darts, and 20 plasma TV screens. The crowd is mixed, and while the music selections vary, the tunes are those best sung by an entire bar full of drunks — i.e., anything by the Police, Sublime, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Nightly themes span the week, including Monday poker night, Wednesday rock night, and Sunday dedicated to all things sports. The bar is open Sunday through Wednesday noon to 2 a.m. and Thursday through Saturday noon to 3 a.m.

In a drab Kendall strip mall, right in front of Porky’s Gym II, hides a jazz open-mike night that would make WLRN stalwart Len Pace proud. Every Thursday, a different South Florida jazz band jams until midnight on the stage in the backroom of this Cuban seafood joint. By 7 p.m., the nautically-themed room fills with goateed guys sporting berets and carrying harmonicas in their pockets. No reservations needed, and no cover at the door. Better yet, no signup for the open mike. Papa Joe, the avuncular musical director, rules the jazzy alcove like a benevolent overlord. When he sees a regular who can sing, or someone who’s brought an instrument, he’ll invite them up to jam. And the food is cheap too: The late-night menu includes 99-cent garlic bread, two-for-one $3 Buds, and $7.99 chicken wings. All of that would be enough to set the Fish House apart from every other open-mike in the county, but it actually hosts two other nights: Wednesday is reserved for rock, and Mondays for blues.

It is exclusive, extravagant, and posher than any other karaoke party in Miami. But if you can make it upstairs to the second floor of Casa Tua’s private club on a Wednesday evening, you’ll be in for a helluva night. Here, socialites, minor European royalty, and celebrities belt out international classics such as “The Girl From Ipanema” and “Volare.” Botoxed singers are accompanied by a drummer and a DJ, who keep the caterwauling at bay. One night, we witnessed Emilio Estefan take over the bongos. The talkative crowd didn’t seem too excited about this impromptu jam session, but we rocked out to his Latin beat. Upstairs, other famous patrons have included Marisa Tomei, George Hamilton, Boris Becker, and Priscilla Presley. No word on whether they participated in karaoke night. The décor is sumptuous and reminiscent of a chic nightclub in Italy, and the visitors are truly international. Drinks are crazy-expensive, and there is a gourmet lounge menu (caviar, anyone?), but the real draw to this members-only space is watching drunken blue bloods tackle karaoke after too much gin. And like karaoke anywhere in the world, pretty it ain’t. That’s probably why Casa Tua hosts this soirée only once a week.

John Gregory II, the not-so-jerky guy known as Somejerk, isn’t exactly a new face on the local underground electronic music scene. But only in recent months has he finally garnered his deserved accolades. He is no dubstep trendy-come-lately. Rather, he boasts roots in the earlier genre form that produced dubstep: drum ‘n’ bass. While d’n’b fizzled out and everyone moved on to cornier music, though, Somejerk kept mining the low end and biding his time. Then he began quietly releasing his own dubstep mixes and productions. These days, he stands apart from the crowd by not always going for the heavy rinse-outs. Instead, Somejerk sometimes bombs the bass. Then he wanders into the subtler points of a surprisingly variable genre. Either way, we’re always happy to go along for the sonic journey.

Dan Martin arrived in sunny South Florida on the usual serendipitous winds that blow people here from all over (in his case, frigid Wisconsin) a few years ago. Back then, he was known as DJ Doormouse, and he scared the crap out of people. One of the pioneers of an underground American scene of noisy, experimental music, he churned out the kind of confrontational sounds and unpredictable performances that made him huge in places such as the Netherlands and Belgium. But all that DJing involved late nights full of smoking, drinking, and bad posture, and by his early 30s, it was taking a toll. Martin recalled his past as a top-level amateur track athlete and soon threw himself as intensely, eccentrically into fitness as he had done with music. These days, he’s co-owner of a scrappy but rapidly growing Crossfit gym on the Morningside-Little Haiti border, where he leads his new fans in hoisting barbells instead of record crates. While you can still catch him DJing at a few low-key venues such as the Vagabond — sometimes even with a gas mask on to filter out the smoke — his most exciting residency is definitely in the weight room.

DJ Skidmark’s chosen name on the decks might be puerile, but his musical selection is anything but crappy. A tried and true punk rocker of a certain age, he was around for the genre’s mythical golden years in the ’70s and ’80s. Some 30-plus years on, he’s still carrying the torch for punk rock: fast, loud, sloppy, and loose. A onetime DJ on Fort Lauderdale’s WSRF 1580 AM, the Detroit native now plies his trade live, spinning in dives around South Florida. A staple gig is — where else? — at Little Haiti’s Churchill’s Pub, where he often chooses vintage vinyl nuggets to set the mood between bands’ sets.

Miami has so much natural beauty that it’s unfortunate most of our bars and clubs revel in synthetic aesthetics: the intricate design, the electronic beats blaring through speakers, the surgically altered bodies of the people let past the polyester velvet rope. Luckily, there are a few places that still put nature’s beauty on display. One of them is Wetlab on the University of Miami campus on Virginia Key. The patio affords an unobstructed view of undeveloped Biscayne Bay in all its glory, while the bar offers a full selection of sanely priced drinks in all their different but equally breathtaking glory. Yes, Wetlab is on a college campus, but it’s open to the public, and the grad students here form a far different crowd from those you’ll find at the Rathskeller on UM’s Coral Gables campus. The only real drawback is that Wetlab is open only Wednesday and Thursday from 5 to 8 p.m. and Friday from 4:30 to 11 p.m.

Dear Tamara,Ever since the first time I laid eyes on you, I knew one day the celestial gods would bring us together. Every time you twist a knob or scratch a record, it’s as if you are gently caressing my body with your skill and knowledge. We become one on the dance floor; I hope someday we can consummate our love to the bass-heavy track of your choice. I have the Overthrow — the nightlife collective founded by Alexis Mincolla and Samuel Baum — to thank for finally persuading you to play more local gigs on the regular. Now your hometown has discovered what people in far-flung areas such as Turkey and Mexico already know: You are beyond awesome behind the decks.Love,Your #1 Fan

DJ sets are the new black. They’re cool. From Björn Yttling to Animal Collective to Passion Pit, everyone seems to be getting in on the act, shedding the conventions of their normal processes and venturing in new directions. The boys from one of Miami’s greatest musical institutions, Locos por Juana, are no different. Unless, of course, you count the fact that their DJ set — generally performed the first and last Wednesday of the month under the name Afro Kumbe — blends traditional Colombian sounds with electronica. It’s an orgy of sound anytime Afro Kumbe throws down a set. Cumbia dry-humps house. Champeta 69s with techno. Reggae invites ambient to perform dogs in the bathtub (if you don’t know, don’t ask). And the frenzied onstage presence that fans expect of Locos is represented in spades.

Are you one of those people who love doing their Tony Montana imitation for friends at parties — even though it’s essentially butchering an already butchered rendition of a Cuban accent? Perhaps you have or at one point had a poster of Al Pacino’s pivotal antihero gracing your walls. Or maybe it’s a lifelong dream to seamlessly work into conversation a line such as “Manolo. Choot dis piece of chet!” Well, if any (or heaven forbid, all) of the aforementioned describes you, there’s really only one place you should spend your time imbibing. And that’s the northwest-of-SoBe institution Purdy Lounge. Head to the backroom and enjoy your tequila shots or Jäger bombs to the vista of Frank Lopez’s iconic palm trees and sunset wallpaper while listening to everything from current hip-hop to the B-52s’ “Love Shack.” Ask for Steve-O, Dan, or Cary, all of whom are the shiznit.

WMC 2009. Allapattah. O.H.W.O.W. Mad Decent. TurntableLab. Trouble & Bass. IHEARTCOMIX. Hamburger Eyes. Surprise guest Lil Jon. Ten hours of nonstop music. Free booze, and when that ran out, there was cheap booze at the bodega across the street. Best. Party. Ever.

In Miami’s balkanized music world, every neighborhood has its sovereign genre. Downtown is hipsterdom, Kendall owns Muzak, and South Beach is the land of house. In Little Havana, salsa holds sway. Hoy Como Ayer, the hole-in-the-wall cabaret on Calle Ocho, is the bedrock of this estate. Its walls are lined with portraits of the icons of Cuba’s musical heyday: Celia Cruz, Benny More, Arturo Sandoval. But on Wednesday nights, Oscar G, one of the headlining DJs at Park West bacchanal Space, enters the smoky inner sanctum. For the past year, he has hosted a dance party here called Tropicasa that would spook the regular clientele of viejitos in crisp white guayaberas if it weren’t so damn funky. The DJ doesn’t so much spin club house as remix it live with traditional guaguanco and Afro-Cuban sounds. He borrows a bass line from one song, a drum loop from another, a vocal sample from a third, and plays it over a rolling house beat while El Chino Dreadlion, former vocalist for cool-kid band Yerba Buena, sings and a drummer plays the timbales. While Oscar G at Space might set you back a 20, cover here is just seven bucks, and a Presidente beer only five. For two hours, the musical jambalaya throbs at an unrelenting pace, shaking the joint so hard the portraits on the walls vibrate like tiny gongs. Doors open at 10 and close at 3 a.m.

It’s 5 o’clock Sunday morning — closing time for most nightclubs in Miami. But you want to keep the party going. You are totally juiced, and your honey is looking fine. Where can your Affliction-loving, sunglasses-at-night-wearing self keep the tunes pumpin’, bro? Space, of course. Located at the north end of downtown Miami in just about the coolest, most urban neighborhood anywhere south of Manhattan, Space is everything to the party set. So keep your head up high, bro, and make sure not to leave the club without your honey by your side. Nuff said.

When Tomas Ceddia (Aquabooty) and Will Renuart (Boogie) took over the former Circa 28 space, we knew house music would be a cornerstone of whatever they had planned for the venue. Later, when the name was revealed — Electric Pickle — it left us wondering if there was some kind of joke. It wasn’t. Together they have made sure the Pickle takes its music — the dance variety in particular — very seriously. Alexander Technique, M.A.N.D.Y., dOP, Wolf + Lamb, Marques Wyatt, In Flagranti, Seth Troxler, Tony Rohr, Junior Sanchez, and others have given the lounge’s Dynacord system a workout. The downstairs area is perfect for the chill-out lounge experience, while the upstairs usually turns into an all-out dance riot. Let’s not forget about the back lot, perfect for those cool Miami winters and habitual day parties. The best thing about the Pickle is that you won’t be judged based on your looks or gender. As long as you’re 21 and pay the cover charge (or somehow put your name on the guest list), you’re in. And though Saturday’s Poplife party has moved on, we don’t expect things to slow down here.

When Aaron Bondaroff and Al Moran of the O.H.W.O.W. gallery are behind the scenes of anything, you can expect some catalyzing creativity. The duo/owners came up with the concept for Bar, where almost every 90 days, a new artist transforms the interior. And we don’t mean a simple paint job; the walls become murals and full-blown collages. An artist named Freegums was the first to cover the place with doodles one might find in a composition notebook. Then Todd “Reas” James came in with his signature pink naked ladies and bright, whimsical characters. Bar’s goal is to keep the process organic, never announcing the next artist too far in advance and unveiling each new installation during the Monday-night party Locals Only.

If Mova were an ad in the men-for-men section of Craigslist, it would read, “Young, Sean Cody type casually seeking late night of carousing and heavy petting.” At the lounge, just off Lincoln Road, the crowd that revolves around the oval-shaped bar skews young. The place has slowed the exodus of young gays to Fort Lauderdale. Mova stands apart from the decades-old haunts catering to crowds that still remember the decadent foam parties of the ’90s. It’s classy, wholesome, and as beautifully lit as a Zac Efron musical. The only leather you’re likely to see here is on the upholstered love seats. Even the drinks are twinky: They’re named things like “elderflower fizz,” “treetini,” and “açaí breeze.” On Wednesday, college night, vodka cocktails are $3 all night long. Served by strapping bartenders as pretty as the Jonas Brothers, these cocktails are deceptively light. And the fizz ($15) is the kind of libation that loosens things up. Plus from 3 to 9 p.m. daily, all drinks are half-off. But the best thing about Mova is that it’s located right in front of the Frieze, the 24-hour ice-cream shop where you can drown your sorrows in food if you haven’t hooked up with anyone by the end of the night.

This new megalounge sits directly across the street from Bayfront Park. Outside, the bar and terrace offer an Asian vibe with orange lanterns, red pop-up umbrellas, and bamboo-style chairs. Guests can enjoy direct views of the park’s cascading fountain. Inside, diners sit on plush couches while tear-drop chandeliers hang overhead. Designer Isaac Valdes’s incorporation of the European, interactive iBar and iWall technologies adds a high-tech touch to the rich palette and décor. MIA’s bars are stocked with unique cocktails you can’t find anywhere else, including edible and nitrogen cocktails ($10 to $15) with ingredients such as Pop Rocks. The extensive list of signature drinks includes the Blackstone cocktail (Imperia, Amaretto, raspberry liqueur, pineapple juice, and raspberry juice, $12). They taste even better during happy hour, when they cost half the normal price.

Everyone at Kill Your Idol was coupled off, but not Henry. He sat alone at the end of the bar, and from the look on his face, the night wasn’t going so well. But then he snapped out of his Pabst stupor and his eyes shone bright. He pointed in the air and shouted, “This is my song. I played this!” Neutral Milk Hotel’s “Holland, 1945” was blaring on the jukebox. It was the song Henry used to blast in his bedroom with the door closed when he was only 16. Although technically alone, Henry was deeply in love. He was smitten with Fireball, the glowing, red-hot vintage juke in the corner. Deep inside its guts were all the songs that could carry him away from the present loneliness. Other jukeboxes didn’t satisfy; they were empty shells of flashing lights that merely streamed MP3s. Fireball was stocked with actual CDs that contained personalized playlists chosen by Miami music makers and lovers. Local band Astari Nite included fellow Miami musician MillionYoung on its mix. Hood Songs, the CD by writer John Hood, contained everything from Tom Waits to Ice T, with a wildcard Fiona Apple thrown in. Deep cuts from throwbacks such as VNV Nation and MC5 were mixed thoughtfully in with current favorites Surfer Blood and the XX. Losing more dollar bills than at a strip club, Henry couldn’t take his eyes off Fireball — that is, until he caught a glimpse of the Playboy pinball machine in the other corner.