The Poor House

Concerts always end on a depressing note for me. The big finale over, the lights come on, and attendees shuffle to their cars without speaking because the ringing in their ears is deafening. The lightweights are stressed about getting to work at 8 a.m., but some of us are far from finished. When the concert at Revolution wraps up, my friends and I walk south to the dark little doorway of the Poor House. There is no pomp and no prestige, and the bathroom is even disgusting, as can be expected from a great bar. There's enough time from the end of Revolution's last show to the start of the Poor House's almost nightly live music to get a couple of beers down the gullet that don't cost $6 each. As it gets closer to midnight, the dark, midsized bar starts to fill up with punks, boaters, hipsters, musicians, journalists, anti-hipsters, and the occasional businessman. I have always been served the coldest of brews and ended up in the strangest of conversations while waiting for the music to start (look for the guy in the captain hat). Once the music kicks in, just push your way toward the front of the stage and enjoy. Sometimes it's hardcore, sometimes it's hip-hop, and sometimes it's just damned good rock 'n' roll. This town needs more bars that focus on music and fewer on the color of the grout in the bathroom.