Best Of :: Arts & Entertainment
Those Denverites who saw Savion Glover perform at the Buell will someday tell their children about it. He just may be the best tap dancer alive, certainly one of the best who ever lived. Glover, who began dancing at the age of eleven, makes music with his feet. Bring in Da Noise, which he also choreographed and for which he won a Tony, used tap, hip-hop, blues and percussion to tell the story of black people in America. This is not the tap we associate with Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly -- although Shirley Temple puts in a dizzying appearance. This dancing was loud, rough-driving and exuberant, but also complex and sophisticated. Glover alone could carry an evening, but for this production he gathered an extraordinary group of dance talents and gave them generous stage time. Unforgettable. Mind-blowing. Dazzling. Glover's show was all this and more.
The High Street Speakeasy sits in a turn-of-the-century building that, way back in the day, served as a rooming house for transient Denverites. When it opened last spring, the place buzzed with rumors that spirits roamed the upstairs apartments and sometimes came down to the bar -- for a cocktail, maybe, or just to scare the crap out of the staff. But the ghost talk has died down, which is good: There's nothing spooky about this friendly, stylish, forward-thinking joint in the Cole neighborhood. In his renovation, owner John Wallace retained the building's vintage charms, including a very broken-in bar, antique lighting and a great jukebox stuffed with old-timey tunes. Modern touches abound, as well: The bar uses only fresh fruit juices, and many of the house liquors are top-shelf. Haunted or not, the High Street Speakeasy's got that otherworldly thing we call vibe.
Our mother always told us to respect our elders. So we're giving mad props to the 57-year-old Don's Club Tavern, a smoky dive bar that welcomes everyone with open arms -- from the regulars who plant themselves daily on Don's bar stools to the college kids in search of a decent pool table and cheap drinks. With faded family pictures and posters of Ireland adorning the dark, wood-paneled walls, and the original cash register still ringing up drinks, you'd have to search high and low to find another bar this authentic. Sadly, owner Donald Aymami passed away earlier this year, but his wife and family have vowed to keep this Denver institution alive. And for that, we're grateful: Sixth Avenue just wouldn't be the same without the ancient neon "Mixed Drinks" sign guiding us home.
Regulars at the Skylark Lounge know what a difference a couple of blocks can make: not much. The stalwart watering hole moved this past November from its sixty-year home at 58 South Broadway to roomier digs at 140 South, but the revered smoky atmosphere was carefully transferred, along with the pinups and classic Western and sci-fi movie posters that still hang over maroon booths. In fact, there's just more of everything we loved from the old place: more live bands, more parking, and more swaying room -- whether in time with the music or as a result of those generous 'Lark libations. Just don't ask to see the martini specials: The Skylark is for drinkers and dancers, not trendy scenesters. We'll drink to that.
Brendan's, the patron saint of the blues, is back, baby. But it's hard to feel the spirit of the downtrodden in such a beautiful club. Fine woodworking infuses the venue with warmth, and the view is sharp from any angle. There's a steady lineup of quality acts, the sound is as lush as the aura, and the bartenders are comfortably loose with the beverages. Musicians are kept as happy as paying guests with a green room worthy of the greats and a convenient back door for easy loading -- or fleeing the hellhound on their trail. Though changes at the club may be imminent, for the past year Brendan's master reinvention was unparalleled.
If the slogan "Where the lonely get laid" or the phallic connotations of the Roosters name aren't enough to entice Mootown's lonesome losers to head north in search of a little hello kitty action, then a semi full of Viagra isn't likely to help, either. Maybe it's the pervasive pheromone mist created by sweaty bodies rubbing together or the perpetual look of closing-time desperation -- or maybe it's just the lurid R&B beats. Whatever's in the air, on any given weekend night, average Joes are just as likely to score as the hardbodies. And even if they can't close the deal, there's nothin' wrong with a little bump and grind. Cock-a-doodle-do.