Best Of :: Arts & Entertainment
Devotees of Unity Gain refer to the Sunday-night climaxes of these 72-hour, multi-location marathons as "Church." And Unity Gain is worthy of worship. Since it started in the summer of 2000 as a mere club night at Boulder's Soma, the series has garnered a well-deserved reputation as the premier showcase for turntable talent in a non-commercial, underground setting. Typically, the sporadically scheduled parties span an entire weekend and move from ski towns along I-70 to Denver and Boulder and back again. Whatever the venue, Unity Gain promoters make it theirs, decorating with fabric, candles, tapestries, flowers and giant pillow installations. The custom light shows feature multiple film loops, 3-D screens and ambient projections. This sensual decor, combined with phenomenal music by local, national and international DJs, makes Unity Gain parties the bomb. Everyone's welcome, but there's no website, and no phone number to call. Keep an eye out for fliers in local dance clubs and record stores.
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.