Arts & Entertainment

When the first Dada Manifesto was ratified in Zurich on July 14, 1916, little did Hugo Ball and company know that one day their revolutionary aesthetic philosophy would wind up being applied to the grimy wall of Gabor’s men’s room. In perfect accord with the Dadaists’ credo of contradiction and nonsense, some patron used the popular Capitol Hill watering hole as a blank canvas upon which to scrawl the sublimely absurd phrase “Super organisms are responsible for 99% of kung foo [sic].” Just think about that while you’re piss-drunk and swaying in front of the urinal at 1:30 in the morning. Of course, after a few weeks, the graffiti was painted over. Thankfully, the rationalist censors have yet to find the surreal epigram inscribed above the toilet-paper dispenser: “You chop parsley like a bitch.”

Barry Melnick had been slingin’ suds for the Zephyr Lounge’s early-morning crowds for 56 years when he was sidelined last spring by a car accident and heart attack. Now his son, Myron, is keeping the Zephyr’s 7 a.m. happy hour alive. With the nearby Fitzsimons campus being redeveloped into a biopark, there just aren’t many people left in the area who need to tie one on after the night shift. No matter: As long as Barry’s around, the Zephyr will always be open to great customers, even if they come in a few at a time. Need a wake-up call? Try the house specialty: rocket-fuel coffee (Kahla optional). Rise and shine.

We miss the old 16th Street Mall. We miss Skip and Amy, the nail-in-nose panhandlers. We miss the skaters at Skyline. We miss the homeless people, who are increasingly being pushed out by metro boosters who don’t want to scare away tourists. We miss them because if there is one truth of people-watching, it’s that only interesting people are worth watching. Tourists are not worth watching: When’s the last time you saw one do a good gross-out trick or ride a handrail on a longboard? Better get a seat now, before the Denver City Council bans panhandling altogether from the mall and several blocks around it, and turns what had been the city’s greatest voyeurism spot into a sterilized tourist playground.

Like all good philanthropists, Nuclia Waste raises a little awareness and dough for non-profit projects, but Nuclia does it right with radioactive flair and space-tastic style. Whether it’s her annual Misfit Toys variety show and toy drop for needy kids or her annual Project Angel Heart fundraiser (and celebration of big wigs), the Mile Hi Hair Ball, the Princess of Plutonium is always decked out in her rocky flats best. But the very best thing about Nuclia it that she lives up to her very best intentions, and inspires us to do the same.

Debating hefty issues such as water use, growth control and the state budget may feel like a form of self-flagellation for lawmakers, but for the real thing, Rise Nightclub offers naughty Denverites of all political persuasions a chance to crack the whip. On a normal night at Rise, there’s enough skin showing to make you wonder if everyone’s experiencing a wardrobe malfunction. But during one of the club’s fetish-theme nights, a dead ringer for a certain conservative legislator from the Western Slope was sighted in a getup that made the gimp from Pulp Fiction look tame. When the basement of this cavernous club is converted into an S&M dungeon, beware the cries of pain (or is that pleasure?). There’s no telling who’s behind the masks and black latex of the fetishists who come to see, be seen and get spanked. One of them just might be your boss — or the man you voted into office.

Producer/director Aaron Hunter prefers the term “female impersonator” to “drag queen.” Either way, his new Starz Cabaret show is royal. Modeled on high-camp, high-glam productions in Vegas and Chicago, Starz Cabaret opened in February and features a revolving cast of performers who ape only the most deserving divas. When Whitney, Barbra, Liza and others take the stage, there are more sparkly sequins, falsies and spike heels than you’d find on Cher’s tour bus. The show flares up three Sundays a month at Club Dream, a huge new space in the upper Walnut warehouse district. Customers are seated at tables, show-club style, and the performers often come down into the audience to tantalize and tease: MC Chamblee Tucker is especially adept at the latter. Are you fabulous enough to take it? Sure you are, darlin’. Just have a seat and let the ladies do their thing.

Mercury Cafe

2199 California St.

303-294-9281 Salsa dancing is not for the meek: The moves are aerobic, and the music is full of frenetic polyrhythms and enough syncopation to make your head spin. But throwing your dancing shoe into the salsa ring is a lot less intimidating at the Mercury Cafe’s Thursday salsa night. The community-style dance begins with a lesson from Mambo Dojo, a New York-style dance studio whose instructors make you feel slightly less silly about shaking your hips, cha-cha-ing your feet and trying to get in touch with that thing called a groove. After class, the Merc’s huge upstairs room fills with Cuban music and all kinds of dancers working salsa, balboa and swing until well past midnight. Free your mind, and the steps will follow.

The atmosphere at Armida’s is so calming and amiable that it prompts even everyday patrons to step up to the mike Wednesday through Sunday nights. The disc jockeys are friendly and are happy to accommodate the most absurd request for songs, whether it comes from longtime karaoke heroes or first-time howlers. And even the shiest shower-stall crooners can expect a warm welcome from Armida’s enthusiastic nightly crowds. Now, if only they’d take “Friends in Low Places” off the song list…

Artist/illustrator Michelle Barnes and club-marketing maven Paulina Szafranski know that women are complex creatures. Sure, they want culture and companionship, inspiration and ideas — but they also like to have their hair played with and get their nails done. Every Thursday, Barnes and Szafranski host Girls’ Night Out at Mynt True Lounge on Market Street, where sophisticated ladies get together to dish, dine and dig each other. Each week, a speaker — usually culled from the art, media or fashion realm — talks to the assemblage about what it takes to be fabulous while gals scarf up free apps, drinks and salon services. Yes, it’s exclusive, sexist and catty. It’s also a blast. Let’s hear it for these girls.

Next time you wander into the Thin Man on a Monday night, head for the couches at the back of the narrow bar, where you’ll find the chatty chicks of “Stitch and Bitch” knitting away. An informal gathering that attracts anywhere from four to thirty gals each week, these friendly ladies are more than willing to teach beginners basic stitches while talking about their latest yarn creations, everything from a dog sweater to a purse. So grab your knitting needles and a pint and get ready to gab.

Arvada is still recovering from the cultural jolt thrown by brothers Adam, Matthew and Jeremy DeGraff, who opened the D Note in sleepy Old Town last year. The Brothers D combined their aesthetic and business senses to produce one of the most eclectic and appealing rooms in town — part art gallery, part music venue, part yoga studio and, sometimes, church. Open seven nights a week for music, including bluegrass jams and “wine tastings” hosted by local players, the Note also serves cheap sandwiches, salads and soups beginning at 11 a.m. On Sundays, the after-worship crowd eats brunch beneath the wildly realized murals, paintings and sculptures that line the walls of the large room. Denver clubs could take a cue from the D Note’s creative calendar and vision: The place is worth the drive every time.

Last summer, the Central City Opera featured L’Italiana en Algeri, Gabriel’s Daughter — an original production based on the life of the first female freed slave in gold rush Colorado — and an evening that combined the famed and familiar I Pagliacci and the rarely performed Goyescas. L’Italiana was laugh-out-loud funny, Gabriel’s Daughter poignant, and all three evenings featured magnificent music. This summer, Central City will present The Tales of Hoffman, The Student Prince and The Juggler of Notre Dame. You don’t need to be an opera aficionado to enjoy sitting in this gem of a theater while some of the finest voices in the country flow around you — unmiked and undistorted. But, please, leave the cell phones and crinkly candy wrappers at home.

The quaint town of Lyons, on the St. Vrain River, has numerous low-key attractions, including Oskar Blues, a first-rate blues-and-brews club that’s even received shout-outs from Rolling Stone. Live acts range from members of the Colorado Blues Society to Pinetop Perkins, all augmented nicely by a Cajun-flavored menu and house-brewed beers. Of course, making the eighty-mile round trip to the Boulder bedroom community and back is a little daunting. Instead, gather up to sixteen friends and charter the wildly painted Blues Bus (which could double as Ken Kesey’s famous ride of yore) and head up the hill for a night of revelry.

With at least twenty music festivals already on the roster, Colorado didn’t really need another. But the founders of Blues From the Top believed wholeheartedly that Grand County needed a dose of the blues, so last year they debuted a two-day extravaganza at SolVista Golf and Ski Ranch, just two miles outside of Granby. The lineup was solid, the setting stunning. It was a well-intentioned attempt to bring nationally known acts to somewhere in the county other than Winter Park. These were blues you could use.

In a town where most of the street festivals have become indistinguishable, the Larimer Arts Association came up with something completely different last year: In the great Renaissance tradition, the group invited artists of all levels to decorate the sidewalk with chalk art. Over two days, the corridor became a canvas of colors, sounds and food. La Piazza dell’Arte will return again this year on June 19 and 20, with a bigger, better format that includes an opportunity for artists to reproduce and preserve their street fare for a gallery show, since the actual pavement chalk drawings are washed away at the end of the weekend. Step right up.

Youngsters are the real stars at PlatteForum, even though some of the biggest names in the local art world are artists in residence. Sculptors, painters, dancers and other representatives of the arts work with local classrooms to develop collaborative cultural projects, and when they’re finished, PlatteForum gives the kids — and mentoring adults — a space to display their achievements.

The retrospective Zamantakis: From the Earth, which was ensconced during the holidays at the Victoria H. Myhren Gallery on the campus of the University of Denver, was a major retrospective examining the fifty-year-plus career of one of the most important potters in the state. DU was an appropriate venue for this show because Mark Zamantakis is a graduate of the school and studied there with his mentor, the late John Billmyer. Zamantakis, whose father was born in Crete, combines the influence of ancient Hellenic pottery with the techniques and forms inspired by Asian ceramics. The result is a very distinctive, signature look.

BECAUSE THE EARTH IS 1/3 DIRT, which just closed at the University of Colorado Art Museum on the Boulder campus, featured an international array of contemporary ceramic artists. Participants were invited by a committee made up of CUAM director Lisa Tamiris Becker and three members of CU’s art faculty: Scott Chamberlin, Kim Dickey and Jeanne Quinn. Just about every artist they selected is on the front lines of the medium, but perhaps none more so than Walter McConnell, who uses wet clay for his radical sculptures. Leopold Foulem, Lawson Oyekan and Annabeth Rosen were also responsible for making this show an unlikely blockbuster.

Metro State’s Center for the Visual Arts hosted a show last month that highlighted some of the most influential pottery of the last century. The traveling exhibit, Picasso: 25 Years of Edition Ceramics From the Edward and Ann Weston Collection, included more than sixty pieces of Picasso’s ceramics that were done with Georges and Suzanne Ramié at their Madoura studio in Vallauris, on the southern coast of France. Picasso began to work with clay in 1947, and he continued until 1972, the year before he died. Just like everything else Picasso did, his pots, as seen here, were gorgeous.

Director’s Choice marked the first time Ivar Zeile and Ron Judish worked together on the same exhibit. The occasion was the launch of their new art venture, + Zeile/Judish Gallery. The striking show featured the work of emerging Colorado artists who previously were little known in Denver. One exciting find was Jon Rietfors of Glenwood Springs, a young conceptual artist with a taste for neo-pop. His most significant piece was made of dozens of ramen-noodle packages and digital pictures of SpaghettiOs, while others employed packs of gum. Believe it or not, despite the lowbrow materials, the pieces were all extremely elegant.

The spectacular exhibit now at Denver’s Museum of Contemporary Art has the novella-length title OVER A BILLION SERVED: Conceptual Photography From the People’s Republic of China. The work in this knockout show, which is mostly digitally produced and deals with such hot topics as the Tiananmen Square revolt, SARS and creeping Americanization, is aesthetically, philosophically and technically distinct from contemporary American art. Julie Segraves, director of Denver’s Asian Art Coordinating Council, assembled BILLION. As a close follower of the art scene in China, she was the ideal choice: It was surely her familiarity with the material that makes this MCA outing so darned mind-blowing.

Denver artist Annalee Schorr felt she was “embedded” in the Iraq war because she watched televised news coverage of it all the time. To create Shock/Awe, her politically charged solo at Spark Gallery, Schorr used enlarged photos of her TV screen. The juxtaposition of bomb-ravaged cities taken from cable news with images from shopping channels was positively chilling. Schorr is no neophyte when it comes to political art based on television; she first did it during the Gulf War, and one of her pieces at Spark paired images from that time with those from today. Then, as now, Schorr’s sophisticated work was right to the point.

Pursuits of Passion at Walker Fine Art was technically a group show, but it included what could have been a very large solo focusing on Boulder artist William Vielehr, whose sculptures were installed throughout. The most important Vielehrs were large abstracted figures made of fabricated aluminum sheets; one of Vielehr’s greatest strengths is how he handles the surfaces, making them look like three-dimensional versions of abstract paintings. Vielehr’s been around since the ’60s, but he rarely exhibits in Denver, so this was an unusual opportunity to see his work.

For the group show Balance, young sculptor David Mazza installed his fabulous pieces throughout the building as well as in the sculpture garden outside, where he put a trio of major pieces. Mazza’s abstract compositions, in which both straight and curved metal bars and tubes are precariously stacked on a pyramidal base, visually express the meaning of the exhibit’s title. Even though he’s still wet behind the ears and not long out of college, Mazza can already be regarded as one of the most talented sculptors working in Colorado.

The topic of water was on everyone’s minds last summer, and artists were no exception, as demonstrated by Studio Aiello’s over-the-top doris laughton: theSplatphenomenon2003. In it, Laughton used the shape a drop of water makes when it hits a hard surface to inspire scores of prints, photos, sculptures and a video. Her interest in hydrostatics was very fruitful aesthetically, so nearly everything in the show was successful visually — particularly the monumental outdoor pieces.

The magnificent Reflections in Black: Smithsonian African-American Photography featured major works by contemporary black photographers who have been active during the past 25 years. The impressive traveling exhibit, which alighted briefly at Metro State’s Center for the Visual Arts this past winter, included images by many of the most-talked-about photographers around, such as Carrie Mae Weems, Renee Cox and the Harris brothers, Thomas and Lyle. Organized by Deborah Willis for the Anacostia Museum and Center for African-American History and Culture, the CVA show was one of the art world’s best bets last year.

The earliest examples of modern art done in our region are frontier photographs from the nineteenth century. Some of the finest examples of these images from local public and private collections were brought together at the Colorado Springs Fine Arts Center last winter for the stunning exhibit A Moment in Time: Photographs of the Early American West. The photos that former CSFAC director David Turner selected were wonderful, but what was really remarkable was that many of them could have been taken only yesterday except that the vistas shown were still pristine.

Last summer, ILK@Pirate saw some difficult days during which the gallery was not only closed, but boarded up! So the first show after this hiatus, Jason Patz: Self Series, couldn’t just be good; it had to be great. Happily, it was. The twenty-something Patz displayed his disarmingly simple self-portraits in gorgeous color enlargements, which he posed for by holding his camera at arm’s length from his own face. Even though the photos were staged, they somehow looked candid, a conceptual juxtaposition that’s very cutting-edge. This compelling Patz solo was just the shot in the arm ILK needed to make a welcome comeback.

The wonderful Andrea Modica: Photographs at Sandy Carson Gallery last winter provided an in-depth look at the work of the internationally known photographer, who lives in Manitou Springs. In her poetic photos, Modica explores the relationship between truth and fiction by using posed and documentary shots, which she takes with a large-format camera over a long period of time. The show included some classic images from her famous series of a farm family in upstate New York, as well as some of her newest ones, which were taken in southern Colorado last year. Modica’s subjects may be mundane, but her takes on them are absolutely not.

Denver’s Museum of Contemporary Art has been dealing with its space crunch in a couple of ways: planning a new building and sponsoring off-site exhibits. One of the latter was middle ground: Stephen Batura, a breathtaking display of the Denver artist’s signature representational paintings. Done in casein and acrylic, the mostly monumental pieces are based on photos from the late nineteenth century that Batura found in the Denver Public Library. This show’s only shortcoming was being installed in the hard-to-find Walnut Foundry.

The Denver Art Museum pays a lot of attention to artists from the turn of the last century because they’re a popular group guaranteed to bring in big crowds of viewers. The lineup of traveling solos that have stopped by the DAM in recent years includes Toulouse-Lautrec, Matisse, Bonnard, Homer and, last summer, John Singer Sargent. The Andy Warhol of his time, Sargent was a gay dandy reveling in the chic world of the rich, but the paintings in Sargent and Italy concern only his love for Italy, where he often vacationed and, interestingly enough, was born.

Abstract-expressionist painting has miraculously held on despite the onslaught in the last decade of “new media,” a field that includes installation, performance, video and digital. These forms were supposed to make painting look out of date, but, as Wet Paint proves, that’s not what happened. The exhibit, which is open through April 10, showcases three artists covering new ground by riffing on classic ideas. And that’s a national trend, as the show also proves, because the three artists live in different big cities across the country: Jeffrey Keith is from Denver, John Himmelfarb comes from Chicago, and Michael Rubin hails from New York.

Even though the paintings in David Yust: PAINTING IN CIRCLES and Other Abstract Works included pieces that dated from the mid-1960s to late last year, the display was not a retrospective of the local modern master’s career. Instead, curator Erica France examined a handful of currents in Yust’s oeuvre, most notably his use of the circle. In a series of small rooms, non-objective abstracts revealed how Yust, one of Colorado greatest artists, has variously employed circles over the decades. Long story short: France’s idea worked, and the result was a dazzling show.

Rule Gallery typically presents the work of established artists, but once in a while an emerging talent gets through the door. That’s what happened with Pard Morrison: Recent Sculpture and Paintings. Morrison’s works fit the gallery perfectly, because they’re neo-minimalist, the style of choice for director Robin Rule. The pieces were aluminum boxes patinated in a range of tones, which gave the surfaces an uneven, painterly quality at odds with the hard edges of the forms. Morrison is surely an artist worth keeping track of in the coming years.

First Fridays

Santa Fe Drive Over the past few years, dozens of galleries and art spots have opened on Santa Fe Drive between 5th and 9th avenues, making this four-block stretch the unofficial epicenter of the Denver art world. And public response to the burgeoning art district has been phenomenal, as evidenced by the tremendous success of First Fridays on Santa Fe, when the galleries stay open late on the first Friday of each month. On a typical night, more than a thousand aesthetes turn out, strolling in and out of art spaces that range from longtime resident CHAC to the Museo de Las Américas to Art 825 to the brand-new POD (with stops for sustenance at El Taco de México, El Noa Noa or one of the other neighborhood Mexican eateries). All in all, Friday nights on Santa Fe are a heck of a party, not to mention the best ongoing art event in town.

Art has been doing a double take on pop art lately, with a lot of new creations looking forward to the 1960s. A variety of pieces of this type were put together in This Year’s Model, a great group effort mounted last summer at the now-closed Cordell Taylor Gallery. This pop-y show included some of those smart-looking paintings of slogans by hot young artist Colin Livingston; bas-relief wall sculptures of animal forms on armatures by John McEnroe, one of the state’s premier conceptualists; and provocative, gilt-framed beefcake shots of homeless guys by nationally known photographer Cinthea Fiss.

This past fall, one of the state’s most influential sculptors showed off his recent creations in the magical Scott Chamberlin. The Robischon Gallery exhibit featured wall-mounted pieces that looked like traditional European wall fountains — not surprising, since Chamberlin, a University of Colorado ceramics professor, had earlier taken a busman’s holiday to Portugal and was surely inspired by the wonderful ceramics there. Despite the foreign influence, however, these latest pieces were signature Chamberlin and not so different from the kind of thing he’s been doing all along.

Local municipalities have been promoting drought-friendly grasses that stay green with less water, but last year, Englewood went further by planting “turf” in a South Broadway median that requires no water. The “grass” in question is a colored-aluminum sculpture called “Virere,” by Lawrence Argent, the first of four works the Denver artist is doing for the town. Though “Virere” has blades that tower several stories over the street, it will never need mowing, either.

Denver has spent a fortune on public art, but it hasn’t always gotten its money’s worth — with the latest sorry example being Jonathan Borofsky’s “The Dancers,” which cost more than $1.5 million. Once in a while, though, the city picks up a bargain such as “Fire House,” which internationally renowned New York conceptual artist Dennis Oppenheim created for just over $40,000. The aluminum-and-acrylic sculpture depicts a house held aloft by ladders; a lighting system conveys the idea that it’s on fire. The conflagration of imagery is unusual, but perfect for such a site-specific piece.

It was impossible to fully understand Komar and Melamid’s Symbols of the Big Bang at the Mizel Center’s Singer Gallery last fall, but the show was so good it didn’t matter. The former Soviet artists did paintings and drawings in which different symbols were put together to create new ones, such as a combination of the Star of David with a swastika. In order to mount the exhibit, gallery director Simon Zalkind got a lot of help from Mina Litinsky, owner of Denver’s Sloane Gallery and Komar and Melamid’s local representative. It was wild stuff for a Jewish institution like the Mizel, but not for these politically motivated Jewish artists.

Fall is high season for art exhibitions, so it was surprising when Robischon Gallery presented JUDY PFAFF: New Work in the late spring of last year. The exhibit was an in-depth look at the famous New York artist’s most recent pieces. These mixed-media paintings concerned Pfaff’s Victorian house, which was once owned by Father Divine, an African-American minister who founded his own religion. Inspired by the house and by Father Divine’s life, Pfaff came up with one fabulous work after another. Only nominally flat, the paintings incorporated three-dimensional objects — just like the installations that made Pfaff famous.

The stock-in-trade of Ron Otsuka, the respected curator of Asian art at the Denver Art Museum, is traditional works. However, he was drafted into doing contemporary-art duty when Vail collectors Vicki and Kent Logan made a gift to the museum. Otsuka’s compelling, extremely bold Full Frontal: Contemporary Asian Art From the Logan Collection looks at recent cutting-edge art done in China and Japan. Though there are only about a score of pieces in the fifth-floor show, the exhibit, which is open through May 23, covers a lot of previously unexplored aesthetic ground.

In a cramped old row house near the Denver Art Museum, Hugo Anderson has opened the quirky Emil Nelson Gallery. The inventory ranges from historic pieces, including things from Anderson’s family’s collections, to new works, some of it by his friends. The late Herbert Bayer, Colorado’s most famous artist, was both an artist collected by the family and a friend of theirs, which is how this modest place was able to put on the spectacular herbert bayer remembered. The retrospective of the modern master’s accomplishments began with pieces Bayer did in Germany and ended with those created after he fled the Nazis and wound up in Aspen.

Viewers stampeded the Denver Art Museum this past fall and winter to take in the traveling blockbuster El Greco to Picasso From the Phillips Collection. The show was such a big hit that tickets for the last couple weeks sold out in advance. It’s no mystery why: The artists are so famous that virtually everyone’s heard of them. Along with stunning pictures by El Greco and Picasso, there were gorgeous works by Ingres, Cézanne, Renoir, Braque and Kandinsky, among others. The DAM has apparently figured out that bringing in the big names is what’s sure to bring in the big crowds.

Cydney Payton, director of Denver’s Museum of Contemporary Art, has her hands so full that she could be a professional juggler. She administers the institution, raises funds, does programming and even, at times, curates and installs the museum’s exhibits. And as if all of that weren’t enough, she also recently oversaw a series of six enormously popular presentations by renowned architects vying to design the museum’s new facility. But she’s not done yet: As soon as the choice is made next month, she must launch a multimillion-dollar capital campaign to pay for the building. Experience shows that if anyone can keep so many balls in the air at once, it’s definitely the amazing Payton.

Frederic C. Hamilton has long been a supporter of the Denver Art Museum. For the past 25 years, he’s served on the board of trustees, sitting as chairman since 1994. Last summer, when funds to maintain and program the under-construction, Daniel Libeskind-designed expansion were needed, he got the trustees to ante up $60 million, throwing in the biggest chunk himself : $20 million, to be precise. The gift led the DAM to name the new structure after Hamilton, who came by the distinction the old-fashioned way: He earned it.

Jan and Fred Mayer outdid themselves in 2003. With a gift of $11 million, their foundation established an endowment for the Denver Art Museum’s New World department, which features pre-Columbian and Spanish colonial art. Over the past few decades, the Mayers have made many contributions to Denver’s cultural life and have been particularly instrumental in the success of the New World department. Not only have they given substantial financial support, but they have also donated many of the collection’s most magnificent objects.

When George Caulkins wanted to surprise his wife, Eleanor Newman Caulkins, he asked his five children — George, Max, Mary, David and John — and their spouses to pool their money to help with the grand gesture: an opera house named after her. Their combined $7 million is helping to build the Ellie Caulkins Opera House, which is being fitted into the shell of the historic 1908 Quigg Newton Auditorium Theater at the Denver Performing Arts Complex. Eleanor will have to wait until 2005 to see her namesake completed.

Vance Kirkland: A Colorado Painter’s Life — Early Works and Beyond is more than a solo devoted to Colorado’s most famous modernist. It’s a big-picture look at the mid-twentieth-century art world in this state. In addition to Kirkland’s paintings from the ’30s to the ’70s, the show features pieces by most of the other major artists working here during those decades, as well as fine examples of modern furniture and decorative art. Hugh Grant, the director of the Kirkland Museum, and Judy Steiner, a curator at the CHM, organized the exhibit, which is open through April 4. It was designed by David Newell, who did an admirable job, considering that he had to deal with way too much stuff for the size of the space.

Fifty years of paintings filled the entire set of lower galleries at the Arvada Center for the Arts and Humanities this past fall when the epic Frank Sampson Retrospective was installed there. Throughout his career, Sampson was interested in figural abstraction, a taste that has come and gone and come back again during the intervening half-century since he first started doing them. Rudi Cerri, a former curator and exhibition designer at the Arvada Center, ably put together this spectacular and edifying exhibit, completely outdoing himself with this, his swan song.

Cymbeline is rarely mounted these days, but it was performed at the Colorado Shakespeare Festival last summer. It was last seen there in 1975, directed by festival founder Jack Crouch. At the age of 84, and shortly after attending this season’s offerings, Crouch died. His friends say that one of his favorite lyrics in all of Shakespeare came from Cymbeline:

“Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun

Nor the furious winter’s rages;

Though thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone and ta’en thy wages.

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney sweepers come to dust.”

Donovan Marley has been the artistic director of the Denver Center Theatre Company for 21 seasons. During that time, he founded the company’s acting school, mounted a thoughtful mix of classic and contemporary dramas — including a ten-hour production of Tantalus staged in conjunction with the Royal Shakespeare Company — and brought Denver a Tony Award for outstanding regional company in 1998. Frustrated by budget cuts, Marley resigned this year, effective July 2005.

Mare Trevathan Philpott directed Waiting for Godot with an immediacy and clarity of vision that cleared away the crust of time, fashion, opinion and academic analysis to let us see the play’s bones — and what a solid, extraordinary pattern they made. She brought a sophisticated sensibility to the fifty-year-old script, and everything about the production came together. The set and costumes were clean and defined, the on-stage groupings were carefully composed, and — most important — Philpott won first-rate performances from a group of excellent actors.

Suzan-Lori Parks has been a force in the theatrical world since she won an Obie in 1996, following it with a MacArthur Fellowship and a Pulitzer Prize in 2002. But until the LIDA Project produced Fucking A, none of her work had been seen in Denver. Artistic director Brian Freeland deserves a lot of credit for mounting a solid production of this evocative play. It’s set in a cold-eyed, amoral world in which misery is so universal that a knife drawn across a throat can be an act of love. The rich exploit the poor; the poor hate the rich; there’s no such thing as justice; and just about everyone is plotting murder.

It’s notoriously difficult for playwrights to get their work produced, particularly if the works are full-length rather than one-act plays. Steven Tangedal and Nicholas Sugar, Theatre Group’s executive and artistic directors, are to be applauded for mounting two evening-length plays by Denver writers. Josh Hartwell’s Reaching for Comfort and Melissa McCarl’s Painted Bread, which featured a powerful performance by actress Karen Slack in the role of Frida Kahlo, both had flaws, but they were also vivid and original. It’s only through collaboration with other theater artists that a playwright can develop, and it’s this kind of risk-taking that keeps the theater scene alive.

In his interesting play Reaching for Comfort, Denverite Josh Hartwell defied stereotype and created Pam Lynch, an abusive wife who was not only vicious, but also complex and human. In a daring, close-to-the-edge performance, actress Cini Bow brought this woman to coruscating life, exploring the character’s self-pity and hair-trigger rage, her professional competence and smooth, chatty way of presenting herself in social situations — and also her profound inner longings.

Thaddeus Phillips, creator of the Earth’s Sharp Edge, fuses intellect and feeling with an entirely original vision, making theater out of dented desks, toy airplanes, memory, politics and his own voice and body. This piece began with Phillips — playing himself — getting stopped by airport security for carrying the book Extreme Islam. Phillips’s explanations and descriptions of his trip to Morocco made up the body of the play. At one point, a suitcase opened, and Palestinian hijacker Leila Khaled stepped out. At another, a man was asked to empty his suitcases onto a table. They contained nothing but sand, and within minutes, the table became a miniature desert. Sharp Edge was about many things, but above all, it was about maps, borders and crossings, the interstices between one place, time or culture and another. Brilliantly acted by Phillips and the Buntport troupe, it was an exhilarating evening of theater.

Where but at Germinal Stage Denver could you suffer through Edward Albee’s truth-saturated Three Tall Women, giggle at the light comedy of Relatively Speaking, puzzle through one of Harold Pinter’s most mysterious offerings, No Man’s Land, and be reintroduced to Arthur Kopit, whose Oh Dad, Poor Dad, Mamma’s Hung You in the Closet and I’m Feelin’ So Sad was a 1960s sensation that is still savagely contemporary? Ed Baierlein has been expressing his own artistic vision at Germinal for thirty years, making no concessions to marketing, fashion or focus groups. The result — whether you’re watching Tennessee Williams or an obscure European playwright — is independent, uncompromisingly intelligent theater.

In the past year, Curious Theatre Company has demonstrated its commitment to variety, quality and audience outreach. Under Chip Walton’s direction, the company staged Proof, a well-made contemporary play illustrating the abstract beauty of mathematics; Nickel and Dimed, a piece that evolved from Barbara Ehrenreich’s exposé of the plight of working Americans; and the farcical Bright Ideas. The standard of acting was high in all three, as were the technical values. The set for Proof was a meticulously designed house front and porch, while the Bright Ideas set looked like a tumble of children’s blocks. And despite Nickel and Dimed‘s theme, the play was anything but polemical. Instead, it was full of laughter and shared humanity.

Keith L. Hatten has brought grace and vitality to a number of small roles over the past few years. No matter how little he has to do or say, you can always sense his character’s inner life. Hatten was charming and funny in this year’s Christmas Carol, stalwart as a servant in The Three Sisters. In John Brown’s Body, he played a house slave, imbuing the role with such feeling and dignity that you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when he said he was “proud of my white folk. Proud of it all.” With Blue-Orange, Hatten was finally given a lead role, and he performed it with jittery energy and humor.

Brett Aune is one of the finest actors around. He brought both passion and particularity to the role of Hal, the mathematics professor whose flirtation with the moody Catherine was tainted by self-interest in Curious’s Proof. We believed he was brainy, yet he was also nerdily charming. As Vladimir in the Bug’s Waiting for Godot, he was almost dapper, a spry music-hall figure in a neat black suit, and his delivery of Vladimir’s final speeches was quietly moving. He also works generously with other actors. His patter with Gary Culig’s Estragon was empathetic and perfectly timed; with Rebecca Buric Luna in Proof, he was vulnerable and disarming.

As Godot‘s Lucky, Dennis Rodriguez was called on to stand for long periods of time with his mouth open, his feet turned out and his knees slightly bent, looking like a clown, a puppet, something inanimate. His silent presence remained infused with feeling nonetheless. Then he began his speech, an incomprehensible monologue that must have been at least ten minutes long. Usually, audience attention wanders within a minute or two, so it’s a testament to Rodriguez’s conviction and the deftness of the direction that we listened to every word he spoke, trying to piece them together and make meaning even as Lucky spoke on and on and finally sputtered into complete incoherence.

Ulla was a Swedish sex bomb who longs to be a star. She was almost a cartoon, a flesh-and-blood Jessica Rabbit, and Charley Izabella King was a wonder in the role. Inhumanly gorgeous, wearing clothes that loved her body, she vamped around the stage and spoofed her own exaggerated accent. While limited to prancing, splits and high kicks, it was clear that King is a ballet-trained dancer. We’d never experienced seduction until we heard her croon, “Ulla likes Bblllllooom,” lingering on each syllable like a cat lapping at cream.

Though some of us wondered why New York kicked up such a fuss about The Producers, the

“Springtime for Hitler” number made everything clear — or almost so. The entire show builds to this moment, and when it comes, it’s got the lot: a tease of a beginning, catchy tunes, chorines prancing about in ’30s-style Hollywood headdresses that feature a beer stein, a pretzel and a sausage, black-helmeted storm troopers gliding forward in nightmarish rows, and a Hitler (Lee Roy Reams) who adopts a chilling world-conquering pose and then drops it to camp blithely all over the stage.

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.

Sweet Corner Symphony was a doo-wop a cappella concert with amazing singing by Vincent Robinson, Ed Battle, Ken Parks, Dwayne Carrington and Hugo Jon Sayles. “Swanee” got the group’s own satiric spin, and they also performed dozens of lesser-known songs. Ken Parks was mesmerizing as the ringleader: tall and heavyset in a gold-and-black dashiki, deploying his strong, mellow, expressive voice, shaking his head, gesturing, constantly on the move. Carrington provided powerful support with his bass baritone, and Hugo Sayles offered up a terrific falsetto. Vince Robinson radiated rhythmic good humor, and Ed Battle — another knock-out performer — had a couple of moving solos, including a version of the Lord’s Prayer.

Okay, his name is actually Brian Mallgrave, and he’s an excellent and very intense young actor, but we’d never seen him like this before. It took several seconds after B. Hamlette’s gliding, swooping entrance in Chicago before most of the audience realized he wasn’t a she. As gossipy, credulous reporter Mary Sunshine, Mallgrave was simultaneously elegant and silly, stealing every scene that the character graced. And though it was hard to decide if it was a soprano or a countertenor, the voice was soaring and rich.

There’s a lot to like about Chicago — brilliant songs, a witty script and a grown-up worldview — and Boulder’s Dinner Theatre gave the dark musical a sexy, vivid, energetic production, full of show-stopping performances. Joanie Brosseau-Beyette played Roxie Hart, a hard-eyed, murderous little blond, without a second’s sentimentality. Alicia Dunfee led a chorus of murderesses that included the delightful Shelly Cox-Robie, and Wayne Kennedy provided pathos as Hart’s adoring, exploited husband. The evening was graced by a fine jazz sextet and a lot of strong voices. Slick, sophisticated and about as good as dinner theater gets.

One of the great joys of Donovan Marley’s The Three Sisters was watching Annette Helde and Jacqueline Antaramian working together. Both of these women are extraordinary actresses, and both project entirely different personae. Helde brought a profound gentleness to the oldest of the sisters, Alma, along with a stifled tenderness that illuminated the entire evening. As the unhappily married Marsha Anne, Antaramian was funny, fierce, bitter, staccato and eccentric. But when she finally gave in to her doomed feelings for her beloved Covington, the flood of emotion threatened to drown us all.

Many of the literati quarreled with director Donovan Marley over his decision to set the production of Chekhov’s classic, The Three Sisters, in the American South in 1862. But somehow James Warnick’s translation added resonance and implication while leaving intact the plight of the characters and the sense of a world trembling on the verge of transformation. The cast — which included Bill Christ, Jamie Horton, Annette Helde, Jacqueline Antaramian, Keith Hatten, Randy Moore and Richard Risso — was absolutely stellar, and the substitution of black slaves for Chekhov’s servants added a frisson of uneasiness, even guilt, to our experience of the production. The set, costumes and lighting were also impeccable.

Picnic was a generally forgettable production, with disappointing performances from some of the leads. But playing a befuddled neighbor, Kathleen M. Brady showed just how powerful gentleness can be. Sure, her character was confused and sometimes downright dumb, but all of her instincts were true. She was kind to the young people and understanding with her bad-tempered, controlling neighbor, Flo. At one point, she told the play’s young hero, Hal, that she’d made him a Lady Baltimore cake, and he gave her a grateful kiss. Her pleased, confused response was the sweetest moment of the evening.

Sarah Fallon’s Katharina was the high point of the 2003 festival. Fallon has a wonderful voice, and she knows how to speak Shakespeare’s verse. Funny, lithe and capering in her black, 1950s capri outfit, she made Katharina an appropriately angry little spitfire. But Fallon was also touching as she revealed Kate’s growing love for Petruchio.

In Three Tall Women, Patty Mintz Figel played a very old woman whose mind and body deteriorated in front of us. The woman was angry, paranoid, agitated, incontinent, ungrateful and hell to take care of. She rambled about the past. She was a racist, though she barely understood her own racist comments or the revulsion they aroused in others. Figel held nothing back as she portrayed this wretched soul sorting through her own ruined life. She whined and grumbled; she shook with palsy. Later, Figel played the same woman at a younger age, more poised but not a whit more likeable. It was a performance that took real courage.

Last spring, William Hahn played Max in Martin Sherman’s Bent, a harrowing drama that revealed the plight of homosexuals in Hitler’s extermination camps. At the play’s opening, Max lived for booze, cocaine and easy sex. By the second act, his lover had been beaten to death in front of him, and he was in Dachau. He began a friendship with another prisoner and, despite their circumstances, the relationship deepened. The men joked and argued; they even found a way to make love without touching. The play could be seen as an affirmation of the power of love, but that’s not really how Hahn played it. He gave evil its due with a characterization that was both caustic and soul-deep, and the result was shattering.

Claire is the shallow sister of the moody, brilliant heroine, Catherine, in David Auburn’s Proof, and she could easily be played as the villain. But C. Kelly Leo brought the character to scintillating, multi-faceted life. Though you hated many of Claire’s words and actions, Leo made sure you understood their source. You could tell this woman loved her crazy sister and venerated her father, but who wouldn’t yearn for a conventional life after growing up with two family members who were so deeply and exclusively bonded to each other? Leo didn’t downplay the character’s banality, either. Her Claire masked concerns with a high-pitched voice and a smile like that of a professional airline stewardess. And she brought a terrific, controlled humor to the play. Not many actresses could bring down the house with the line “Maybe Hal would like a bagel?”

In this excellent production, Randy Moore played Theodore Middleton, the schoolmaster husband of one of the sisters. Middleton was a boring man who had only to open his mouth to send the other characters fleeing. Nonetheless, he loved his mocking, angry, miserably unhappy wife. He even found his own odd little way of comforting her when she was prostrate with sorrow after parting with the man she really loved. Moore’s portrayal of Middleton was solemn, touching and sincere with, every now and then, a moment of genuine, if muffled, tragic grandeur.

Jamie Horton spent much of the past year working in New York, and from the moment he stepped on stage in John Brown’s Body, we all realized how much we’d missed him. His John Brown was stunningly authoritative, a rock-hard, unreasoning, narrow, immovable, plainspoken man who seemed simultaneously contemptible and heroic. This larger-than-life characterization reminded us that historical heroes are often far from admirable; many are men who cannot entertain contradiction and who have an unshakable sense of their own implacable rightness.

Ben Hammer is living proof that the Method approach to acting is still one of the most effective imaginable. His interpretation of the title character in Visiting Mr. Green was rich and grounded, and it made the production soar. Hammer was so deeply immersed in the character that he didn’t have to say a word to communicate what he was feeling; his face and body did it for him. His silences expressed a world of pain, love and experience. In the play’s very last scene, the set of Hammer’s shoulders alone was eloquent — even before he spoke the two quietly vibrating words that ended the evening.

Directed by David McClendon for the intimate Jones Theatre at the Denver Center, Lobby Hero was an impeccable production of a charming play, one with just enough substance and insight to keep the viewer from going away hungry. The four quirky characters were played to perfection by Rick Stear, Bill Christ, January Murelli and Terrence Riggins, whose portrait of a rigid, lonely man revealed an almost tragic dimension. Add Kevin Copenhaver’s costumes, Charles R. MacLeod’s warm lighting and Robert Mark Morgan’s meticulously beautiful set — in which every detail cohered, from the light sconces to the dead leaves at the edge of the sidewalk — and it was a recipe for pure pleasure.

Who but Sallie Diamond — Ed Baierlein’s real-life wife — could play opposite him in Relatively Speaking? In the face of all her husband’s blustering, she stood her ground and gave as good as she got. With her fluting voice, dithery gestures and impeccably timed slow comic takes, Diamond was a hoot, whether she was explaining why she failed to buy marmalade or plotting Philip’s downfall.

Ed Baierlein may be the most interesting, subtle, intelligent and multi-layered actor in Denver — a role he’s played for more than two decades. In Alan Ayckbourn’s hilarious comedy Relatively Speaking, which he also directed, Baierlein played the male half of what seemed at first like a very conventional English couple. But we soon discovered that what these people felt for each other wasn’t affection, or even the mutual acceptance of a couple of old codgers who’d been rubbing along together for ages. No, it was dislike. It amused him to cheat on her; it amused her to trip him up. Ed Baierlein played Philip like an elephant riding a bicycle through a minefield strewn with his own lies. He was scheming, but also perpetually baffled: mildly baffled, struck-dumb baffled, oh-my-God-I’ve-just-realized-what-this-means baffled or raging in furious, impotent bafflement. And underneath it all there was a shiver — just a shiver — of genuine nastiness.

Bright Ideas is a story about a yuppie couple’s fight to get their toddler into the best preschool, and Ethelyn Friend played a mother who succeeded. The woman is so smug, bitchy and professionally successful that you know she won’t survive the first act. But Friend was riveting while her character lived, a slinking, posing pencil stroke of concentrated loathsomeness. And even playing dead, Friend kept raking in the laughs.

In the Denver Center Theatre Company’s Lobby Hero, Bill Christ played a cop who seemed to have no insides, a kind of parody of a cop. He mouthed the heroic, tough-guy lines you so often hear in television dramas, bullying and prevaricating, and fluidly took on whatever persona suited his needs at any particular moment. Christ’s character was both goofy and vicious, but he did have his own code of honor that he believed in with all his heart — until that code of honor became inconvenient. The brilliance of Christ’s performance was his ability to give this squirrelly character a real core, showing the mix of insecurity and arrogance that animated him. It was a stellar performance in a bright spot among this season’s theatrical offerings.

The popular Buntport Theater, with its adventurous comedy troupe, has an abundance of hilarious regulars. None, however, are as side-splitting as Erin Rollman. Her characters are so funny, because although they’re impossibly overblown and shamelessly ridiculous, Rollman herself completely believes in them. And you almost believe in them, too. She fills them with feeling and life; she is these people, and they’re always complete originals. The monstrous adolescent she played in this season’s Idiot Box took the cake: The girl, who had just won a science fair with her world-conquering board game “Monopolize Your Risk,” was a bullying, self-satisfied, evil, lisping, megalomaniacal danger to both her little brother and the world — but you couldn’t take your eyes off her. No matter whom she’s playing, Rollman comes up with a winner every time.

Annie Dwyer must have spent every waking hour for many, many months playing with bubble gum before appearing in Heritage Square’s production of Take Me Out to the Ball Game. The woman can blow a bubble the size of a basketball and then retract it slowly, with perfect control, back into her mouth. She can let a deflated bubble dangle from her lips like a used condom, create an inverse bubble or pull the gum into a sheet and make patterns on it with her lips. She can also stretch it into a lasso several feet long and swing it out over the audience. As gangster moll Rose Louise Romberg, Dwyer was all over the stage, whining, seducing, twitching, mugging and waving her hands about. She went too far, and then went further still. Her recklessness was magnificent.

You have to hand it to creative guide Douglas Love and the Walden Family Playhouse. The exclusive Colorado Mills children’s theater, which debuted just over a year ago, really does what it set out to do: provide the same kind of experience for children that the Denver Center Theatre Company provides for grownups. Walden dishes up world-class theater with top-notch costumes and set design in a fine-looking venue, which in turn raises general interest in the theater among its young constituents. That alone is evidence of a job well done. Shine on.

Most adults instinctively know that when the kids come along, they’ll spend the next eighteen years reclaiming their cultural lives, inch by wretched inch. Happily, the Denver Center Theatre Company found a way to slow parents’ march of Sisyphus: While adults take in a matinee, Familes@Play entertains their kids with a mixture of drama classes and activities. There’s life after children after all.

No question about it: Flicks are for kids on Saturdays at Starz. The usual Saturday-matinee fare is absolutely abysmal, but at Starz the shows are hand-picked for children in varying age groups. Naturally, the movies fall on the indie side of the spectrum, but there are also kid-lit-to-screen titles, as well as the occasional big-screen nod, such as a Spanish-language screening of Ice Age.

There’s no getting around it: Babies kill the movie experience. Rather than become the pariah in the last row, most parents of newborns opt to simply give up on going out to the movies. But now they don’t have to: Moms and dads can take their babies and wee ones to Madstone Theaters on Tuesday mornings, where the grownups can choose from up to six films for their viewing pleasure. And if the kid cries, so what? So will everyone else’s, at some point. Stinky diaper? Relax — you’re among friends. In addition to other parent-friendly amenities, a free, pre-show activity hosted by Gymboree will wear toddlers out before the film begins. Sweet screens.

Last fall, the Cinderella Twin, one of the city’s last two drive-in theaters, was supposed to bite the dust to make way for new development. But the plans were put on hold, so there’s at least one more season in the sun. The double-screen drive-in is already open on weekend evenings, and it plans to have a full schedule beginning later this spring. How appropriate that one of its first offerings of the year is The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.

The early sequences of Gavin O’Connor’s deft, exciting re-creation of a great moment in American sports history — the U.S. Olympic Hockey Team’s 1980 victory over the seemingly invincible Soviets — are set at the U.S. Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs and in the rickety old Broadmoor Arena, where the blood feud between the University of Denver and Colorado College is so often renewed. In the film, we revisit the Springs as the driven U.S. coach Herb Brooks (authentically played by Kurt Russell) selects his team of lovable underdogs and tells the Olympic powers-that-be that their antique ideas about hockey (and losing) stink on ice. The film then moves on to Minnesota, Norway and Lake Placid, but Colorado gets first crack at the implacable Brooks.

That the metro area’s Spanish-speaking Hispanic population continues to grow didn’t escape local entrepreneur, state school-board member, politico and all-around rich guy Jared Polis. Seeing an untapped market, the man with the means opened Cinema Latino in the Aurora Plaza mall’s former dollar theater. The eight-screen movie house features new Hollywood releases that are dubbed or subtitled in Spanish, and movie-goers munch on Mexican and Central American-style treats such as palomitas con salsa (popcorn with hot sauce). Polis hopes to eventually spread his vision to thirty or forty other cities. Que bueno!

Sometimes a movie is just not worth $8.50. Sometimes it’s not even worth the $3.50 to pay-per-view it. But sometimes, the guilty pleasure of, say, a Legally Blonde 2, is worth fifty cents. Every Tuesday the Tiffany Plaza 6 drops its already cheap $1.50 rate to a mere half-dollar — all day. Sure, some of the movies have already gone to video, but what’s the point of watching a larger-than-life Reese on the small screen — and paying more?

Francis Ford Coppola’s daughter, Sofia (the Oscar-winning writer/director of Lost in Translation), gets most of the attention these days, but the man who created the Godfather trilogy, Apocalypse Now and The Conversation was as thoughtful, congenial and engaging as any Denver International Film Festival honoree in recent memory when he appeared briefly at DIFF in October. The bearded bear who helped transform American movies in the 1970s was courtly and unstintingly informative with reporters, confessing to one, “There’s no place for me anymore in the film industry.” He gave himself wholeheartedly to festival-goers as he discussed everything from the wine business to the re-release of his strange Las Vegas musical, One From the Heart (1982). For newly elected Denver mayor John Hickenlooper, Coppola was a pure thrill: “My best day in office so far,” Hick cracked at the buffet table.

Since 1941 (the year Citizen Kane was released), the University of Colorado’s International Film Series has been a major cultural resource. The inventive CU programmers continue apace in their efforts to bring in exotic and important work. Recently, IFS’s “Cult Cinema” series featured screenings of Alferd Packer: The Musical, The American Astronaut and Waking Life; a seven-film tribute to the late Rainer Werner Fassbinder included The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant, The Merchant of Four Seasons and Effi Briest, among others. A few upcoming IFS films: To Be and to Have, a lovely French tribute to the teaching profession; Crumb, the too-little-seen biopic about underground cartoonist Robert Crumb, and That Obscure Object of Desire, the surreal classic by Luis Buuel.

Seen one multiplex, pretty much seen ’em all. But the Colorado Center Stadium 9, operated by United Artists Theatres, has a couple of minimal advantages: plenty of indoor and outdoor parking, close proximity to pre- or post-movie refreshment (i.e., Dave & Buster’s) and, if you’re in the mood for a little sensory overload, an IMAX house with a five-story screen, a deafening sound system and an all-encompassing atmosphere. Otherwise, the auditoriums are spotless, the extra-wide stadium seats very comfortable and the cup-holders commodious enough for the biggest $5 soft drink. State-of-the art sound and sure-handed projection enhance the experience. The cinematic fare is standard, but the comfort is exceptional — even if you’re steeped in the gore of The Passion of the Christ.

A perennial winner in the movie-food category, the venerable Mayan Theatre serves up the kind of quirky, whole-earth stuff that goes just fine with such indie cinema as 21 Grams or the latest slice-and-dice action from Hong Kong. The Alternative Baking Company’s vegan cookies — Peanut Butter Persuasion is our top choice — are sure winners, and the politically correct Ben & Jerry’s ice cream bars (Heath Toffee Crunch, anyone?) are just right, especially if you’re voting for Kerry this year. Those still happy to wallow in high-sodium comfort food will want the Vienna Bagel Dog, heavy on the mustard and relish. The juices are still Odwalla, and the gourmet chocolates are straight from neutral Switzerland. But save room for an after-movie snack at either of the Mayan’s neighbors, the Hornet or Seor Burrito.

Home to the Denver International Film Festival for ten days each October, the eight-house Starz FilmCenter features top-drawer art films and lively revivals through the remainder of the year, along with Saturday-morning programs for children, film-and-discussion nights, themed series and frequent showcases for Colorado filmmakers. In February, Starz hosted the eighth Denver Jazz on Film Festival, in March the Denver Jewish Film Festival. Coming Soon: The sixth Latino World Cinema series (April 1-4) and the fifth Pan-African Film Festival (April 26-May 2). Another program of note this year: “The Psychiatrist and the Critic,” in which representatives from those two fields discuss with audience members the messages in All That Jazz, Ponette and the 1956 version of Hitchcock’s The Man Who Knew Too Much.

Garage rocker-turned-director Davis G. Coombe spent six years chronicling the explicit and unpredictable behavior of the Czars, Orbit Service and Rainbow Sugar, then boiled it down into a 99-minute exposé of Denver’s underground music scene, warts and all. Intimate, candid and stylish, The Tornado Dream not only graced the 2003 Starz Denver International Film Festival, but it gave local-music fans a glimpse of band life beyond the stage.

The first time the Mars Volta came to town, in November 2001, it was easily outshone by the other acts on the night’s bill. Vocalist Cedric Bixler and guitarist Omar Rodriguez seemed reserved, even timid, despite being widely renowned for their explosive stage presence as members of the critically acclaimed El Paso quartet At the Drive In. But by the time they returned two years later in support of the just-released Mars Volta debut — the epochal prog-rock masterpiece De-Loused in the Comatorium — their sound and live show had noticeably coalesced. The result was simply the best concert of the year. Unfortunately, it’s also probably one of the last times the band will play a venue this intimate.

Because so many downtown warehouses once used for rehearsal spaces have been recast as lofts and galleries, Denver is experiencing an epidemic of homeless musicians. Rents are up all over, but that’s only part of the problem; after all, who wants to rent to a bunch of kids with Stratocasters? Actually, John Burr does. He opened Sound Structure Studios on a stretch of Walnut Street that’s still desolate enough to accommodate the collective racket of the more than twenty bands that call the place home. The recording and rehearsal spaces are clean, spacious, reasonably priced and well insulated — which means jammers don’t have to worry about getting their reggae mixed up with someone else’s bluegrass. Burr plans to open a bar on the site, just for his tenants to hang out and jam in: Consider it a clubhouse for the under-appreciated, under-funded, often unwashed masses also known as local musicians.

After years of sliding faders and twisting knobs for local luminaries such as Blister 66, Rocket Ajax, Chaos Theory and countless other acts, James Martinez has finally found a home behind the boards at the Blue Mule. From one-man acoustic acts to balls-out gutter punks and everything in between, Martinez has mixed them all. And with a keen understanding of the importance of tone versus volume, space and dynamics, Martinez continues to make even the most marginal of musicians sound like superstars without making anyone’s ears bleed. Over the past decade, Martinez has mixed at damn near every club and venue in the city, but he’s never sounded as good as he does at the Mule.

Everything about the Soiled Dove is rock-solid. Located in the heart of LoDo, it provides an intimate experience unlike any other room. The stage is situated so that there isn’t a bad seat in the house, the distance between performer and patron is negligible, and the lights and sound are simply stellar. With a consistent lineup that caters to the best local and national emerging artists, the Dove has become Denver’s place to play. And Above the Dove, the venue’s rooftop patio, is the perfect place to chill between bands.

A decade ago, the Gothic Theatre was a pit: dank, dirty, with crappy sound and ripped-up seats left over from its Prohibition-era, weekend-matinee heyday — the perfect setting for punk shows back before the style became sterilized. In 1999, the Gothic underwent a makeover more radical than the one performed on Michael Jackson’s nose. The venue’s original art-deco atmosphere was rebuilt from the ground up — the beautiful wraparound balcony is the perfect place to chill, drink and listen — and its warm, natural acoustics are augmented by one of the best sound systems in town. Performances at the Gothic are now real events, whether they’re blues, soul, indie rock, industrial, metal, jazz or even that new, squeaky-clean punk rock.

It took three years for Victoria Woodworth to produce and unearth Faultline, her first solo recording. It took much longer than that to collect the wealth of experience and emotion at its heart. A small person with a big voice and a poetic bend, Woodworth concentrates on the Important Issues: longing, love and loneliness; faith, awakening and self awareness; memory and hope. But her work isn’t bogged down by its own psychic weight. She’s a songwriter’s songwriter, a student of the chorus, the build and the bridge — and her style suggests artists we can only assume are her teachers: Emmylou Harris, Patsy Cline, Gram Parsons. Woodworth often plays live with her band, the Heroes, though she is a fine solo performer, as well. Hopefully, the next record won’t take three years. We can’t wait that long.

Not long ago, Otis Taylor was a Boulder antiques broker, and uninformed observers of the local music community considered him to be something of an antique. How wrong they were. In the mid-’90s, Taylor reinvented himself as a modern bluesman, and since then, he’s earned the kind of critical acclaim that most artists never experience. He’s nominated for four W.C. Handy awards — the blues equivalent of the Grammys — and he probably won’t leave Memphis empty-handed when the awards are distributed next month. After all, his latest disc, 2003’s Truth Is Not Fiction, on Telarc Records, was named one of the top ten albums of the year in any genre by the New York Times and wound up on two different top-ten lists in the Washington Post. Some antique.

When Willie Houston sings the blues, he draws from a deep reservoir of personal experience, including heartache, poverty and years of backbreaking labor in the Louisiana swamps. Still an engaging and soulful performer at 76, the Junkman adheres to a timeworn sound that grabs listeners with honesty and conviction.

Denver is crammed with every far-fetched country-music spinoff imaginable (Pentecostal Goth country?), but Out on Bail sticks out like a stubborn weed among all the hayseed wannabes. This wet-behind-the-ears quartet takes the bleak grace of Johnny Cash and crams it into the guttural sloppiness of old Bay Area punk like Crimpshrine and early Jawbreaker, combining twangy guitar, lopsided distortion, coed vocals and a skin-splitting honesty. A co-release with Pariah Caste is due soon, but until then, you’ll just have to catch Out on Bail in its natural state: live, sloshed, and hemorrhaging gritty, tender heartache.

Known for performing marathon-length shows to rival Bruce Springsteen or the Grateful Dead, Ween played an abbreviated but remarkable set last fall to a standing-room-only crowd — one that showered New Hope, Pennsylvania’s finest with giddy praise, hand-made cards and a liter of Jack Daniels. The intimate, daytime setting found Gene and Dean trotting out both classics and rarities, honoring every request from “Reggaejunkiejew” to “Chocolate Town.” Mang, oh mang!

In no short order, the localpalooza called the Rock In’ Freak Fest landed one of the organizers in the pokey, left another with a shiner and a splitting headache, garnered an assault charge for one local radio personality, bankrupted a local zine and left more than thirty local acts high and dry. Talk about a freak fest.

The Frantix were the precursors to the Fluid, who helped popularize the grunge movement that shook the galaxy last decade. For that reason, the music on this disc (issued by Afterburn Records, an indie imprint out of Australia) is of historical importance — but it’s about as academic as a high-school dropout on a three-week bender. The rip-roaring title track sets a stage that the rest of the disc burns to the ground.

Loud and brazen, Jet Black Joy is not trying to change the world. But as practitioners of a rousing, bombastic sound that frontman Jimmy Jet lovingly refers to as “wet-panty rock,” the four-piece might make some members of the audience need to change their frillies. Meow!

While Outkast stole this year’s Grammys with its cut-and-paste opus Speakerboxxx/The Love Below, George & Caplin, a much more modest duo, were employing a similar pop-exhuming technique. But instead of funk and hip-hop, the humble twosome of Jason Iselin and Jeffrey Stevens blends vintage synth pop and modern technology to create an atmospheric, hook-suffused sound awash in acoustic guitars and skittish circuitry. Still, if you need proof of the parallels between these seemingly polarized groups, see George & Caplin live and witness their ethereal, ice-cold rendition of “Hey Ya!”

Magic Cyclops (born Scott Fuller) has been inciting head-scratching and bootie-bumping ever since he began mixing on-stage aerobics with cheesy ’80s music a couple of years ago. And just as the mythological Cyclops had to make do with just one eye, so does Magic Cyclops: He deejays entire sets with just an iPod. Hot dance tracks like Rod Stewart’s “Young Turks” and a-ha’s “Take on Me” keep the crowd pumpin’ while Fuller — sporting oversized shades, an iridescent track suit and a Hulk Hogan headband — blazes through his bizarre routine of calisthenics and cans of Hamm’s beer. Magic, indeed.

After wiring a primitive microphone from a rusty Falstaff beer can, resourceful bellower Reverend DeadEye discovered a new way to speak in tongues. The Oklahoma-bred Bible-thumper creates an unholy noise with his mike and homemade slide guitar (with a resonator fashioned from a discarded wok), transforming the dirty Delta blues into a foot-stompin’ hellfire revival. Can we get an Amen?

With everyone getting in on the Atkins craze — we hear that the U.S. Postal Service is ready to issue low-carb stamps — it’s about time for the backlash. Cue the Affairs. This quartet cranks out high-energy power pop that pays glorious homage to the aggressive yet sugary sounds of past masters such as Superchunk, the Buzzcocks and the Who, sweetened by the crystalline vocals of bassist Anne Snyder. Pick up the Affairs’ debut single when it comes out this spring: You may pack on a few extra impact carbs, but you’ll get a hell of a workout.

Brandy in the greenhouse? Fetch it yourself, Thurston Howell III. Domestic drudgery finally takes its rightful place behind swingin’ on chandeliers and flingin’ poo.

What’s in a name? In the world of rock and roll, a lot. Remember Ned’s Atomic Dustbin? What about Nuclear Valdez? Uh-huh, that’s what we thought. Some may be inclined to avoid an outfit with a goofy name like Rubber Planet just on principle, but think of the tasty fruit beneath a kiwi’s unattractive, hair-laden exterior. Listeners will soon discover that underneath Rubber Planet’s ill-conceived moniker are spoonfuls of succulent, guitar-driven pop ditties delivered by a cat named Silver. Somebody get these guys an image consultant already.

Reason, the Fray’s second EP, is a fitting introduction to an outfit that came out of nowhere and quickly rose to prominence. Though technically founded in 2002, the quintet didn’t hit its stride — or gig much, for that matter — until around the time Reason was released, late last year. Led by two ridiculously talented vocalists, Joe King and Isaac Slade, and bolstered by anthemic, piano-driven material that could hold its own with anything from across the pond, the Fray is the undisputed valedictorian of the class of 2003.

A lot of groups both lousy and laudable have made their presence felt this year, but none has seared its image onto this town’s collective retina like Bright Channel. Formed from the remnants of the overlooked acts Volplane and Pteranodon, the trio coalesced in February 2001. Since then, it’s been a force of noise and beauty, beguiling audiences with a sound that encompasses everything from My Bloody Valentine’s bleary psychedelia to the ice-rimmed ghostliness of Joy Division. With swooping melodies, filmy textures and chiseled rhythms, the band’s live performances feel less like rock shows than sonic sculptures. But be warned: Although Bright Channel is without a doubt one of the best bands in town, holding your breath for them to release a disc could be fatal.

That Blusom even exists is something of a fluke. Vocalist Mike Behrenhausen (who also drums with Maraco 5-0) and electronic specialist Jme (aka Jamie White, formerly of the late, lamented Acrobat Down) recorded the material that makes up their debut CD more as a creative exercise than a commercial venture. Fortunately, the folks at Kansas City’s Second Nature Recordings recognized it for the original and invigorating music that it is. Cuts such as “On Glass” and “X-Photo” combine acoustic and synthetic instrumentation in a manner that’s high-tech yet wonderfully human. This rare combination demonstrates how wise the members of Blusom were to Go Slowly All the Way Round the Outside.

For more than a decade, etown, taped each week at the Boulder Theater, has been a staple of better National Public Radio affiliates and commercial stations from coast to coast. (In these parts, it’s heard Sunday evenings on KGNU, KBCO and KUNC.) The show, hosted by Nick Forster, of Hot Rize fame, and his wife, Helen, combines environmental talk with live performances by many of the nation’s finest acoustic and Americana performers. Bluegrass Roots culls excellent samples of the title genre heard by etown listeners over the years, with several cameos by area favorites. Forster pairs with Nickel Creek’s Chris Thile for “Woodchopper’s Reel,” joins Gillian Welch, David Rawlings, David Grisman and Tony Rice on “Train 45,” and spends a “Blue Night” with Hot Rize; elsewhere, fellow Hot Rizer Tim O’Brien offers a fast-fingered take on “Hey Joe,” assisted by string man extraordinaire Jerry Douglas. Ralph Stanley, Del McCoury, Sam Bush, Ricky Skaggs and others demonstrate their pluck as well, making the disc a first-rate edition to the growing etown catalogue.

Produced and distributed monthly by “your favorite muthafuckin’ white boys,” this CD, available free with a purchase at Independent Records, is the hottest mix disc available anywhere in Mootown. DJ Petey and Bedz — both KS-107.5 mixmasters and members of the DJ collective Radio Bumz — oversee nights at Bash, Avalon and several other clubs, and they make it their business to know what’s hot in hip-hop and R&B. Follow the solid white lines.

Headquartered in Bailey, the Capri and Tapestry imprints are the brain-children of Tom Burns, a jazz lover who’s devoted himself to getting some of Colorado’s finest musicians heard beyond the state’s borders. His catalogue features material by saxophonist Fred Hess and trumpeter Ron Miles, both of whom appear on a bracing new Tapestry release, The Long and Short of It, credited to the Fred Hess Quartet. But Burns has also ventured beyond the neighborhood, making available platters by the likes of Louie Bellson and Lee Konitz, whose One Day With Lee was recorded in 2002.

Boulder’s Tom Steenland has been putting out challenging avant-garde sounds on his Starkland imprint for over ten years now, and by keeping his product list modest in size, he’s able to maintain high-quality music and packaging. Take Mystery Dances, by Robert Een, who uses voice and cello to create striking music that’s occasionally reminiscent of jazz or world music, but is more often impossible to pigeonhole. Just like most other products that proudly bear the Starkland brand.

At first Sci-Fidelity’s website was principally a venue for the String Cheese Incident, Colorado’s most extravagant gift to the neo-hippie crowd. No more. The success of the band has allowed the label to expand its roster to include Incident-related acts such as Comotion (a side project) and DJ Harry, as well as the jam-friendly collective Karl Denson’s Tiny Universe and the Yonder Mountain String Band, a Colorado combo that builds upon bluegrass without burying it. Next up: A disc by Grammy winner Steve Winwood. That’s big news — and Sci-Fidelity is bound to get bigger.

Since the late ’70s, London-based Recommended Records, founded by eccentric musician Chris Cutler, has been the place that true connoisseurs of progressive rock turn for the latest and weirdest examples of this willfully edgy form. Prog continues to survive on the distant fringes of the music industry, and drummer Dave Kerman aims to give it a boost with ReR USA, the new American branch of Recommended Records, which he launched in Denver earlier this year.

The primary artist on the Aurora-based Mobstyle label is self-styled gangsta Don Blas, whose latest platter, The Modus, is one of the best-sounding rap CDs to come out of the Denver area in forever. As Don goes, so goes Mobstyle, and the quality of the company’s first effort, which has received spins on KS-107.5 and other major commercial radio stations, bodes well for a bangin’ future.

Since last October, a cozy nook on West Colfax called Angie’s Place has featured top-notch local jazz performers such as singer Teresa Carroll, pianist/vocalist Ellyn Rucker and tenor saxophonist Max Wagner. The music, showcased on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, attracts a largely Lakewood crowd, and no one performs much past 11 p.m. But this unassuming little boîte has nice acoustics and a welcoming atmosphere, as befits a place that offers cappuccinos, lattes and pastries alongside its surprisingly wide-ranging dinner menu. Owner Angie Feighart doesn’t go for glitz, and she doesn’t book big names, but her homey outpost scores high for good cheer and good music.

Over the past half-dozen years, Dazzle Restaurant & Lounge has bloomed into one of the most vibrant rooms in town, with live music seven nights a week and a schedule that moves deftly across the jazz strata and features many of the region’s most accomplished players. But Dazzle has also become a breeding ground for the next generation of horn-blowers, time-keepers and bass-thumpers: The weekly Jazz Teen Idol is a showcase of up-and-coming artists with more musical talent than Kelly, Ruben and Clay combined. And Dazzle has even made beautiful music with non-profit groups, including the Wishing Well, which helps those with mental disabilities get back on their feet. An elegant, modern variation on the supper club, with a fine menu and cocktails a-go-go, Dazzle sparkles.

When it comes to the elusive spirit of jazz (past and present), colorful Colfax watering hole Dulcinea’s is one swinging primate. Taking pains to stock the jukebox with both legends (from Coltrane to Miles, Monk to Holiday) and newer members of the genre (Charlie Hunter, Norah Jones), the Monkey covers a lot of ground. It’s an invitingly relaxed setting, too, with comfortable couches, tasteful murals, vintage black-and-white photos, an old-school bar, and a dart room and pool table for more sporting jazz cats. Live music is a blend of local talent, including keyboardist Dave Cieri and soul crooner Jessica Goodkin, and traveling acts, such as the Willie Waldman Project and the Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey. Once a month, catch the Progressive Sessions, during which the hottest local jazz players stretch it all out. Get ready for a fresh take on a venerable tradition.

Boulder’s Fox Theatre is a required destination for the nation’s hottest up-and-coming hip-hop acts, from Dilated Peoples and Jurassic 5 to People Under the Stairs and the Pharcyde. The theater consistently has its ear to the street, with an aggressive booking policy that takes chances on up-and-comers and gives locals a chance to shine. The club’s unobstructed sight lines and crystal-clear sound make the trip to the People’s Republic more than worth the drive. Many Mootown denizens consider the Fox to be the house that jam built, but this jam is a little more Def.

You Night! at the Soiled Dove is the place to be for aspiring MCs and DJs. Organized and run by Neil McIntyre of Yo, Flaco! and Minezai fame, the Monday-night extravaganza is proof positive that hip-hop is not only alive and well, it’s also the new punk rock. The room is consistently packed with artists and fans, cornrow-wearing gangstas, throwback-clad B-boys and backpack-sporting intellectuals, all peaceably co-existing in the name of hip-hop. In addition to great shows by locals, You Night! has played host to KRS-One and, most recently, the return of local faves the Procussions. Other hip-hop-themed nights have sprung up recently, but the original is still the best.

A lot of venues, especially those that cater primarily to the hip-hop crowd, are employing various security measures to ensure patrons’ safety. But most of the tactics — from invasive pat-downs that border on manhandling to token once-overs from a $15 handheld wand from Radio Shack — are insulting, humiliating or just plain ineffective. While the outside of Paladium and its conjoined twin, Oasis, may resemble the exterior of Scarface‘s posh club, the Babylon, a word to all you Tony Montana wannabes: Leave your “little friend” at home. Paladium’s staff won’t paw you with a DIA-level frisking — what would be the point, with an industrial-sized metal detector at the front entrance? — but they won’t allow you to be the bad guy, either.

A true headbanger’s ball in the depths of suburbia, House of Rock is a natural as the area’s best metal club. The absence of nearby neighbors means the local heavyweights can — and do — turn the dials all the way to eleven. Local bands can also rejoice now that Russ Austin, Denver’s top connoisseur of the hard stuff (music and liquor), is again booking the House acts. Mosh at your own risk.

With a nondescript alleyway entrance between Lincoln and Broadway, Two AM is inconspicuous enough that first-timers may miss it. Located in the heart of the Golden Triangle, Two AM is a stone’s throw from the Church, Serengeti and Vinyl (which will reopen after its collapse in last March’s epic blizzard). As such, it is the chosen destination for those who aren’t ready to head home or hit the greasy spoon after last call. The dimly lit, window-free, subterranean space is ideal for twirling glow sticks in the dark and dancing until the birds start singing — and the comfy, welcoming benches circling the room are perfect for those trying to come down from a night of drunken hedonism.

The first thing that hits you as you walk into Sharp’s Roadhouse is the smell. The club reeks of honky-tonk, that sweet mixture of smoke, beer and sweaty bodies. But contrary to its name, Sharp’s is much more than a roadhouse. Over the past year, this joint has attracted a large, devoted cult following of those looking for real country in the Hank Sr., Waylon and Willie tradition. Although Sharp’s books plenty of national acts, local faves such as the Honky Tonk Hangovers and Halden Wofford and the Hi-Beams also call its stage home on both Friday and Saturday nights. There’s plenty of room for two-steppin’ on the upstairs dance floor, for playing pool downstairs, or for flirting at the long, well-tended bar. And if you’ve got the lonesome blues and just want to drink yourself into oblivion, at least you won’t go out broke: At Sharp’s, a Bud and a top-shelf cocktail will set you back only six bucks.

Queer Eye for the Straight Guy has nothing on Serengeti, where the stylish roam free. The newest grand-scale venture to be blessed by nightclub impresario Regas Christou is a primarily gay club that promotes itself as “the evolution of nightclub culture.” Unlike so many of the other Denver gay clubs, Serengeti fills its house with a mixed clientele, exposing us all to its progressive glitz and glory. The grand hardwood dance floor packed with gorgeous groovers is Serengeti’s centerpiece, but just as inviting is the rooftop patio or the back bar, with the choicest views of both the city and the mountains. Not to be missed is Drag Queen Bingo — Marilyn Musgrave and her homophobic Federal Marriage Amendment be damned.

Aesthetically speaking, nothing much stands out about the Larimer Lounge: The stage is awkwardly placed, the sound is merely adequate, and the bathrooms are cramped and dingy. But the Lounge does one thing better than anyone else: It brings the rock. Besides, some of the great rock rooms of history — the long-defunct Jabberjaw in L.A, Emo’s in Austin and CBGB in New York — have been plagued by those things, too. Those looking for posher environs would do well to venture further south into LoDo, but if you’re looking for cheap suds and the best sounds from the brightest acts on the indie-rock circuit, the Larimer’s your place. On any given night of the week, you can expect to see three or four quality artists — local and national — for about what you’d pay to park in LoDo.

Stepping into Mario’s Double Daughters Salotto is like waking up from an overdose of LSD and Pop Rocks. The downtown bar has a trippy Alice in Wonderland-meets-City of Lost Children vibe that jells perfectly with Bare Witness, its Monday-night DJ residency. Selectors Ryan Mates and Zach Dunn — aka Monke Man and Dr. Zen — whip up a deep, smooth purée of electronic and reggae sounds that range from the kung-fu techno of Depth Charge to the august dub of King Tubby. Drinks aren’t cheap, but, hey, Monday night is the perfect time to sip a couple of quality cocktails in LoDo without all the weekend meatheads and mobocracy.

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.

There’s a Smithsonian quality to the Lion’s Lair juke, a beat-up old box that houses a carefully curated collection of rock-and-roll historica: Start with Hank Williams Sr. or Muddy Waters and work your way forward through the last fifty years, stopping at every major genre along the way, from Motown and soul (Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell, Curtis Mayfield) to British new wave (the Jam, Graham Parker). Punch in the right numbers and you’ll get arty, anarchic cool (the Stooges, Patti Smith), iconic (Dylan, Springsteen) or a combination of more random elements. (Sweet? The Grass Roots? Garland Jeffreys? Who picks this stuff?) The Lair is the only place in town where it seems totally natural to find the Kinks, Jonathan Richman, the La’s and the Smiths next to Iron Maiden, Merle Haggard, the White Stripes and the Dead Kennedys. Grab a dollar; free your mind.

One of the most hard-line proponents of hip-hop culture is an unassuming record clerk from Boulder. Yeah, we know, Boulder sometimes seems like the polar opposite of everything street, but in the hip-hop galaxy, think of it as the Dagoba System, with DJ Vajra as Yoda. Vajra holds down turntables with a Jedi’s grace and poise — a beacon for the aesthetic that made hip-hop appealing in the first place — while the Dark Lords and Count Dookus of the culture trade in authenticity for liquidity. When Radio Bum member DJ Psycho was asked to describe Vajra in five words or less, he only needed four: “All DJs fear Vajra.” One of the world’s best turntablists is holding down Mootown’s B-side, so stand up and recognize, y’all.

If you want to get off on nutmeg, seasoned psychonauts recommend 200 milligrams per two pounds of body weight. But trust us: A face-melting, booty-shaking, soul-massaging, four-hour dance set by DJ Nutmeg is a way better high. A master mixer who reads a crowd’s vibe with X-ray eyes, Nutmeg plays old- and new-school techno with flourishes of deep house and wild-card funk. Since he started rocking the decks in 1996, Nutmeg has spiced up every major club in Colorado, most notably Soma and the Snake Pit. Currently, this stud of the MileHighHouse stable plays every Thursday and Saturday at Lime, from 10 p.m. until close, and Sundays at Rise.

GROWednesdays has been transplanted several times since it debuted three years ago at the Funky Buddha, where it was dumped for a disco night. It was resurrected last spring at Harry’s, the downstairs bar in the Magnolia Hotel, where it blew up big time — too big, as it turned out. Besieged by noise complaints from its business-traveler clientele, Magnolia management pulled the plug after six months. In November, the popular night moved to Rox Infusion Lounge, where it seems to have finally found a happy home. And that’s good news, because resident DJs Ivy and Psychonaut spin definitive down-tempo sets unique to Denver, ranging from chillin’ jazzy trip-hop to deep dub and thumpin’ slow breaks — and there’s no cover. Way to GROW.

Dive-bar row lost a legend last year when Quixote’s — which had replaced the even more notorious 7 South — closed its doors at 7 South Broadway. But two newcomers are quickly filling the void. The hi-dive, which is coming on strong as a local indie-rock venue with creative programming, is a classic hipster-trash joint with minimal decor, a pool table and a pinball machine. The ‘dive’s popular Monday-night rock-and-roll movie series is a cheap thrill, offering $1 PBRs and $2 wells. Residing next door, in what used to be the smoking area of Quixote’s, is Sputnik, which offers multi-hued faux-space-age lighting, black-and-white photos of NASA control rooms, and half-moon vinyl booths inviting patrons to kick back and enjoy the killer jukebox, whose selections range from Coltrane to the Meat Puppets. Houston, we have no problem here.

Rise is the perfect place to spot the bold and the beautiful — or to pretend to be bold and beautiful yourself. Since this bold and beautiful club opened last summer, a slew of movers and shakers have been eyeballed chilling on the patio’s preformed plastic couches, shaking it like a Polaroid on the spacious dance floor or having drinks in the upstairs VIP lounge. The Nuggets’ Carmelo Anthony even hosts a weekly party at Rise. And if Melo — who looks to be Mootown’s new John Elway — thinks it’s tight, that should tell you everything you need to know. If not, you’d better rise up and ask somebody.

Several new high-quality dance venues have opened in the Denver metro area in recent months, but with the best PLUR vibe and sound system, top-shelf DJ talent and lower covers and drink prices, Avalon gets our nod as the first-place finisher. Sure, it’s a long way from LoDo to Lone Tree (designated-driver alert), but week in, week out, the massive, 1,600-plus capacity Avalon features grinning crowds throbbing to the cream of the globe-trotting DJ crop, including Paul Oakenfold and George Acosta, who both played the club in the same week.

Denver’s infamous cathedral-turned-disco has been getting national props left and right as one of the nation’s most sacred temples. And we couldn’t agree more: From divine acts like Deep Dish to Paul Van Dyk, Seb Fontaine to Carl Cox and DJ Irene to DJ Rap, the Church’s elders consistently offer up the most blessed of electronic sacraments. Those passionate about the beat should flock to the Church to bow down before the most high — or at least admire the angels in the architecture.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.