Arts & Entertainment

At the end of August, Winter Park Resort gives you a perfect fall getaway with the Famous Flamethrower’s High Altitude Chili Cookoff Weekend. It’s a small, elite contest, and the winner earns the Rocky Mountain region’s spot in the World Chili Cookoff. Meat and spice are all that’s allowed — no beans or other fillers. A few brave souls have been known to hit the Alpine Slide or the Leaps and Bounds Bungee after the sampling, but most are content to sit with a cold beer and ponder how soon those naked green slopes will be white again.

Each Saturday morning from late November until Christmas, Golden stages a holiday parade that seems to have time-traveled from an earlier era. School groups, bands, equestrian troupes and more are frequent participants, marching a few blocks through the center of a town that somehow gets more charming as December 25 approaches. Each event draws hundreds of townspeople and visitors, and why not? For a few minutes each week, Golden brings the good old days back to life.

It’s rare that rain and concerts go well together. But at Red Rocks, the rain makes a beautiful backdrop. From the concrete seats, listeners get a view of clouds gathering over downtown Denver, and bands often keep playing while everyone watches the lightning strike in the background. Getting stuck in the rain at a concert sucks, but there’s always a silver lining at Red Rocks.

Last year’s inaugural SunStock music festival was R.C. Griffin Jr.’s effort to give acoustic rockers a place to showcase their musical stylings, a place that anyone could access free. A place to spread the love. The only rules were leave nothing but footprints, and hug someone at the festival and express your love. The music-makers at Clement Park included Wendy Woo and a host of other locals. What’s not to love?

For one weekend each June, Larimer Square becomes a giant canvas for chalk artists. Mimicking the street painting of sixteenth-century Renaissance Italy, dozens apply to the Larimer Arts Association for permission to create their masterpiece on some of Denver’s highest-rent asphalt. The lucky are selected on a first-come, first-served basis; all materials are provided, and participation is free. It’s also free to watch, and a stroll at dusk through this urban festival is one of the year’s most perfect nights in Denver. Just don’t tell anyone you’re a cheap date.

What could be more brilliant than a free night at the Children’s Museum? Catch some quality time with the kids from 4 to 8 p.m. every first Tuesday of the month, when the museum hosts guided play throughout the building and special literacy-building storytimes for children and their busy parents. The sponsor, Target, has hit the bull’s-eye.

As if tRUNks, Buntport Theater’s ongoing live-theater serial for young people, weren’t already the best thing to happen to Denver kids since chocolate milk, imagine what a great birthday party could be built around a performance. Reserve in advance with troupe ringleader Jessica Robblee, bring your own cake, and you’ll not only get to enjoy a fast-paced and silly episode with goofy superheroes the Germ, the Tongue Twister, the Volt and the Cute, but afterward, you’ll meet with the cast for theater games. The only downside? If your birthday falls between June and October, you’re out of luck: tRUNks goes on hiatus for the summer.

They like to keep it quiet down on Main Street in Littleton, but every October, downtown businesses and the locals gather the Pumpkin Follies and Goat Show, one of the most daft — and clever — Halloween parties on the planet. The two-day event begins with a goat-stew dinner and festive crowning of Follies royalty, and continues the next day with a shopping-cart parade and mass Snap-N-Pop drop. There are also belly dancers, jugglers, accordion-playing chickens and general mayhem. The best part? All the Pumpkin Poles — pumpkin-based art installations with themes ranging from the Peanuts to Harry Potter — that grace the street for days to come. Except for the public art left behind, a hush falls back over Bleat Street when all is said and done.

For budding fashionistas, nothing beats a paper doll. They’re cheap, they come with an entire wardrobe of two-dimensional clothes, and if you’re talented enough, you can make your own outfits. The Art Directors Club of Denver sees no reason to outlaw paper as a fabric substitute, and its Paper Runway Fashion Show showcases more than thirty unusual yet chic designs. A fundraiser for worthy causes (this year’s beneficiary was Downtown Aurora Visual Arts), the event highlights a collection that’s over-the-top, all paper, all wearable and all fabulous, dahling.

Anyone who’s been to one of Geeks Who Drink’s seventeen weekly pub quizzes knows that quizmasters John Dicker and Joel Peach have created something far bigger than your average trivia night. They’ve got a gang situation on their hands, a mobile army of adoring geeks ravenous for a cerebral smack-down. That hunger reached horrific proportions this past February at the first annual Geek Bowl, where 38 teams competed for over $1,400 in prizes. The six-hour orgy of trivia saw fifteen people badly injured, a rip-roaring domestic dispute and one guy violently shivved in a bathroom stall. Okay, we can’t confirm any of that. But damn it, the intensity of these trivia hounds just feels gang-like. Don’t turn your back on the geekstas.

The Golden-based Independence Institute believes in protecting an individual’s right to do just about whatever bat-shit-crazy thing that individual wants to do — including shooting, smoking and drinking. But since this is also a sadly responsible organization, it strongly suggests shooting first, drinking later. Every June, it gathers the faithful to an ATF party, where participants shoot at clay pigeons (not liberals, contrary to common belief), then retire to a luncheon where they can blow smoke — through both speechifying and cigars — and indulge in some alcoholic beverages. Vice is nice.

Religion and politics: two topics that should never be broached while imbibing alcohol. The religion part is understandable, but sometimes you just need to get liquored up and bitch about W and his administration. Join up with like-minded ranters at Drinking Liberally to toss back some brewskis and talk about…well, anything, as long as it’s liberal and progressive. Also try the Screening Liberally get-together at the Mayan Theatre, which includes booze and film. Get out, get left and get drunk.

The Supreme Court is a cross between a strip club and the tackiest of wedding receptions. Glowing neon signs in every window read “Live Music and Dancing.” There are mirrors galore, with a wood dance floor in the midst of an otherwise tackily carpeted room. The bar seats are dominated by lonely, sad-looking clientele — aside from the occasional bum or pack of convention-goers gyrating wildly while still wearing name tags around their necks. That’s almost worth the price of admission, but don’t miss the large patio, where there’s always a free table. Grab a beer and watch as the 16th Street Mall becomes your personal stage. Between the professionals from the World Trade Center across the street and the mall’s colorful characters, you won’t want to miss a single act.

In the spirit of mullet mania, we shine the spotlight on the lavender ladies who party hearty in the working-class-queero ambience of the Denver Detour. Sheila Keathley and her sporty staff have been slinging stiff drinks in this humble watering hole for the past 23 years. Fortunately, there’s also a kitchen dishing up gut-busting Mexican and American fare for lunch and dinner to help stave off that imminent hangover. Along with the booze and the bartenders, the Detour’s other attractions are hotly contested pool tables, dart boards, video games and jukebox. Live bands, DJs and wildly popular karaoke nights rule the weekends. Okay, all together now: “We are family…”

If you’ve got friends in low places, bring ’em on down to the Grizzly Rose. It’s a country wonderland of a bar, complete with a mechanical bull and a stage where live acts perform weekly. Every day, the shit-kickin’ saloon is filled with multiple mullet-man sightings — but an event several years back set a record for the most mullets in one venue on one night. In a bizarre twist of musical mal-scheduling, Joan Jett was slated to perform at the Grizzly. When the foam started to flow, the motley crew of rednecks, headbangers and dykes threatened to erupt into a violent melee as the steers, queers and gearheads clashed. Then Joan came on, and the crowd forgot to be rude and started to rock. So much for a bad reputation.

The bearded man held his wooden cross high and bumped and swayed to the indie rock coming out of the Keystone Resort speakers. The young workers scanning lift tickets and passes all smiled in his direction and bopped with him. Kids giggled. Their parents wondered if the strange man was a beggar or a paid performer. A dancing orthodox Christian monk would seem an unorthodox form of entertainment, even for a ski resort. Turns out he was just a Jesus freak of the highest order — one without the shouted ramblings of the characters on Denver’s 16th Street Mall.

The reviews are in: Local triple-nippled drag queen and fabulous fundraiser Nuclia Waste has a mushrooming hit on her well-manicured hands with Demented Divas. The hilarious Vegas-style drag show, featuring Portia Potty, Gabbriella Butz’In and Iona Trailer, not only encourages the most embarrassing forms of audience participation, but also pokes catty fun at an endless parade of prime drag-queen targets, from Bette Davis to JonBent. Stop by on Tuesday nights and play dress-up with the big girls.

What do Zen and cabaret have in common? Nothing, unless you’re Nina Rolle. The artist describes Zen Cabaret as “a traveling medicine show that pitches a tent in whatever town it’s in, and then these rogues show up and put on a production.” Most recently, Rolle pitched her Zen tent in Boulder for Zen Cabaret Version 6.5: Play Money, complete with audience-interaction elements, a soundtrack provided by Jayme Stone and absurdist retail therapy. “In a way, the whole thing is a practice of how I like to laugh, the kind of laugh I want to bring to people,” Rolle explains. So chuckle it up.

Colorado might have lost the Crispy Family Carnival, but we still have Ukulele Loki, aka Aaron Johnson. A true vaudeville performer, Loki served as music director/ composer/on-stage musician for the Colorado Shakespeare Festival’s 2006 production of As You Like It, led the “indie acoustic chamber pop” sounds of the Gadabout Orchestra and acted as ringleader for his vaudeville burlesque circus, the Folderol Follies. His work as the “Talented Talker” for the Crispy Family Carnival has also qualified him to perform as a radio emcee — currently on Route 78 West, which airs Sundays from 10 a.m. to noon on KVCU-Radio 1190 in Boulder — and foil for sideshow performers, bands and burlesque legends such as Dita Von Teese. Loki’s love of all things sideshow ensures that vaudeville will never die in Denver.

There’s something magically Christmasy about standing out in the snow and pushing your nose against the glass of a ritzy hotel to see satin-clad girls crooning retro Irving Berlin classics by the fire. In this wonderland setting, former Cabaret Diosa dancing girl Kim Franco and her crack troupe of old compadres performed live in the lobby of the boutique-y St. Julien on Sunday evenings during last year’s holiday season. The ’40s-era extravaganza was inspired, and admission was free. It is a wonderful life.

Bill Christ played Amadeus‘s Emperor Joseph II, usually a tiny and forgettable role, to hilarious effect, listening to Mozart’s music as puzzlement and a determination to appear cultured chased each other all over his face. The brilliance of Christ’s bumbling buffoons — he knows just how far to take them — stems in part from his genuine power and heft as an actor.

William Hahn is one of those actors who always make an impact; you often find your eyes straying toward him, even when there’s significant action somewhere else on the stage. In King Lear, sporting a gentle, soul-shrinking little smile, he brought an element of truly original creepiness to a rather staid and predictable production.

Producer-director (and marketer) Dan Wiley bet he could stage this edgy, contemporary musical about a city suffering a drought so bad its inhabitants are forced to pay to pee — and executed for freelance urination — in the Denver Department of Public Works’ Wastewater Management Building. He rigged up a stage, cast a group of talented actors, tinkered with the continuing sound problems of his venue, and came up a winner. Urinetown was one of the brightest and most appealing musicals of the year, and it attracted the kind of alert young audience many local theaters would kill for.

This theater piece, put together by Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen, is about six innocent people who spent anywhere from two to 21 years on death row and were then released. The most unsettling case is that of Sunny Jacobs, who, along with her husband, Jesse Tafero, was found guilty of the killing of two police officers and spent sixteen years on death row. Tafero suffered a hideously bungled execution in 1990; Sunny was released two years later. There were some very strong performances in the OpenStage production, and also a couple that were less polished but touching and effective in their naturalism. Theater has historically been a forum for political action, and OpenStage should be applauded for rising to the challenge with this thoughtful exploration of an important topic, one that increases in importance with every current diminution of our civil and legal rights.

We’re not awarding this for any one particular performance, though if we had to choose among this year’s crop, it’d be Everything Old Is New Again, in which Annie Dwyer revived one of her old tricks: going out into the audience, snatching patrons’ drinks — beer, wine, Scotch, it was all the same to her — and sucking them greedily down while never missing a line or a beat. Yes, the woman acts and dances and can sing raucous or beautiful depending on requirements. Sure, she teaches kids’ classes and helps keep venerable old Heritage going. But that’s not the reason for this award. Dwyer is fearless. She’ll wade into the audience and corral some poor man, tousling his hair, accusing him of jilting her, snarking off to his wife or girlfriend, sitting on his lap, leaving a sticky lipstick ring on his bald pate. And it never gets old, because she does it with the same glitter-eyed intensity every time. She’s a whiz with bubble gum, too. She can lasso you with it. Bottom line: Dwyer is a treasure and a true Colorado original. No one else can do what she does, and our theater scene would be much poorer without her.

This show is a wonderful compendium of many of Gershwin’s best songs, strung along a plot so thin as to be almost non-existent. Sung by the talented regulars at Boulder’s Dinner Theatre, all the songs glimmered with life, from such favorites as “Someone to Watch Over Me,” “Nice Work If You Can Get it,” “I Got Rhythm,” “Embraceable You” and “They Can’t Take That Away From Me” to lesser-known numbers like “Slap That Bass” and “Bidin’ My Time.” The actors sang and danced their hearts out and had so much fun with the show that only the Grinchiest audience member could have resisted.

Adding DJ Sara T, one of Denver’s best on the turntables, to the mix of stories and styles in Jason Grote’s 1001 was a stroke of genius on the part of director Ethan McSweeny. It jacked up the energy and contributed all kinds of electricity, dimension and excitement.

Buntport is located in a cavernous warehouse on the outskirts of town. Some theater groups might find this a difficult space to work in, but not the Buntporters, who use it as a goad to higher and higher flights of ingenuity. They’ve performed in front of a van that they push from place to place or in a series of cages strung from the ceiling. They’ve said their lines while sliding along on artificial ice. They’ve tried every kind of configuration of seats and platforms. For A Synopsis of Butchery, the troupe shrunk the acting area to a small, lighted box representing an ornate, old-fashioned, steeply raked stage. The resulting sense of artificiality only deepened the focus and intensity of the play. For the duration of the evening, this small space contained all the fervor of a bereaved mother and all the odd, dark, romantic notions the Victorians harbored about life and death.

Sarah Ruhl’s play weaves elements of magic and mystery. Set in the expensive home of a couple of New York doctors and moving to a bright, sunny balcony, with a thematic focus on cleanliness and creative chaos, it requires a designer with a strong sense of color and contrast who’s also interested in the dynamic between freedom and enclosure. Alexander Dodge created a gray-and-white set with cool, elegant lines that featured an abstract but vaguely human-looking sculpture. For the second act, walls began to dissolve along with the characters’ limitations. The production’s visual elements were so beautiful, they provided a stunning aesthetic experience in themselves, quite apart from the play.

This year, Dodd gave us both a beautifully conceived and executed version of Pinter’s The Caretaker and the best production of The Weir we’ve seen in Denver. The Weir is an odd, spooky piece, a collection of ghost stories told by lonely souls in an isolated Irish pub. Dodd knew exactly how to bring out the strands of longing and meaning beneath the script, and his cast, led by the luminous Laura Norman, was uniformly compelling. In addition to a deep love and respect for theater, Dodd brings to his work a gentleness and sensitivity unique in this area.

Okay, a cast consisting of John Hutton, Martha Harmon Pardee and Karen Slack gives a director a lot to work with, but under Jamie Horton’s direction, these already fine actors shone even brighter. They worked with feeling and discipline, every gesture and intonation perfect. Written by Steven Dietz, Fiction was a great choice for Curious — wordy and witty and raising questions about the link between fiction and reality, truth and lies. The cleanness and precision of Horton’s production offset the ambiguity of the work the way a few drops of lemon juice can zing up the flavor of a dessert. Horton left Denver last year after decades of performing with the Denver Center Theatre Company, and we’re only beginning to understand the depth of the loss we’ve sustained.

This light comedy by Theresa Rebeck had many sharp lines, but it pretty much stayed afloat on the charm and talent of Diana Dresser, playing a young mother about to re-enter the dating scene. Dresser tried on various items of clothing and a few pairs of shoes, periodically asking the audience for an opinion. Prone on the bed, she wriggled into her pantyhose in one of the funniest scenes we’d encountered all year. She was scatty; she was brash; she was scared; she was vulnerable. And we were with her every step of the way. It’s almost de rigueur for a female comic to be plain and to make a trademark of rueful comments about her looks, but there’s also a tradition of scatty, beautiful comediennes, from England’s gorgeous Kay Kendall, who died far too young in the late 1950s, to the effervescent Jenna Elfman of Dharma & Greg. Dresser could easily join these ranks, but we have a suspicion she’s equally good at the serious stuff.

We saw a lot of Simone St. John this season, from her tightly wound Jocena in Shadow Theatre Company’s Four Queens through the angry little spitfire she created for the same company’s Waitin’ 2 End Hell. But she really outdid herself in the lighthearted comedy Plenty of Time, aging convincingly from a bratty sixteen-year-old to a dignified matron as her character explored politics, work, marriage and the meaning of love. Finally, St. John appeared as Martha Washington’s slave, Ona Judge, in Curious Theatre Company’s production of A House With No Walls, bringing passion to an otherwise rather talky and didactic play. We can’t wait to see who she becomes next.

Leonard Barrett is a tremendously appealing actor whose jazz-singing background shows in his work; there’s always something improvisational and unexpected about it, and also a hint of hidden depths. There’s kindness and humor, too. As Norman in Bas Bleu’s The Dresser, Barrett’s job was to get an egotistical actor whose mind and career were both waning on to the stage as King Lear. A fussy, sad clown with a will of iron, Norman’s entire life was wrapped up in the old actor’s career. In another extraordinary performance, Barrett played the Stage Manager in PHAMALy’s Our Town, a role that calls on the actor to speak directly to the audience. It wasn’t that Barrett breached the fourth wall, exactly, but that when he spoke, it simply wasn’t there. There was just the actor talking quietly, humorously and profoundly to your very soul.

The best comics actually get inside their characters; no matter how outrageous the people they play, they force themselves to believe every idiotic word and gesture. Think of the rich gallery of characters created by Carol Burnett and Tracey Ullman. Genevieve Baer is in this camp. She’s a very talented mimic (as well as a good singer), but the best thing about her portrayal of Little Sally in Urinetown was that she resisted the temptation to parody a part that’s pure parody itself, making the character part knowing street kid, part wistful innocent and altogether funny and watchable.

Among many fine performances in musicals this season, Geoffrey Kent’s Officer Lockstock stood out. It’s a very clever, funny role as written, and Kent played it with relaxed authority: He made the officer-narrator stiff-necked and formal, but every now and then threw in a moment of pure gyrating lunacy.

Aldonza is the peasant wench that Don Quixote insists is his beloved Dulcinea. Jean Arbeiter, a fine singer and actress, made her so dirty and fierce, so angered by Quixote’s fulsome praise (“Once, just once, would you look at me as I really am?”) that when she finally capitulated, singing gently to the dying old madman, it was hard to hold back tears.

With the theater’s skilled performers having all kinds of fun with the nugatory plot and animating Gershwin’s fabulous songs with their fine voices, Crazy for You was an evening of pure froth and fun. Scott Beyette was a lithe, leaping, tapping wonder as Bobby, a young man trying to revive an old theater out west and win the heart of a skeptical local lass. In furtherance of his plan, Bobby impersonated impresario Bela Zangler. When A.K. Klimpke as the real Zangler arrived in town, he and Beyette mimicked and mirrored each other’s astonished reactions in a priceless extended sequence of mime.

Josh Hartwell is one of those intelligent, convincing actors who are never flashy but bring a low-key integrity to every role they play. As interpreted by Paragon, Hedda was almost a black comedy, a kind of nineteenth-century Heathers, but Hartwell’s Tesman brought a depth and kindness to the evening. The character is usually played as a rambling, irritating bore, and while Hartwell was as blithery as the script required, there was also something concerned and sweet, a kind of suppressed awareness, flickering beneath his obtuse exterior.

We’ve seen Mare Trevathan, one of the region’s best actresses, far too little in the past few years, but her presence in what was essentially a cameo role galvanized Aphrodisiac, a play about a congressman and his mistress. Trevathan played Monica Lewinsky, and it was a tribute to her talent and conviction that the performance didn’t evoke a thousand snickering late-night jokes. Blinking continuously, her Lewinsky was dopey but also somehow deep — or at least full of emotion. When she spoke of her feelings for Bill Clinton and described how she wept on his chest after he’d refused to give himself fully by coming in her mouth — because his attention was focused on his chair in the Oval Office — we finally understood the tightness and intricacy of the sex-power knot.

In this taut political play, written by an Israeli playwright, the first Intifada is covered from the perspective of a Palestinian family. Ami Dayan, who also directed, played the older of three brothers, Da’ud. This man was hardly likable. He was a compromised character, tough and clear-eyed, willing to shift, bargain, bully, do whatever it took to survive. As blame flashed among him and his brothers, it was hard to find the play’s moral center. As an actor, Dayan has a strength and authority that’s rare in this area, and he is committed to using his art to explore some of the most urgent questions of our time.

Williams’s Talk to Me Like the Rain is more a tone poem than a play, a small, wistful piece between a woman and a man who has just returned to her after a several-day absence. Urged by him to speak, she launches into a long monologue beginning, “I want to go away. I want to go away.” The woman imagines herself living in a town by the sea, growing older and more frail until she dwindles to almost nothing and is blown away by the wind. Trina Magness has a beautiful voice and a feeling for language. In her mouth, the speech sounded like a solitary flute or the thin, sad strains of Erik Satie. She played the role with such feeling — now and then emitting a burbling, demented little laugh — that what could have been an exercise in self-pitying solipsism became a lament for the essential isolation of every human being on earth.

Over the years, Erik Edborg has provided us with a number of memorable characters, whether he’s moping in a curly wig as Cinderella or attempting to slide a roll of toilet paper under a door. He’s always been hilarious in a goofy, hyperkinetic way, but in the last couple of years he’s also stretched his range to try very different characters — some of them quite intense and subdued. He played several roles in this year’s Winter in Graupel Bay, but the best was Toothy Bill, a drunk with a kick-stamp walk, wolfish grin and quietly poetic soul.

Charlotte Booker’s Virginia loved to clean so much that she offered to take the place of her sister’s maid, who hated the chore. Happily, she sneaked over every day to set Lane’s house to rights. But at one point, the plot required this devotee of tidiness to create an “operatic mess.” She tried. Booker would toss a magazine to the floor and pick it up, overturn a piece of furniture and gaze at it, pained. As she struggled, and finally succeeded, all the while emitting stifled whimpers, you could actually see the actress’s body fighting with itself. It was one of those theater moments you don’t soon forget.

Sydney Parks’s big moment was a twisted hybrid reminiscent of both the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet and the courtship of Roxane by Cyrano de Bergerac on behalf of his friend Christian. Maybe there was a little Taming of the Shrew in there, too. Parks played Janice, who, at the play’s opening, had driven her husband from the house with violent threats. Nonetheless, he wanted her back. When his best friend attempted to court her on his behalf, she hurled the roses he sent to the ground, howling. He appeared over the garden fence, clattering among the garbage cans, and she emerged on the balcony to rage at him. Slowly they began to reminisce about their school days. She calmed down. You glimpsed the loneliness she so desperately wanted to keep hidden. But just as you began to hope these two would become a couple, Janice reclaimed her inner shrew. Parks did full justice to all of this with a fiery, bravura performance.

We’ve seen only sporadic appearances by Caitlin O’Connell at the Denver Center for the past few years, so her return to play Lane, the achievement-obsessed doctor who hires a reluctant maid in The Clean House, was a joy. Beginning as a rigid perfectionist in an icy white suit, she evolved into someone far wilder and woollier as the play progressed. At one point, she was called upon to laugh until her laughter turned to tears. She turned this fairly common dramatic device into a revelation. There’s something catlike and mysterious about O’Connell, something intriguing going on beneath the surface. Half the pleasure of watching her comes from trying to figure out what it is.

A strange, disoriented, misogynistic and clearly half-mad, middle-aged man named Kemp shows up at the bedside of his dying auntie, apparently summoned by a letter from her. He then proceeds to take care of her — that is, prepare meals and rant while she tries to eat them; ask whether she wants to be cremated and if she’s thought about donating her organs (“I could do your autopsy if you like. Get to know you a little better”); and suggest that she hurry up and die because he really has better things to do than hang around with her. Who knows what inspired Modern Muse to select this savage, brilliant play by Morris Panych, but they deserve top honors for doing so. In addition, director Billie McBride cast it wonderfully. Kemp was played with lip-smacking relish by Lawrence Hecht, and the almost entirely silent Aunt Grace by a slyly plucky Patty Mintz Figel.

Michael is a hyper-literate writer capable of dismissing the work of Rainer Maria Rilke as “infantile nonsense.” But he has nonetheless sold out to become a best-selling novelist. His wife has been diagnosed with a brain tumor. She wants him to read her diaries after her death — and she wants to read his before she dies. The result is a knot of twisting truth and fiction that neither of them can quite unravel. These are not particularly sympathetic characters — they’re self-involved and sometimes precious — but they’re also urbane and witty. Hutton, an always-convincing actor, gave Michael a rueful, cynical intelligence as well as a seductive vitality.

We first met Ashley while she was watching one of those smarmy television shrinks with her teenage son, Justin. The shrink’s advice to a sexually incompatible couple inspired her to reveal far more than Justin wanted to know about her relationship with his father. By conventional standards, Ashley was clearly a rotten mother. She teased and flirted with her son, forgot to track the medications for his mono, offered him pot and advised him to sleep with a lot of girls before settling down. And if one of them were to get pregnant, he was to make sure she had an abortion. “You’ll be traumatized for, like, two days,” she explained. Ashley’s saving grace was the fact that she clearly adored Justin. Yes, the script was clever and original, but it was Angela Reed’s light, humorous voice, lithe physicality and emotional openness that made it memorable.

Germinal picked a perfect time to stage this update on Moliere, a spoof of hypocritical religiosity. Among a strong cast, Michael Shalhoub stood out in the lead. His Tartuffe was juicy and outrageous, utterly repulsive and periodically rather appealing. Shalhoub’s mobile, clearly defined features glistened with lustful sweat as he pursued the beautiful Elmire; the scene in which he rehearsed his dishonest sermon was a study in the art of inspired hamming — gutsy, grimacing and side-achingly funny.

He’s a would-be Black Panther; she’s the spoiled, underage daughter of a Martha’s Vineyard couple. After a night of sex, they agree to meet again, and the once-yearly affair continues for decades. He fights overseas. She becomes first a fire-breathing feminist and then a successful businesswoman. Years pass, and finally the couple faces the question of what exactly this relationship means to them and whether they should continue or let it die away. Has it been real life or a detour? Does it represent love? This is John She’vin Foster’s take on Bernard Slade’s Same Time Next Year, and it’s sweet and funny and sometimes profound. Under the direction of Jeffrey Nickelson, Shadow gave the play a charming production, and Nickelson’s young actors, Quatis Tarkington and Simone St. John, gave impeccable performances and demonstrated a real chemistry together.

It’s just too easy to enter a theater, sit back and wait to be terrified, amazed, moved or entertained. Theater is a live medium that works best when audience members are involved and there’s a genuine current between them and the actors. When you attend Shadow Theatre Company productions, you usually feel a distinct sense of ownership among the viewers. People sigh at sad moments and laugh generously at happy ones. When the youthful Quatis Tarkington, playing an elderly man and kneeling at his lover’s feet, asked for help getting up, there was a sympathetic groan from parts of the audience. Best of all was the jovial response to Four Queens, No Trump. The play is centered on bid whist, and it was clear the audience knew the game. They cheered some moves, tut-tutted over others, even offered instruction. And though the actors didn’t respond directly, you could tell all this empathy revved up their performances.

This charming small musical calls on audience members to join the spelling team on stage every night. On the night I attended, a tall, dark man was one of the people who responded. Word was he was an actor, but we never learned his name. The man’s poise was extraordinary, and his delight in being onstage infectious. Furthermore, he managed to extend his time there well into the action by calmly spelling out one difficult word after another, to the bafflement of the cast and the delight of the audience.

You know a theater’s something special if you always find people of all ages and types in the audience, and if you keep hearing yourself recommending the place to friends (and, later, the friends call up to thank you). From script to set, this troupe of seven creates every piece they mount from scratch. They’re youthful, literate, experimental and unpretentious; on stage, the actors often manage to be both profound and silly beyond belief at the very same moment. Of Buntport’s three plays this season, Winter in Graupel Bay was the least successful, but it was still a soulful, interesting mixture of joy and melancholy. The other two were absolute winners: Something Is Rotten, the Buntporters’ insane take on Hamlet in which Ophelia was played by a live goldfish and her father, Polonius, by a Teddy Ruxpin bear; and A Synopsis of Butchery, which explored the Victorian obsession with death, the occult and premature burial.

You knew from the moment you entered the theater and saw David Lafont’s beautifully detailed set — stacks of papers, a hanging toilet seat, a shopping cart, a bucket set under a leak in the ceiling — that someone had put a lot of thought into this production, someone with an understanding of subtlety, a passion for detail and an acute sense of place. That someone was director Terry Dodd, who also assembled a first-rate cast. The owner of the disheveled flat — sad, slow, befuddled Aston — was played to perfection by Warren Sherrill, who gave the character a subdued and penetrating sweetness. There were also Jarrad Holbrook as Aston’s vicious brother, Mick, periodically interrupting his own romantic monologues with jarring spurts of violence, and Jim Hunt as the whiny, manipulative tramp Davies, invited by Aston into the flat. In a play that’s all about mystery, futility and power, these three actors gave performances riveting in their focus and intensity. Of course, it always helps to have a brilliant script like Harold Pinter’s to work with.

Artistic director Kent Thompson has taken strides toward his goal of bringing the work of more women and writers of color to the Denver Center. He has also instituted an annual two-day New Play Summit. Jason Grote’s 1001 was seen at last year’s summit before being mounted this February. This year saw readings of new plays by Theresa Rebeck, Evangeline Ordaz and Neal Bell, as well as an adaptation of Kent Haruf’s novel Plainsong by Eric Schmiedl. We look forward to seeing where Thompson takes us next.

It’s very hard for playwrights to get their work produced, yet without production, it’s impossible for a playwright to hone his craft. And new playwrights are, of course, the heart and soul of a living theater culture. Curious has joined a group of theaters nationwide that believe in showcasing new work — even guaranteeing three or more productions for each work they select. The resultant “rolling” world premiere allows the play to evolve through testing by several audiences, casts and directors.

Director Ethan McSweeny had his actors use a deliberately arch, hammy style for the first twenty or thirty minutes of this play, and even though the script is ironic and humorous as written, the style grated. But as the action continued, the play — a kind of swirl of images and words surrounding the affair between a contemporary Palestinian woman and a New York Jew who finds himself somehow reenacting portions of the Arabian Nights — began to enchant. Grote is an intelligent, deep-thinking playwright who is looking for new forms to fit the bold, original things he wants to say. How lucky for us that DCTC artistic director Kent Thompson decided to have him say them here.

Buntport mined an odd little piece of Victorian history for this play. Washington Irving Bishop was a mentalist, possibly a bit of a fraud. He collapsed on stage one night, and an autopsy was immediately performed. His mother, Eleanor Fletcher Bishop, was convinced that he had been cut up while still alive, murdered by a doctor’s curiosity about his brain. She wrote a book called A Synopsis of Butchery of the Late Sir Washington Irving Bishop (Kamilimilianalani) a Most Worthy Mason of the Thirty-Second Degree, the Mind Reader, and Philanthropist and dedicated her life to the search for justice and the prevention of similar catastrophes. There is only one certain proof of death, she informed us sternly in the play: putrescence. Fletcher Bishop took to the road in a series of lecture-performances, and this device shaped Buntport’s play, which is kind of funny and kind of creepy and reveals both the woman’s monstrous, smothering egotism and her genuine grief. It was the smartest, most interesting locally written piece we’d seen in quite a while.

Life isn’t always easy for the young. And high-risk youth whose lives are impacted by violence, drugs and alcohol sometimes don’t have the opportunity to find their voices or learn to express themselves. To combat that, Art From Ashes collaborates with other youth-service organizations to offer poetry and spoken-word workshops for kids who are homeless, incarcerated, in the court system or residing in treatment centers or just urban settings. Art From Ashes encourages emotional catharsis and expression through writing therapy, giving kids their voices before they lose them forever.

Conceived in the ’80s, propagated in the ’90s and formalized in the 2000s, Slam Poetry is once again evolving, this time to meet the demands of the YouTube era. Since last year, Podslam.org has featured dozens of videos of local and national Slammers spitting words, ideas and everything in between for the camera. But rather than just posting slams online, the cooperative venture between Denver-based Just Media and Cafe Nuba has online voters choose which poet will move on to new rounds. Organizers hope to expand their video archive by filming this August at the 2007 Slam Nationals in Austin, Texas, where Denver’s Slam Team will be the defending champions.

Felix Gomez was a soldier in Iraq. Now he’s a vampire — and a detective sent to look into a sweeping case of nymphomania at Rocky Flats. We’re serious. With Gomez, Mario Acevedo has created a new literary hero for Colorado. Though a vampire, he doesn’t drink blood; he works for the forces of good instead of evil; and he’s quite charming. Fangs a lot, Mario.

If you like Annie Proulx and Kent Haruf, pick up William Haywood Henderson. Having grown up in Colorado and Wyoming, he has an innate sense of how to write Western characters, with reserve and isolation broken up by glimpses of deep emotional currents. Augusta Locke follows six generations through the eyes of a matriarch who defines what it is to be a woman of the West. Turn the page.

Stephen White has been writing his Alan Gregory novels for almost two decades. You’d expect his work to have fallen into formula by now, but his fourteenth book, Kill Me, is fast-paced and vivid enough to convert new readers to his particular brand of psychological thriller. The lead character, who lives life on the edge, hires a secret firm to knock him off in the event that he contracts any life-threatening disease — but then he has second thoughts and…. You’ll have to get the book to find out.

Marc Estrin is a smart man. Scary smart. So smart you may wonder if you’re capable of reading his books. You are, and you must. Golem Song treads serious turf — hate, racism, anti-Semitism — that most writers avoid, but the book redeems both itself and the reader with a wry, sometimes raunchy, sense of humor. Local publishing house Unbridled Books picked up two Estrin novels before Golem Song, and now has a franchise author. Be warned: He’s not talking about Gollum from The Lord of the Rings.

When it comes to mainstream TV, the techno-savvy rebels at deproduction are mad as hell and they’re not going to take it anymore. So when Denver allowed the local nonprofit to take over its three floundering Comcast public-access channels, it turned them into Denver Open Media. Now insomniac Denverites can enjoy late-night showings of The Art of Bellydancing and Words of Peace on Channels 57 and 58, and wannabe Spike Jonzes can take classes and make shows at the new studio at 700 Kalamath Street. But that’s just the beginning. DOM head Tony Shawcross promises that people will soon be able to watch and vote on DOM shows online, with the most popular offerings being broadcast on Channel 59. It’s like the Nielsen ratings corrupted by YouTube. While the plan has been delayed by glitchy technology and limited funding, DOM urges its fans to stay tuned, because the revolution will be televised.

The only thing better than the $1 show is the 50-cent show. On Tuesday nights at Tiffany Park Movies, all screens are just two bits. There’s no stadium seating or fancy digital sound, and your shoes stick to the floor, but that’s a fair price to pay for saving twenty bucks on admission. Plus, a small staff makes it easy to sneak in lots of snacks and alcohol. Just be careful where you sit.

A night at the Cinema Grill is a guilty pleasure. There’s nothing too healthy on the menu, whether cinematic (Happy Feet, The Astronaut Farmer, The Number 23) or culinary (pepper poppers, potato skins, burgers, cheese dogs, ice cream smoothies), but a few hours here are undeniably satisfying. Plus, there’s beer! And margaritas! Yeah, that’s the ticket…

Starz FilmCenter has seen better days. It’s a bit tatty around the edges, and the seats make airplanes look comfortable. But no other theater can unseat the king when it comes to must-see programming, including critically acclaimed small fests, special nights and the annual blowout of the Starz Denver Film Festival. There’s certainly a place for fast cars/fast music/heist/blow-’em-up movies, but when you’re feeling a little overstimulated, a trip to Starz will remind you that moviemaking is a true art. In which things occasionally explode.

With eighteen regular screens and one mondo screen, there’s always something to see at the Harkins Northfield 18. And you’ll see it from the lap of luxury, since the seats are deep and plush. But Harkins boasts plenty of amenities beyond incredibly comfortable seating, including a water sculpture out front and a walk of fame engraved with the names of local celebs.

When Colorado is cast in a film, it usually gets a bit part that winds up on the cutting-room floor — or worse, Italy or Vancouver stands in for the state. But when Colorado filmmaker Monty Miranda — who filmed all of John Hickenlooper’s mayoral commercials in 2003 — decided to make Skills Like This (with a big assist from Academy Award-winning producer Donna Dewey), he filmed it entirely in the Denver area. Watch for scenes at Union Station, Arvada’s 12 Volt Tavern and Pagliacci’s, among other locales. And although this was Miranda’s first feature, keep an eye on him, too: Skills Like This won the audience prize for best feature at the South by Southwest Film Festival this month.

Don Cheadle is usually a lock in this category, but except for The Dog Problem, which has yet to enjoy a wide release, he had no credits in 2006. Meanwhile, Jessica Biel was displaying some major star wattage. We’re used to seeing the Boulder hottie in hack-’em-slash-’em thrillers like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre or in sappy teen flicks like Summer Catch, but this past year she stretched with a serious dramatic role in The Illusionist. In the process, she showed that she’s got talent for inspiring much more than tabloid fodder.

Although it’s only in its third year, the Shoot Out is one of the area’s most-anticipated film fests. While it may not offer a lot of glitz and glamour, this affair is all about taking the power instead of watching passively. On a designated night in October, teams gather at 8:55 p.m. to get their instructions and parameters; 24 hours later, they come back with a finished seven-minute film. No muss, no fuss — just DIY to the core.

Short, sweet and to the point: That’s the 5 Minute Film Fest, hosted every quarter by Denver filmmaker Johnny Morehouse. He collects movies from anyone in town who wants to participate, pops the popcorn, pulls out some beer and has everyone down to his studio for a party honoring shorts that don’t top five minutes. Don’t be late.

When Denverite Chris Marino was six years old, he saw something at a swimming pool that changed his life: a combover. Decades later, the obsession resulted in a movie about the world’s worst hairstyle. Portions of the film were shot in Denver, but Marino found there just weren’t enough locals willing to bare their souls — or their chrome domes — so he expanded his quest to other locations from Dallas to New York City. The Donald and his questionable mane were a no-show, but Combover remains the quintessential film about the quintessential cover-up.

Move over, Murderball! The latest in quad-rugby films, The Goal, was jam-packed with Denver love. Director Darla Rae was inspired by Jason Regier, president of the Denver Harlequin Wheelchair Rugby Team; The Goal follows the story of two disabled athletes struggling to rebuild their lives. Starring Regier, it was filmed on location at Winter Park’s National Sports Center for the Disabled, Craig Hospital and the Fort — and the soundtrack features the work of local musicians. Way to Goal, Colorado!

Want to know where to go to get plastered in this town? Drunk by Noon is 21 minutes of classic Denver dive bars threaded together through the story of a Madison Avenue advertising executive who suddenly has an epiphany: He’s been destroying the planet through his work. Directed by Eric Galatas and starring local actors Chuck Fiorella and Laura Norman, the short features PS 1515 (as well as several other favorite spots to get soused), a soundtrack by El Chapultepec’s Tony Black Quartet, and comic strips by Lucas Richards. Think globally, drink locally.

Beat central, Naropa’s Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, is commemorating On the Road‘s fiftieth anniversary by sending a digital video camera to Kerouac haunts in New York, San Francisco, Lowell (Kerouac’s Massachusetts birthplace), Denver, Iowa and Mexico City, as well as to such literary figures as Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Amiri Baraka. The resulting composite film, On the Road Now: Artists Respond to Kerouac in the 21st Century, will debut this summer at Naropa’s Kerouac Festival. To keep up on festival news and the film’s progress, log on to www.naropa.edu/kerouac. And the Beat goes on.

A benchmark of Beat-era lore, Jack Kerouac’s famous On the Road manuscript was typed in just twenty days on a 120-foot-long scroll. Kerouac embodied the movement’s spontaneous and obsessive nature in one burning semi-autobiographical swoop. And because the alleys and byways of Denver lurk all over the ragged-edged tome, it was only appropriate that it should lie in state all winter at the Denver Central Library, honoring the novel’s fiftieth anniversary. “I counted minutes and subtracted miles. Just ahead, over the rolling wheat fields all golden beneath the distant snows of Estes, I’d be seeing old Denver at last.”

Denver ceramic artist Marie E.v.B. Gibbons is well known for her spooky and evocative clay and mixed-media sculptures, but she’s also a great teacher. Since moving to her sunny new studio in the shadow of northwest Denver’s Oriental Theater, Gibbons has been hosting monthly clay mini-shops during every First Friday event on Tennyson Street. For ten bucks, visitors can drop in between 6 and 10 p.m. and create and color-wash a tiny clay work. Each month’s workshop, which takes about fifteen to thirty minutes, has a different theme: hearts in February, spring bulbs in March, etc. Why not take a roll in the clay?

Life-drawing aficionados usually sketch any body they can find. Few people, after all, have the right personality to disrobe so that a crowd can scrutinize every shadow and wrinkle. For more interesting models, try Dr. Sketchy’s Anti-Art School. The invention of Brooklyn burlesquer Molly Crabapple, it’s shown up in Denver under the auspices of local burlesque belle Vivienne VaVoom. Every third Monday of the month, VaVoom dishes up a heady mix of exotic-dancer mannequins, roller-derby girls, fetish models, drag queens and cocktails. All you need to bring is $8 and a sketch pad.

Art-O-Mart, the quarterly art smorgasbord at Capsule Event Center, is the perfect place to find quality pieces that won’t cost an arm and a leg. Taking place on First Fridays in June, September and December, Art-O-Mart showcases unjuried work in all mediums. You never know what you might find.

Paul and Pifuka Hardt opened P Design Gallery last year, and since then, they’ve presented a regular show schedule devoted to furniture and decorative arts. What set DoubleButter Boontje apart was that two of the three featured designers live right here in Denver. David Larabee and Dexter Thornton were the “DoubleButter” part of the show, and their elegant, sturdy furniture relates well to several international trends. The “Boontje” part highlighted the work of European hotshot Tord Boontje, someone who sets the trends. Boontje’s high status as a high stylist was confirmed when the Denver Art Museum acquired several of his works during the P Design show.

Like most artists, Justin Beard needs to have a day job, and for a while he was a construction worker. It is this grueling experience that inspired the interrelated pieces in his smart solo, Undergo, on view last summer. The exhibit was dominated by a full-sized replica of a pickup truck made of cardboard, but it also included a mechanical sculpture made from a paint roller covered in little mirrors, along with a bunch of drawings and a couple of videos. Beard is a postmodernist, so his pieces were laden with irony, but here’s the ultimate irony: Stay, the gallery that hosted his work, didn’t. A few months after Beard’s show closed, gallery owners John and Amy Bodin split in the middle of the night.

Last spring, the University of Denver’s Victoria H. Myhren Gallery hosted an unusual multi-media installation called Chimera, named after the female demon of myth. Minnette Vri, the artist who created it, put herself in the title role. A South African, Vri has long been interested in racial politics, and for Chimera she zeroed in on the “Voortrekker Monument” in Pretoria that honors the white Afrikaner pioneers who subjugated the native blacks. In multiple projections, Vri digitally changes the white-marble monument to black and inserts herself as the she-devil that appears like a phantom in the images. If her political content was vague, her aesthetic intent was clear, and it made Chimera an all-enveloping, hypnotic experience.

After years of gurgling in a temporary space, the Laboratory for Art and Ideas at Belmar — the Lab, for short — finally started an exhibition program in its finished home last fall. The place aims to bring high culture to Lakewood, an idea out of the mind of founding director Adam Lerner. Lerner loves what’s called “new media” — film, video and installation — and that’s what’s on tap in the still-open Weekend in So Show. With this multi-room piece — which comprises wooden boxes, LCD monitors displaying an old film, and lots of wall text — British artist Liam Gillick addresses the topic of human labor. It’s hard to follow, but it’s even harder to deny how good it looks.

Despite having an essentially meaningless title — Something to Consider — this show did have some of the freshest-looking abstracts seen last summer. The paintings were edgy examples of post-abstract expressionism, as done by Quintn Gonzlez, a Denver artist who just keeps getting better and better. The small acrylic-on-canvas paintings resembled carnival spin art, though they hadn’t actually been spun. Gonzlez builds up layers, starting with a flat monochrome and then pouring on different colors that combine into various hues. It’s amazing how he keeps the different shades separate and unblended — that’s something to consider.

Wouldn’t it be neat to be rich? You could put together a first-rate art collection overnight — ten years or so in the art world. That’s what Connecticut collector Virginia Vogel Mattern did. In 1988 she became enraptured with pottery from the pueblos of New Mexico, and over the next decade sought out the best pieces available. Then, needing to downsize in 2003, she donated it all to the Denver Art Museum. Nancy Blomberg, the DAM’s Native Arts curator, selected over 100 of the best pieces from the gift to make up Breaking the Mold: The Virginia Vogel Mattern Collection of Contemporary Native American Art. The show, which is still open, is a marvelous way to get a thorough introduction to the field.

Martha Daniels’s work riffs off the history of ceramics, combining Mediterranean and Asian influences in the same way as her mentor, Betty Woodman. The most remarkable creations in the show at William Havu Gallery were her delicate — though gigantic — towers that subtly referred to work by the great Brancusi. Among Daniels’s strengths are her expressive handling of the forms and the way she uses glazes as though they were paints. Long one of the best ceramicists in the time zone, Daniels is a city treasure.

Lauri Lynnxe Murphy is a one-woman art scene. In the past, she was involved with Edge Gallery, was one of the founders of the long-closed ILK co-op, which she ran, then opened Pod, a boutique that morphed into Capsule, an alternative gallery. Experimental shows were a specialty, with the over-the-top Spelling With Scissors being the last of them. For this outing, Matthew Rose, an American in Paris, covered the walls with nearly 900 funny and weird neo-dada collages cut from the pages of newspapers and magazines. In December, when the show closed, so did Capsule. Murphy found that selling art was harder than renting space to other people trying to do it, so she opened the Capsule Art and Events Center next door. We wish her the best.

The star attraction at the Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art last fall was James Surls: A Cut Above. The sculptor made his name in the 1980s from a studio in Texas, but he moved to Colorado in 1998 and has been here ever since. Surls’s medium of choice is wood, which he carves into attenuated shapes based on organic forms. He assembles his sinuously cut sections into unlikely arrangements or clusters, typically leaving the material in a subtle array of natural tones. Some of the pieces stand on the floor while others hang from the ceiling. Coloradans don’t usually cotton to Texans, but since Surls is among the region’s best sculptors, we’ll just have to make an exception.

This dynamite show, put together by Center for Visual Art director Jennifer Garner and assistant director Cecily Cullen, featured eight photographers who were pushing their medium to the absolute edge. Local talents Jon Rietfors, Gwen Laine and David Zimmer were joined by internationally famous artists Zeke Berman, Gregory Crewdson with Susan Harbage Page, Bruce Charlesworth and Meridel Rubenstein. With photography coming on so strong in recent years, this intelligent show gave viewers a good snapshot of some of the best work being done across the country.

Well-known digital photographer John Bonath had a hell of a year battling cancer. So it’s amazing how well he kept his spirits up — even naming his one-person show at sellarsprojectspace Blessings. Man, what a trouper! In his pieces, Bonath created fantasy worlds that are completely believable because they were made up of images of real things. Most of these digital photos included figures, both male and female, while others incorporated shots of carved wooden hands to stand in for the missing human subjects. Bonath’s chemotherapy has been successful; best of luck to him with that.

When you talk about photogenic, you’ve got to talk about Marilyn Monroe. After all, more than a few photographers built their entire careers on their memorable images of her. Camera Obscura Gallery, granddaddy of the city’s photo scene, hosted an interesting duet comparing and contrasting Andre de Dienes’s earliest shots of the glamorous siren with George Barris’s moody photos, taken a few weeks before the actress died, in 1962. Barris is believed to have snapped the last pictures of Marilyn, but like the gentleman that he was, he refused to publish them until long after she died.

Pictorialism is a photographic style in which images are blurred to create the atmospheric quality normally associated with a painting. It was all the rage a hundred years ago — and it is again right now. Believe it or not, Denver had its own first-generation pictorialist, R. Ewing Stiffler, who was the subject of Denver’s Pictorial Photographer at Gallery Roach last spring. Stiffler moved to Colorado as a teenager, but he studied his craft across the country, including at the Art Institute of Chicago. To say that this exhibit was a rare viewing opportunity would be more than an understatement, since some of the pieces had not been displayed since the Denver Art Museum did a pictorialist show back in 1935.

You knew the show at the Denver Central Library was serious simply by noting the word count of the title: From Nordenskiold to Nusbaum: Archaeology, Photography and Tourism in the Early Years of Mesa Verde National Park. Whew, seventeen! The Nordenskiold part refers to Gustaf Nordenskiold, who explored Mesa Verde in 1891, and the Nusbaum part addresses Jesse Logan Nusbaum, who became an early superintendent of Mesa Verde National Park. Their photos were supplemented with images by William Henry Jackson, George Beam, Laura Gilpin and others. The exhibit was curated by the Colorado Historical Society’s Thomas Carr and the library’s Trina Purcell, who together selected some of the best pieces from their respective institutions to pull off this knockout of a show.

China has long had a rich cultural tradition, but the country has been out of the art picture for a century or more. Times are changing, and now that Wal-Mart has turned the place into an economic powerhouse, its art is again coming to the fore. Robischon Gallery’s Under the Radar: Chinese Contemporary Art — curated by gallery co-director Jennifer Doran — illustrated the importance of this hot new category. The show’s title is a play on the Denver Art Museum exhibit RADAR: Selections From the Collection of Vicki & Kent Logan, which works well because the Logans even lent Robischon a couple of pieces. Asian art is certainly a hot topic in Denver.

A study of contemporary artists from Tibet is a pretty off-the-wall topic, but Waves on the Turquoise Lake was a spectacular exhibit. Jointly conceived by CU Art Museum director Lisa Tamiris Becker and the Mechak Center’s Victoria Scoggin, the show was definitely a situation where the East met West head-on and where the old crashed into the new — just like in Tibet.

Aspen-based collector Kimiko Powers and her late husband, John, were connoisseurs of the old school. They were broad in their interests; as a result, they amassed some of the finest art works of art available. Ron Otsuka, the esteemed curator of Asian art at the Denver Art Museum, made friends with the couple over thirty years ago, and he convinced them to put their collection of more than 300 Japanese masterworks on long-term loan with the DAM. Some of these pieces make up Japanese Art From the Colorado Collection of Kimiko and John Powers, and while many may look modern, they are actually hundreds of years old. This show is the best of the trio that inaugurated the DAM’s new wing — and it’s open for a few more months.

The Emmanuel Gallery on the Auraria campus is such a hassle to get to, it often gets overlooked. But that all changed when Emmanuel presented an exhibit so important that Denver Art Museum director Lewis Sharp spoke at the opening — even though it was right in the middle of his own opening of the Frederic C. Hamilton Building. The show was Treasures Revealed: The Art of Hungary, 1890-1955, which examined the rise of modernism in that country. Shanna Shelby put together the stunning selection of works, primarily drawing from the collection of Jill Wiltse and H. Kirk Brown, who are becoming the “it” couple among local collectors. Best of all, Treasures was just the first in a series of planned outings that will focus on different parts of their remarkable hoard.

No one has done more to promote Colorado’s historic artists than Hugh Grant, director of the Kirkland Museum of Fine & Decorative Art. But Grant only rarely mounts shows at the museum, which is one of the reasons that Vavra Triptych was so special. Grant brought out work by husband and wife Frank and Kathleen Vavra along with that of their daughter, Diana. Frank studied in France before 1920, and his early work is pure impressionism, but he would later go to abstraction; Kathleen was a regionalist in the ’30s and a modernist later, as was Diana, who started her career in the ’50s. This Kirkland exhibit was one of the best family reunions imaginable.

By far the most ambitious undertaking of the Museum of Contemporary Art/Denver in its ten-year history, Decades of Influence was Cydney Payton’s attempt at summing up Colorado art from the past two decades. With a topic this vast, she used not only the museum itself, but also the Center for Visual Art, the Carol Keller Project Space and the Gates Sculpture Triangle. And even then, she was forced to do a superb followup called Extended Remix to feature artists she missed in the first round. Though some of Payton’s choices were controversial, there were at least seventy of the state’s best artists in the Decades/Remix combination. A very good show, indeed.

In 1966, Boulder was attracting some of the nation’s first hippies, many of whom were enrolling in fine-art classes at the University of Colorado. Student studios were then in the Armory, and a group coalesced there, including members Dale Chisman, Clark Richert, John De Andrea, Margaret Neumann and George Woodman. Those hippie-artists went on to write many chapters in Colorado’s aesthetic history, including founding Drop City, the artist commune near Trinidad; launching CrissCross, which published a magazine; and opening two co-ops, Boulder’s Edge Gallery and Spark Gallery in Denver. The Armory Group was one of the season’s best shows, and all Singer director Simon Zalkind had to do was to bring the old crowd back together.

Colorado artists began embracing abstraction in the 1930s, and by the late ’40s and early ’50s, it had become a full-blown regional movement. Unfortunately, much of the work has been mostly forgotten. Aiming to correct this oversight, painter and volunteer art historian Tracy Felix put together Colorado Modernism, a handsome and well-thought-out show. It was filled with gorgeous mid-century-modern paintings by the likes of Vance Kirkland, Charles Bunnell, Mary Chenoweth and Al Wynne, along with solos devoted to photographer Jim Milmoe and sculptor Bob Mangold. A trip to Golden to see this tremendous show was the best mini-vacation you could have taken last summer.

Every summer, David Cook Fine Art presents a handsome historic survey of art from the region. It’s always one of the finest exhibits of the year, and Colorado & the West was no exception. Then again, since Cook snags first-rate material from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, it would be hard not to come up with something great. This year, many of the paintings and prints in the show were associated with the long-gone Broadmoor Academy in Colorado Springs, and they came from a variety of sources, including a large private collection the gallery acquired. This is how the West is won.

Yoshitomo Saito moved to Denver just last summer, and he’s already had a solo at one of the city’s top galleries. That’s quite a feat, but 108 Blue Cranes was unbelievably ambitious and stunningly serene. The exhibition was something of a retrospective, covering the past twenty years that the Tokyo-born artist has spent in America. Saito’s subjects — wood, cardboard and canvas — are so simple that they make his pieces look minimalist, but they’re actually quite realistic. Saito is a great new addition to the scene and can be considered one of the city’s best artists.

Co-ops typically present solos by their members, featuring group shows only when a time slot accidentally opens up. Such an unexpected opportunity presented itself last spring, and Edge member Mark Brasuell came up with Directions in Abstraction off the top of his head. He included his own work and that of four others — Dale Chisman, Clark Richert, Bruce Price and Karen McClanahan — to explore new approaches in abstraction. Brasuell and Chisman focused on abstract expressionism while Richert looked at geometric abstraction, and his former students, Price and McClanahan, did post-minimalism. Though each person was represented by a single piece, it was a good start to a survey of the best abstraction being done here.

Last fall, Ivar Zeile’s + Gallery mounted the imaginative COLIN LIVINGSTON: Palettes, Patterns, Logos and Slogans, in which potential collectors were invited to come up with their own compositions by selecting from a menu of — you guessed it — palettes, patterns, logos and slogans. Livingston offered several hypothetical combinations at the show, giving patrons ideas on how to help him create one of his signature post-pop paintings. By offering these made-to-order works, Livingston posed questions about the nature of art-making, art collecting and, in the process, art itself.

It was 29 years ago that Dianne Vanderlip came to the Denver Art Museum to start a contemporary art department. In the intervening decades some contemporary aged into modern, so Vanderlip’s charge expanded to overseeing what is now the Department of Modern and Contemporary Art. As early as last summer, it was an open secret that she would be leaving, but Vanderlip officially retired in January. During her reign, she was omnipotent in Denver’s contemporary art scene, and even though she was criticized for not doing enough for local art, she purchased hundreds of pieces by Colorado artists for the museum’s collection. Her replacement, Christoph Heinrich, will never have the power she wielded, because the Denver art world is so much bigger now — in no small part because of what Vanderlip wrought.

The blockbuster RADAR: Selections From the Collection of Kent & Vicki Logan represents a conflation of art-related events. It’s the largest of the three special exhibitions at the Denver Art Museum presented to coincide with the opening of the new Frederic C. Hamilton Building. It showcases the collection put together by Vail collectors Vicki and Kent Logan, who are among the DAM’s largest donors ever, and it’s the retirement swan song of Dianne Vanderlip, founding curator of the Modern and Contemporary department. But beyond all this interesting background, the show includes major works by some of the biggest names in international art, among them Takashi Murakami, Damien Hirst, Kiki Smith, George Condo and Fred Tomaselli. RADAR will stay on Denver’s cultural screens through July 15.

Denver artist Patrick Marold makes pieces that address environmental issues, and his latest, “The Windmill Project,” in Vail, is staggeringly large, with 2,700 separate elements. Each of those comprises a ten-foot tall transparent tube, which houses a light and is topped by three rotating prongs that terminate in hollow half-spheres. As the “windmills” catch the breeze with their cups, they power the lights. This ambitious sculpture, installed on the hillside above the seventeenth green at the Vail Golf Course, is temporary and will be gone with the wind come Earth Day, April 22.

There’s something downright lovable about the “Scottish Angus Cow and Calf,” the massive bovine bronzes that reside on the south side of the new Hamilton Building. They’re not as obvious as “Big Sweep,” the giant ode to housekeeping at the museum’s entrance — but that’s half the fun. The cow and calf seem happy grazing far from the limelight, as if there’s nothing they’d prefer to do than lounge unobtrusively on the grass and let little kids scramble all over their hides. Their gentle, organic presence is the perfect complement to the hard lines of Daniel Libeskind’s architecture — and a stylistic reminder that Denver will always be the cowtown we love.

Aurora, like Denver, has a 1-percent-for-art program, and among the city’s most recent commissions is David Mazza’s “Kawil,” which is situated on the lawn of the Aurora Fire Department’s station #5. “Kawil” is done in the young artist’s signature neo-modernist style, with angled steel rods forming an abstract composition. The piece is named for the Mayan god of lightning and fire, and the shape and color fire-engine red — definitely fit the moniker. “Kawil” may be in Aurora, but it would be among the best even in the middle of downtown Denver.

Every project built with city money must set aside 1 percent for public art. In the case of the Denver Art Museum’s Hamilton Building, the city-funded piece is Tatsuo Miyajima’s “ENGI,” located in the El Pomar Grand Atrium. It’s a conceptual installation made up of eighty LED displays embedded into the diagonal walls of the vertiginous space. “ENGI” conveys different perspectives on the passage of time by having the numbers one through nine flash on the screens at different rates. The resulting LEDs look like twinkling sequins, providing the perfect final touch for the spartanly detailed atrium.

“Denver Monoliths,” the enormous abstract sculpture in front of the Denver Art Museum’s outrageous Frederic C. Hamilton Building, looks like the Flintstones meeting the Jetsons. The primitive forms of Beverly Pepper’s charcoal-gray concrete sculpture provide a mighty contrast to the futuristic zigzags of Daniel Libeskind’s shimmering silver building. An interesting fact in Pepper’s bio is her age: The international art-world hipster is in her eighties! That’s yet another reason her piece is one of the best things to see in this otherwise Real World kind of town.

The Magnet Mafia not only has a cool name — who wouldn’t want to join that family? — but it’s also serious about underground art. Dead serious. The Mafiosi create art on — wait for it — magnets, then stick them up around town. Find one, take it home and throw it up on the fridge. Plus, the mobsters will teach you to make your own moveable art. How inspired.

Guerilla Garden ain’t no bunch of tag-bangers. The crew is Denver’s unofficial graffiti-advocacy organization, and its members are some of the city’s top graffers, including Jher, Jolt, Voice, Crims, Koze and Emit. Since forming in 2005, they’ve worked with several programs that promote graffiti as an artistic endeavor — not a facet of thug life — and have become a conduit for underground muralists to break into art galleries. If one of these guys (or their followers) deigns to hit your garage, it’s because you’re paying them cash money to do so.

In this era of MySpace bulletins, e-mail and text messages, making fliers would seem to be a lost art, an archaic means of promotion. Hardly anyone goes to the effort of making handbills anymore, and those who do are rewarded for their efforts by watching their handiwork being crumpled and tossed into the garbage (or worse, onto the ground) almost as soon as they’re handed out. Fact is, these days folks are oversaturated and overstimulated, and it takes a lot to grab their attention, and few artists take the time to produce something worth hanging on to. Yerkish is the notable exception; the band has created some of the most elaborate and eye-catching posters we’ve seen in recent years. As an obvious nod to its name (Yerkish is a language that allows humans to communicate with their simian counterparts), each design features some variation of a monkey. We really go ape for them.

Rhinoceropolis has an anything-goes spirit, with a variety of artists and artistic mediums occupying its unassuming space on Brighton Boulevard. At least once a month, ‘Nopolis hosts local art shows and promotes them with the same fervor as it does the musical acts that pass through its doors. Whatever you’re looking for, you’re guaranteed to see — or hear — something way outside the mainstream any time you visit. Noise artists, psych folk, avant-garde rock and anything else that is just too weird to fit into the universe of more conventionally minded folk finds a home at Rhinoceropolis.

Over the years, a number of DIY spots have appeared — Pancho’s Villa, the Junkyard, Garageland, the Hipster Youth Halfway House — and all have inevitably burned out after short but fiery existences. The latest to carry the torch is Blast-o-Mat, a garage turned totally sweet venue. Attracting city kids on road bikes and punkers in pegged jeans, Blast is an underground enclave, away from the overhyped and overdone bar scene, a community haven for misfits and rockers. But its location in the industrial refuse of a small working-class neighborhood can make it difficult for the uninitiated to find — which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The Blast-o-Mat experience hinges on the frenetic passion of its select patrons and can be succinctly summed up with the quaint axiom spray-painted in capital letters on the wall behind the tiny stage: “ROCK LIKE THE FUCK.”

Local roots-music fans know all about KC Groves. A longtime Lyons resident, she’s one-fourth of Uncle Earl, a combo that’s played lots of gigs and festivals in these parts and contributed a song to the 2005 Colorado Bluegrass Music Society compilation. Now, however, the outfit is taking a giant step toward national prominence with Waterloo, Tennessee, a new disc on Rounder Records produced by none other than founding Led Zeppelin member John Paul Jones. On the surface, and below it, this seems like an odd combination. But Jones has played music inspired by folk and acoustic traditions before (spun Led Zeppelin III lately?), and he’s smart enough to let Groves and cohorts Kristin Andreassen, Rayna Gellert and Abigail Washburn be themselves. The CD’s sound is pure, clear and uncluttered, whether the band is ripping through rave-ups like “Wish I Had My Time Again” or getting dark on the deeply felt dirge “My Epitaph.” At moments like these, it’s hard to imagination a more compatible couple than KC and Mr. Jones.

There’s a natural affinity between jazz and hip-hop; the genres each champion improvisation, be it instrumental or verbal, as well as the joy of grooves and the pleasures of cool. So, too, does Future Jazz Project, which brings these sounds together in a way that’s all too rare these days. On their new recording, keyboardists Greg Harris and Greg Raymond, drummer/DJ Dameion Hines and bassist Casey Sidwell fashion a musical backdrop that deserves to be heard in the foreground. Meanwhile, MC Big House and vocalist Selina Albright contribute two very different yet wholly compatible flavors: forceful rhyming and soulful crooning. On “Stress” and other standouts, these ingredients cohere to form a new kind of jazz fusion — one that’s far more vivid and exciting than most music grouped under this heading. That’s intelligent Design.

The list of people contributing to this veteran Nederland combo’s bow for the famed Vanguard label may fill longtime supporters with anxiety — but such worries are misplaced. On the album, banjoist Dave Johnston, guitarist Adam Aijala, bassist Ben Kaufmann and mandolinist Jeff Austin join forces with Tom Rothrock, a producer who’s worked with the Foo Fighters, among other modern rockers, as well as Pete Thomas, the original drummer for Elvis Costello’s Attractions. Thanks to such contributions, “Classic Situation” and “How ‘Bout You?” have a different feel than any of the group’s previous recordings. Nevertheless, the Yonder Mountain boys maintain their connection to the bluegrass and roots styles that brought them together in the first place, just as they did when they were first discovered by the nation’s jam aficionados, and their loyalty keeps the material anchored to tradition no matter who’s behind the boards. The album represents a change for this four-piece, but their essence remains unaltered.

Turner is no axman-come-lately. When the late Tommy Bolin decided to leave Zephyr circa the early ’70s, Turner took his place — and he subsequently played guitar for the Legendary 4-Nikators and bluesman supreme Otis Taylor, whose 1996-2003 platters gained much of their power from Turner’s searing riffs. However, he didn’t truly step into the spotlight until the release of Rise, a solo disc on the NorthernBlues imprint that earned this same honor in 2005, and The Turner Diaries is even better. On offerings like “Dangerous,” “I’m a Man, I’m a Man” and “I’m Tore Down,” Turner displays tremendous instrumental range, reeling out licks that stir emotions of every description, and producer Kenny Passarelli, who oversaw much of Taylor’s seminal work, makes sure the tracks hang together as songs instead of deteriorating into pyrotechnical showcases. After more than three decades, Turner remains a master of fast-fingered frenzy. These Diaries are definitely worth keeping.

It’s not always pretty to look Fear in the face. Late last year, for instance, David Marion, the group’s frontman, got whacked upside the mug with a bass headstock, resulting in a hole in his cheek “that you could fit a small rodent through,” according to a post on the band’s website. But Marion’s ew-inducing injury was the only thing that’s slowed the Marchers, whose rapid creative development was codified by their latest CD. Tunes such as “Drowning the Old Hag” and “Taking Cassandra to the End of the World Party” are far more ambitious and intricate than the outfit’s early material — and while they showcase instrumental acumen and a sound that’s progressive in every sense of the word, they still crackle with the passion and power for which the players have always been known. By now, no doubt, Marion’s wound is a thing of the past. But with luck, The Always Open Mouth will never close.

The old cliche about too many chefs spoiling the soup became an old cliche for the usual reason: In the vast majority of cases, it’s true. But the men and women of Rabbit Is a Sphere are the exception that proves the rule. Robert Rutherford, Natalie Winslow and Christopher Nelsen all sing lead, and along with Georgina Guidotti, they contribute to the compositions that make up Laps in the Sleep Saloon. As a result, the disc is busy instrumentally, with various guitars and keyboards taking roads less traveled, and the lyrics, which aim for poetry rather than settling for mere rhymes, echo with multiple voices. That’s typically a recipe for chaos, yet the musicians’ disparate sensibilities combine to make “Cough and Convince,” “Newscasters on Cocaine” and the rest of the Sphere’s songs stronger than if they’d been delivered by a single individual. The group demonstrates that some mighty tasty fare can emerge from a crowded kitchen.

The Autokinoton has been around for, like, ever. But constant lineup changes — including the very recent departure of guitarist Shaun Herrera — have recessed the band again and again over the years. In spite of this, the act has taken on each subsequent incarnation with a musical fervor and energy that course through each recording. The Furnace Room Demos, although technically a preview disc by name, is a marked exodus from the outfit’s screamo-laden hardcore beginnings. Fully instrumental and totally epic in scope, it’s like a Godspeed You! Black Emperor album reworked by scenester metal kids — but without the frilly nuances that plague groups such as Ocean or Bossk. Demos spans only four songs, but the abrasive fretwork makes it feel as if it’s reaching toward a breathless eternity. If it ever does come to an end, the Auto-K will see it through.

The artistic ambition behind Drop the Fear, Ryan Policky and Gabriel Ratliff’s previous band, was undeniable, but the act’s music felt unfinished. When Avoiding the Consequences swept into stores last fall, all of the hyperbolic critical accolades seemed a bit premature. However, the dreamy, moody atmosphere of this album firmly establishes the band as heirs apparent of acts Sigur Rs, Slowdive and M83. Songs like “Love Is a Ghost in America,” which recalls Kevin Shields’s sleepy yet gently moving work for Lost in Translation, drift in like warm, spectral winds in places untainted by recent human presence. Elsewhere, “Zoning” whispers softly before hypnotically soaring into the neglected regions of the imagination. Throughout the album, inspiring vistas of melody and electronically generated sound are flawlessly melded with expertly nuanced rhythms. Easily on the same level of musical sophistication as their influences, the members of A Shoreline Dream prove that their vision is one worth sharing.

You just knew that if the woman who made the sax scream, howl and sing in Nightshark ever put her lungs to use as a vocalist, she’d probably be pretty great. With the edgy, ferocious presence of early Patti Smith and the fearless spirit of Teenage Jesus and the Jerks-era Lydia Lunch on her side, Becca Mhalek is a daunting presence on stage. Her words come forth like steady but unpredictable bursts of volcanic lava while her tortured voice strains at its boundaries and seethes with a rage born of unresolved emotions. Although her thick, dark hair hides her eyes, you can imagine them wild or squeezed tightly shut with the force of the dark, electric energy flowing through her every pore. Mhalek embodies the uncompromising sound of MVP with an enviable conviction and raw power.

Dameon Merkl looks like the tall, handsome son of Orson Welles and has the dark vocal intensity of Nick Cave. His deep voice has a presence and timbre that late-night jazz radio-show hosts would kill for, but even an easy laugh from him carries an undercurrent of menace. As the brooding yet diabolically humorous frontman for Bad Luck City, Merkl is the kind of character you’d root for whether he was the president or the head of a crime family. The stories he weaves in song are spun from the urban-underbelly mythos of film noir, Cormac McCarthy and James Ellroy. In years past, Merkl’s sometimes abrasive and guttural voice could seem monochromatic. Lately, though, he’s learned to channel it to match his band’s rich emotional tapestries. A natural showman, Merkl masterfully straddles the realms of avant-punk and lurid lounge.

Dynamic lead guitarist Dustin Bingham left Eyes Caught Fire in the fall of 2005, which seemed to end the band’s long run as one of the most well-regarded acts from Colorado Springs. Though relatively unknown in Denver, Eyes had built a strong regional reputation for its hauntingly cathartic live show. Despite encouragement from peers and fans, nothing was heard from the group for more than a year, and most assumed it was gone for good. But Eyes surprised everyone by taking the stage again in November 2006, and although its members had entertained the idea of going forward without the irreplaceable Bingham, it didn’t really seem like a viable option. Bingham ultimately returned, and Eyes Caught Fire has been warming hearts with inspiring performances of its unique brand of shoegaze/trip-hop ever since.

Landlordland used to be that weird indie-pop band that didn’t fit in with the other indie-pop bands. The act had a little too much rock and roll in its blood, and its use of samples seemed to be at odds with its more conventionally melodic brethren. As a result, the group’s live shows sometimes came off a little stilted and messy. Then one night last November, Landlordland cast off its awkwardness and played with a glorious disregard for its own safety, creatively and emotionally. With a newer rhythm section consisting of Ben Williams on bass and Jed Kopp behind the kit, the band emerged from its artistic cocoon with a fury — kinda like a power-pop Blues Brothers, with Sylas Cooley as John Belushi and Darren Dunn as a not-at-all-inhibited Dan Aykroyd. It was one of the most intense and electrifying performances in recent years.

Promotions can be a nasty business. The competition is rabid, cutthroat and full of enough shit-talking to make Simon Cowell cringe. So who ever thought that rival promoters could actually work together instead of against each other? To prove that harmonious unions are always better than pretentious bidding wars, the heads behind the Oriental Theater have teamed up with the infamous Deadhead Bianchi Brothers — who run the Sancho’s/Dulcinea’s/Cervantes’/Quixote’s empire — to form a totally killer booking alliance. The merger allows the individual promoters access to each other’s venues for special events and also includes a cross-promotion deal to maximize advertising exposure for everyone’s shows. Smart move.

When he created Radio 1190’s Local Shakedown program many years ago, Andrew Murphy taught listeners that indigenous Colorado talent was more than just a series of transient fads. And even though he eventually moved to the Bay Area to work for Revolver Distribution, Murphy’s heart remains firmly dedicated to the scene he so brilliantly championed. Aside from the groundbreaking historical work he’s done on the early punk and new-wave scenes in Colorado and the superb local releases he’s issued on his own Smooch Records imprint, Murphy plans to re-release records from old-school death-rockers the Soul Merchants and long-running scene vets the Denver Gentlemen later this year. Also in the works is a book on the history of Colorado music and a documentary on the Americana phenomenon native to our fair city. Whereas most people would prefer to leave their past behind, Murphy has never forgotten where he came from, and we’re all the better for it.

Once upon a time, people used to actually play music because they loved it, purely out of joy and for no other reason. No shit. Hard to believe, right? To think that folks wrote and recorded songs with complete disregard for how it would be received or how it would be marketed — that’s just crazy! These days, many musicians often have an agenda before they even have a band name or any songs. Chris Adolf (The Love Letter Band, Bad Weather California) is the antithesis of those people, which is what makes him so refreshing. Of course, his songs also happen to be pretty goddamn fantastic, but even if they weren’t, his ideals make him somebody worth supporting. Check out the message on his MySpace page: “Fuck the indie-stry. Fuck contacts. Fuck sound scans. Fuck deals. Play music.” Fuckin-A, man. Sounds like a T-shirt.

Guitar players are a dime a dozen, but finding (and keeping) a decent drummer in D-town? Not so easy. That’s why Andrew Segreti is the golden drummer boy of the local scene. His octopus arms reach far and wide into varied musical projects, including Bailer, the Autokinoton and the Horace Van Vaughn. His performances, marked by flying hair and sweat, are wily exercises in the physical limitations of the human body. From thundering soundscapes to experimentally diverse beats, Segreti is the reincarnation of every fuck-off drummer who ever lived (or died). And he’s only in his twenties, meaning that he’s just getting started. Damn.

Watching Rachael Pollard perform at Chielle recently was a breathtakingly intimate experience. It was like being serenaded by a hummingbird from a windowsill. Pollard sang with a delicate hush that was barely above a whisper, and at one point, she even played her acoustic with her gloves on. It was almost as though she was afraid of disturbing the neighbors. As it turns out, her words speak loud enough on their own. With candid musings that can be unsettling, whether she’s singing about waiting for her period to start or reflecting on the current state of affairs (“This country is going to shit/But you got what you wanted/Pretty soon it’ll all be desert/’Cause you took what you wanted”), Pollard’s a compelling lyricist — not to mention a highly imaginative guitarist. But her most bewitching features, by far, are her angelic voice, which is equal parts Cat Power and Joanna Newsom, and the way she phrases her words.

Gregory Alan Isakov has a unique, endearing presence that instantly sucks people in. Isakov has rendered us dumbfounded on numerous occasions with his ability to move audiences in a way that performers with much larger profiles would envy. With a captivating voice that evokes a rootsier Glen Phillips channeling Kelly Joe Phelps, Isakov sings rich pastoral songs that conjure long walks down dusty rural roads. Born in Johannesburg, South Africa, and raised in Philadelphia, Isakov moved to Colorado at the end of the last decade. Since then, he’s released a spate of outstanding discs, including his fantastic debut, 2003’s Rust Colored Stones, 2005’s Songs for October and last year’s Ghost Stories and Fair Weather EP. A new disc is slated for release this May, and we can hardly wait.

On stage, the members of Heyday are like precocious four-year-olds trying to ride a bike: cute and determined, yet still wobbly and unsure. In time, though, their inherent charisma will shine through, and they’ll become less stilted, more fluid and self-assured. Rather than speed through the arrangements, as they do now, they’ll learn how to just let the songs breathe. In other words, once the training wheels come off, look out! These kids are going to be off to the races. Led by Randy Ramirez, whose songwriting chops are well beyond his years, the Heyday is poised to break out in a major way.

Pimp-limping on the fine line between stoopid and stupid, 3OH!3 just might be Ballerado’s hip-hop Tenacious D. Sean Foreman and Nathaniel Motte rock DFA-style low-tech beats, punk attitudes and Ruff Ryder growls that manage to simultaneously lampoon and revere the well-worn signifiers of punk, electro and rap — with as much interest in twenty-sided dice as twenty-inch rims. In the group’s perpetual-motion live shows, trunk-rattling rhythms combine with rhymes that can only be spat with one’s tongue burrowed deep in one’s cheek: “You’s a punk bitch if you don’t know ’bout Boulder/Your girl’s a freak ‘cos that’s what I told ya.” And while it’s easy to get distracted by the humorous side, resist the temptation to consign the act to the novelty ghetto. Smarts, chops and focus are the real reasons 3OH!3’s rabid fans holler ’til they pass out.

To the Denver-centric, if you don’t hail from the metro area, you might as well be from Mars. Maybe that’s why the arrival of Louisville-based Tifah seems so, well, sudden and wonderfully foreign. It also probably has something to do with the fact that the group’s members — vocalist/organist Tifah Al-Attas, drummer Dann Stockton, multi-instrumentalist Reid Phillips, violinist Aubrea Alford and bassist Juli Royster — make music that’s so beautifully radiant and polished, it’s hard to fathom why we hadn’t noticed them before. But Tifah’s registering pretty loudly now, and its sublime blend of piano-driven pop and self-reflective lyricism will surely stay on the radar.

Every once in a while, a great new band surfaces that seems fully formed — like Athena, sprung from the head of Zeus. Greeley’s Vitamins, which until recently stayed beneath the radar by playing mostly warehouse-type shows, is one such act. Taking an eclectic approach to songwriting, Vitamins’ members wed latter-day no-wave guitar tones and textures with melodic song structures, and country music with experimental guitar rock, punk and whatever it is that Camper Van Beethoven was doing — all without sounding like dilettantes. They play with wide-eyed enthusiasm, as if completely unaware that so many other like-minded souls exist, like they have to touch upon every style themselves. With a charming, theatrical live show, Vitamins are bound to be good for you.

At first glance, declaring Nathan & Stephen Denver’s best new band looks like a misprint. But while Nathan McGarvey and Stephen Till initially began performing together as an acoustic duo, their project has blossomed into a bulging-at-the-seams nonet thanks to the addition of another seven players, including three (Jonathan, Matthew and Leanor) who share Stephen’s last name. Moreover, another Till — Anna — contributes vocals to The Everyone E.P., which packs more hooky melodies into fifteen brief minutes than can be found in the average double album. Although tracks such as the aptly titled pop-gospel workout “Brothers & Sisters” and “Happier,” replete with a chorus guaranteed to induce smiles, feature plenty of instrumentation (keyboards, brass and more), they are, at their base, rousing sing-alongs that brim with good feelings and camaraderie. No doubt these songs would charm in a stripped-down setting, too. Still, there’s something to be said for a family affair.

Pee Pee. It’s hard to say out loud without giggling even a little bit. It’s like a recession back to grade-school vernacular, and it’s absolutely the silliest combination of two monosyllabic words since “wee wee.” But who needs a clever, well-thought-out band name anyway? This Denver-based assembly of friends makes beautiful music that doesn’t need to be weighed down by pretentious metaphorical bullshit. Pee Pee is an aural amalgamation of everything from horns and acoustic guitars to theremins and saws (yes, saws). Alongside sweet lullabied compositions, the ragtag orchestra often improvs on stage, resulting in down-home folk-rock jamborees that make show-goers gladly squeal for more Pee Pee.

Frontman/guitarist Luke Fairchild is a gnarly motherfucker when you put him in front of a mike. The seasoned musician, who has charmed crowds before in such stellar acts as White Dynamite and Sparkles, is now allied with equally formidable musicians drummer Devin Rogers (of Munimula) and bassist Joe Ramirez (another ex-Whitey). The trio commands the stage with a vehemence that induces riotous fist-raising and metal finger salutations. Like Bad Brains filtered through an Eyehategod guitar pedal, Kingdom is the perfect blend of super-heavy rock and energetic punk. Barely a year old, the Denver-based outfit has cultivated an ardent following of metalheads, hardcore kids, scenesters and rock snobs alike. Enter the Kingdom.

Hearing a show at the Walnut Room is an audiophile’s wet dream. There’s no doubt that the room was “built for music,” as the club’s slogan claims. With over two decades of audio engineering experience under his belt, Ron Gordon clearly knew a thing or two about sound dynamics and acoustics when he helped design the club’s sound system two years ago. But having a killer system is one thing; knowing how to make the thing sing is another. Needless to say, when Gordon’s manning the faders, you can count on the mix being immaculate no matter who’s playing. The guy knows how to make a drum kit kick you in the gut, a Stratocaster swim around your ears and keyboards soar — all without pushing the volume to deafening levels.

Over the years, Jim Yelenick has fronted various outfits — Jet Black Joy, Zillion Dollar Sadists, a Turbonegro cover band and, most recently, a band called Invasion. As a frenzied frontman, the guy’s never been afraid to expose himself, if you know what we mean. And that punk energy spills over into his Friday-afternoon acoustic sets at the Larimer Lounge. A longtime Clash fan (he’s even gotten drunk with Joe Strummer at the Lion’s Lair), it’s only fitting that that band’s songs make up a majority of his happy-hour repertoire. When Yelenick’s not rocking the casbah, though, he’s performing his set staple — an acoustic mash-up of the Dead Kennedys’ “Holiday in Cambodia” with Madonna’s “Holiday.” By the end of happy hour, you can count on a few things: that Yelenick will be as snockered as everyone else, and that he’ll be making up lyrics, leading a sing-along of Irish drinking songs and playing tunes by the likes of Steve Miller, the Boomtown Rats and Britney Spears.

When Sarah Lucey, Supply Boy’s blazingly great guitar player, discovered she had songs that didn’t really fit into that band’s context, she decided to flesh them out on her own. One night last summer, she headed over to tHERe coffee shop armed with a handful of tunes, her
beautiful, unconventional voice and an acoustic guitar. The room that night was hot and the air was muggy, but it served as a perfectly intimate setting for Lucey to present her uncomfortably frank and honest songs. Miles from being a self-indulgent solo acoustic project, Lucey was simply revealing another layer of her already considerable talent.

When drummer James Barone told his friends about this seemingly once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to play a show at a planetarium, the very idea fired up their collective imaginations. Luckily, his band, Mothership, was fully capable of meeting the expectations. The act had already written an epic song cycle in the vein of Hawkwind’s classic Hall of the Mountain Grill, which seemed perfectly suited for presentation in such a venue. The story revolves around a space-faring young man who experiences the joys and horrors of interstellar travel and going where no human has gone before. Despite the high concept and sci-fi-movie premise, the tunes were visionary exercises in songcraft and the cinematic use of sound. And seeing the visuals projected onto Fiske Planetarium’s curved screen was one of those experiences that burns itself into your memory forever.

Beat Happening, K Records, Dub Narcotic Soundsystem and so much more: Calvin Johnson is a living legend in the world of indie music. Over the years, he’s never seemed to lose sight of what makes the music and art special, including the intimacy of performing. So when it was announced that he’d be at Chielle instead of one of the bigger venues in town, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Although it was forbiddingly cold that night, the store was packed with people whose lives Johnson’s music has touched, along with a smattering of curiosity-seekers. He played only music from his solo records, and the endearingly imperfect performance was warm, fragile and amusing.

Coming off a well-received outing at Coachella, Tool opted to play a series of rare, intimate theater shows, one of which happened to be at the Buell. Almost as soon as the show was announced, 2,000 rabid Tool fans eagerly parted with $66.66 for a chance to get up-close and personal with their idols. The band didn’t disappoint as it tore through material from 10,000 Days, the record it had released the week before, as well as select songs from its catalogue. Although Maynard James Keenan and company were mostly lifeless in terms of overall stage presence, you’d be hard-pressed to find a single audience member who doesn’t recall it as one of the most memorable concert experiences of his life.

It wasn’t that long ago that the idea of an all-local bill filling a venue as large as the Gothic seemed outrageous. Nowadays, it happens pretty frequently. Still, few shows over the years have reached the excitement level that surrounded this four-band superbill. Each of the acts slated to perform that night — Meese, Nathan & Stephen, the Photo Atlas and Born in the Flood — are bona fide headliners in their own right, which accounted for much anticipation in the days leading up to the show. That chilly February evening, the Gothic was brimming with local luminaries — and though the performances weren’t completely flawless, they were inspiring. Billed as a dual CD-release party, the show felt more like a coming-out party for Morning After Records, the imprint responsible for three of the four outfits, and Denver’s indie-rock scene.

Although Born in the Flood’s debut full-length was one of the most hotly anticipated local discs in years, few expected the quartet to top the watermark it had already reached with The Fear That We May Not Be. The act had all but cemented its renown by delivering
transcendent live shows with stunning regularity, and most listeners predicted that Flood had peaked. If This Thing Should Spill, released this past February on Morning After Records, proved them wrong by being the band’s finest work to date — fit to be included in the pantheon of all-time greatest local albums. Yeah, it’s that good. Spill‘s guitars careen and caress with equal abandon, and together with the robust bass lines, dynamic drums and vibrant keys, they form a solid and captivating foundation for Nathaniel Rateliff’s enthralling, emotive vocals to reach skyward. These days, “brilliant” is a word that gets thrown around indiscriminately — but in this case, the term couldn’t be more apt.

For the past five years, a local indie label has been quietly filling its mantel with Grammy awards for its Native American recordings. Last year, Boulder-based Silver Wave Records took home a Grammy for its compilation Sacred Ground — A Tribute to Mother Earth, while this year, the multi-talented Mary Youngblood picked up a statue in the category of Best Native American Music Album for Dance With the Wind. Founded two decades ago, Silver Wave has carved out a niche with its Native American music, issuing recordings by artists such as Peter Kater, R. Carlos Nakai, Joanne Shenandoah and Robert Mirabal, among others. And while those recordings remain its bread and butter, the imprint also offers a number of world-music and new-age recordings.

Needlepoint Records is less of a label than a collective of bands and friends working together to produce top-notch rock and roll. Based in Denver, the little label that could has chugged out a number of stellar local discs by acts as varied as Everything Absent or Distorted, Rabbit Is a Sphere and Cat-A-Tac. Employing the basic principles of a utopian communist regime, every bandmember acts as an owner, operator and financer of the label. On its MySpace page, Needlepoint sums up its musical objectives in one concise sentence: “Art should never be about competition.” Damn straight.

In punk-rock years, 8 Houses Down is like a dinosaur. The recording studio, headed by engineers Jeff Merkel and Matt Van Leuvan, has been a staple in the underground scene for over a decade. Its client list reads like the index to a scenester yearbook, with such alumni as Planes Mistaken for Stars, Pinhead Circus, the Gamits and a long, long list of others. Just about every notable punk/hardcore band that has ever called the Mile High City home has banged out a couple of tracks at the 8 Houses studio at one time or another. With a recent move from its longtime digs in Five Points to a shiny new space on Walnut Street, 8 Houses shows no signs of going extinct anytime in the near future.

Hard to believe, but as recently as nineteen years ago, very few of the ski bums negotiating the slopes of Aspen and Telluride gave a damn about Phish. Hence, some of the mountain-town club gigs documented on Colorado ’88, a three-CD set available at www.jemprecords.com, were attended by fewer than ten people, as is obvious by the paucity of clapping at the conclusion of epic jams like “The Curtain With” and “You Enjoy Myself.” Despite the small crowds, though, Trey Anastasio and his fellows exhibit so much youthful exuberance that even Phish haters may find themselves grudgingly giving props. Throughout, the sound is much better than typical ’80s bootleg quality, and the liner notes, complete with a shot of the players mugging beside the rustic road sign that marks the state’s border, will spur instant nostalgia among local fans — not to mention regret that they missed these shows the first time around.

The drummer is the backbone of a band, holding everything together, and the Denver Drum Collective wants to make that spine stronger. Think of it as a chiropractic session for any drummer interested in sharing ideas and gaining new skills. The DDC has already brought legends Stanton Moore and Zoro to the Walnut Room for clinics, and future events are in the works. DDC also welcomes bass players, guitarists and anyone else to stop by and feel the beat.

As if musicians needed another reason not to make it into work. The Tantrums Jam, hosted each Wednesday night at Kokopelli’s by Tempa Singer and her Tantrums bandmates, has become the mid-week gathering place for local players to get loaded and get down. While guitarists currently make up a majority of the jammers, a fair share of drummers, bassists and singers also make it out for the impromptu performances. So whether you’re itchin’ to unleash your pipes on jump-blues cuts like “Caldonia” or jonesin’ to shred on tunes like “The Sky Is Crying,” there’s bound to be someone who’s willing to throw down. And if that weren’t enough to entice you, catching an eyeful (and earful) of the fiery Singer should seal the deal. The stunning homegrown diva has shared the stage with legends like B.B. King and Jeff Beck — and she might share it with you, if you’ve got the chops.

Joshua Trinidad has a handle on jazz. As host of the Thursday-night Jazz Odyssey show on KUVO, the guy regularly gives spins to cats like David Murray, Matthew Shipp and the Bad Plus. The inventive trumpeter and his Sputter bandmate, drummer David Kurtz, have teamed up as Cougar Legs to host Monday-night jam sessions at the Meadowlark, in which like-minded players come down to improvise together. Monk and Dizzy once turned Minton’s Playhouse on New York’s 52nd Street into a bebop laboratory, and the Meadowlark just might be the Denver equivalent. It’s the type of place where cats who’ve never met can vibe off each other in an exploratory setting. The jam has grown by word of mouth over the past few months, even attracting non-jazz-centric players.

Going strong for a decade now, Dazzle has become synonymous with jazz in the Mile High City. Whether the club is spotlighting dynamic local talent like weekly residents Ralph Sharon, Rehka Ohal and Pat Bianchi or showcasing internationally renowned artists such as Slide Hampton, Richie Cole and Bob Dorough, the club is bursting at the seams every night of the week. Owner Donald Rossa has worked tirelessly to create what has consistently been recognized as the ultimate destination for jazz lovers — not just by Westword, but by Downbeat magazine, which has once again hailed Dazzle as one of the 100 best jazz clubs in the world. Anyone who’s been there can tell you that the accolades are well-deserved. Plus, Dazzle has a great menu and a killer happy hour. Best jazz club in Denver? This one’s a no-brainer.

Club Boca might not seem like much when you first walk in, but it’s the ideal spot for a goth night. Then again, it could also work for an opium den or a high school makeout party. Dark, moody and decked out with plenty of couches, it’s the type of place where engaging in heavy petting is almost a prerequisite. For those who’d rather kick back and embrace their inner vampire, however, DJ Slave1 and her crew darken things up with sinister tunes from vintage goth, new wave and industrial acts such as Joy Division, Sisters of Mercy, Tones on Tail, Front 242 and Nitzer Ebb, among others. And for the clove-smokers, Boca has a covered patio that’s perfect for some aroma therapy.

Everyone has a little disc jockey inside of them, and once a month (or so), Carioca Cafe — better known to scene kids everywhere as Bar Bar — hosts a coming-out party for all the wicky-wicky wannabes. The concept is simple: Bring your records, play your records. Be sure to arrive early because the sign-up sheet fills up quickly. The free-for-all makes for interesting mixes of everything from soul and hip-hop to grindcore and psychedelic folk. It’s a commune of music that welcomes all genres, no matter how obscure or badly mainstream. Plus, showing off your record collection is totally addictive, because, really, who has better taste in music than you do?

Bring your competitive edge and those succulent lungs down to Charlie’s on Mondays and Tuesdays to battle it out mano-a-limp-wrist with some of the town’s fiercest amateur vocalists. The nightly sign-up sheet doesn’t care about your sexual orientation — but if you suck, then you’ll be outing yourself in front of the entire beer-swilling community. Because at Charlie’s, under the gleam of the cowboy-boot-shaped disco ball and in the eyes of the uber-sassy, karaoke isn’t a choice; it’s a way of life.

Ben Kronberg is the shit. No, really. He calls himself the Poop Joke Ninja. At the Gong Show last fall, he rolled out on stage in full ninja-style costume and told, yep, poop jokes. He was gonged. But that’s okay, because the experimental performer scored a spot at the invitation-only HBO U.S. Comedy Arts Festival held in Aspen last month. Now the man better known as the creator of the “McRap” video is getting wooed by agents and other big-timers. You’ll remember us when, won’t you, Ben?

After three years in action, the Tuesday night open-mike night at the Squire Lounge continues to draw both legions and lesions. A veritable test lab for different types of humans — from hipster to hep C, transient to tranny — the Squire is the type of bar that welcomes all with open arms, provided you’re not openly toting arms. Add to this mix a healthy crop of some of Denver’s best comics ready and able to pounce on an unruly crowd, and the shows are always entertaining. Host and MC Greg Baumhauer guides this raucous comedy ship with a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue, and the booze is cheap and bountiful. With a handful of D-town’s best jokesmiths bound for La La Land soon, there’s never been a better time to hit up the Squire. Just try not to get hit up at the Squire.

Thursdays at Bender’s is like a salmon migration. In a sea of dyed black locks and thick mascara, sweaty hormones bubble to the surface as twenty-somethings shamelessly grope each other on the dance floor. Every week, the two-room club is packed, with Balls Deep Karaoke hosted by Jermaine Smith on one side and Night of the Living Shred holding its own on the other. Shred, however, is where the rocker boys and the girls who like rocker boys come together under the sweet tunes of DJs Wesley Wayne and Parris. The two trade off spinning duties and create danceable playlists of old-school hip-hop, ’80s hits and modern rock. But only half the crowd is paying attention; most of the young party-hoppers are here to drink up or hook up.

It doesn’t have a line down the block or a slate of superstar celebrity guest DJs. It’s not the place to see or be seen. Nor is it filled with fickle hipsters who instantly think everything is so ten minutes ago. What Chit Chat is, is the city’s best house party — er, make that club night. Helmed by Jason Heller and Big Al, the dynamic duo who created the wildly popular and now-defunct Off the Wall series at the hi-dive, Chit Chat has a casual, unassuming vibe unlike any other night in town. Every Saturday, the DJs keep the Old Curtis St.’s dance floor jumping as they take turns behind the decks, spinning 45s (you know, those old-fashioned black plastic things with the holes in the middle?) from their personal collections, including the deepest classic soul cuts you’ve never heard. You think you know vintage soul? You don’t know Chit.

Anybody who’s ever been to El Chapultepec on the weekend knows that the tiny place fills up mighty fast. Sometimes it gets so boisterous that it’s hard to hear the jazzers on the tiny stage. Many times we’ve wished the club was about four times bigger — you know, the kind of joint where you can actually find a place to sit, have a beer and take in some of our city’s finest musicians. Enter El Chapultepec Too. Housed in the former Blue Corn Lounge location, right down the street from the old Elitch’s, it’s a jazz lover’s oasis — with plenty of room to move. Here, Tony Black, Pat Bianchi and Freddy Rodriguez hold court on the weekends, and on Monday nights, the eighteen-piece Denver Jazz Orchestra is in the house.

A huge improvement on its previous LoDo location, the newer, classier Soiled Dove was built from the ground up, with music as the focal point. Its crescent-shaped seating area was designed so that anyone seated in the 300-person-plus room would have a good line of sight. And while the sound in the LoDo Dove was great, the new Dove’s system is damn near impeccable. Give these guys a standing ovation for building what might be the most comfortable place to see a show. Definitely reason enough to make the trek out to Lowry and hear this Dove sing.

As Club Evolution, the two-story building on the corner of 22nd and Champa streets seemed to be in a constant Darwinian struggle, first embracing the GLBT community and then later attempting to adapt to the hetero set. Both endeavors were for naught, as Evo eventually went under and later emerged with new owners, an immaculate interior facelift and open-to-all-party-people programming. Now dubbed the Loft, the space is decked out with way-slick lighting, lavish, roomy booths and ultra-modern flooring. Nightly DJs round out the calendar, and kitschy weekly events like Manicure Mondays and Headbangin’ Sundays make this hot spot at the edge of Five Points a hip alternative to the otherwise oversaturated nightlife scene.

Akio, the uni-monikered general manager of Tabu, is unmistakable with his trimmed eyebrows, slicked-skyward black hair and impeccably pressed suits. He can frequently be found making rounds throughout the club, all politician-like, shaking hands and beaming affably at patrons. His hospitality is infectious, and the rest of the staff is just as accommodating. Need a light? You got it. Need to freshen your drink? It’s covered. Need an exotic dancer for your VIP table? Done. From the dance-friendly DJ selections to the top-shelf drinks to the community hookah, Tabu is an all-around crowd-pleaser. Oh, and the half-naked women bumping and grinding below at the Diamond Cabaret ain’t too shabby of an added amenity, either.

The screen displays a lone silhouette against the backlight. It moves sleekly and stealthily, like a cat. It’s carrying a gun. All of a sudden, the music kicks in and the figure begins to dance, gyrating wildly. It’s infectious, and it can only mean one thing: gogoLab, the ultimate spy dance musical consortium, is on stage and doing its thing. Every Wednesday at the Appaloosa Grill and every last Friday at Dazzle, channel Austin Powers as the gogoLab scientists mix their chemicals and make their magic. Bring your sidekick and your nemesis, because this dance-off is not to be missed.

Once a month, the best party in town happens after hours. From 11 p.m. to 5 a.m. Afrobeat, deep house and global soul music raise the roof of whatever warehouse is hosting the party. But it’s not all about the music: Producers and hosts Peju Alawusa (aka Yorubawoman) and Ashara Ekundayo also invite performance artists to join in this multimedia extravaganza. And because AfroBlu is six hours of non-stop partying, there’s also room for resident DJs Musa Bailey, Peter Black/Aztec and Joe Sherrel. It’s a soul-shakin’, booty-bumpin’ experience that’ll keep you awake and loving it all night long.

DJ Brian Howe knows what it takes to set off the dance floor — as well he should. The guy’s been spinning in clubs for nearly two decades, has released over 200 mix CDs and remixed tracks for a variety of labels. Dude’s on point, which is exactly why he was tapped to host his own XM radio show on the BPM channel. On Friday and Saturday nights, Howe brings all that experience to Rise, where he keeps the floor jumping with varied sets of mashes, breakbeats and hip-hop. In terms of sizable clubs, Rise is one of the last bastions of pure dance in LoDo, and with Howe at the helm, it looks to stay that way for a long time to come.

DC 10 was the hot new kid in town when it opened last summer, but things got a little too heated when a co-owner of the swank club was arrested on charges of drug trafficking. Yikes. Taking zero time to recover from the media hoopla, DC 10 went full-throttle into the SoCo nightlife scene, staying visible with a number of high-profile and upscale events. With a stark white interior modeled after a plush airport lounge, cute servers dressed as oversexed flight attendants and a clientele that includes local Trump wannabes, diamond-studded women and a few Nuggets, there’s no telling how far this place can go. Now boarding.

In less than five years, the hi-dive has become a Denver institution. Many of the current top-shelf local bands got their start at this intimate south Broadway bar, which sits smack dab in the middle of the Baker neighborhood. And even though many of those groups can now easily fill places twice its size, they still make it down to the hi-dive to perform on a regular basis. Perhaps it’s because the sound is fantastic and the club promotes local shows with the same vigor and enthusiasm as they would a national. Which makes sense, because frankly, when it comes to talent, there really isn’t much of a distinction these days. Thanks to the prescient booking of Ben DeSoto, in addition to being a choice destination for the toast of today’s blogosphere, the hi-dive has also become the place to discover tomorrow’s indie-rock sensations well before they reach the masses’ radar.

J.R.’s is a great place to test your friends for closet homophobia. It’s so unassuming and under the radar that if your friends aren’t up on the gay scene, they might not recognize the name. When you walk up, the bar — looking like something straight off Bourbon Street, with a row of warm white lights and an old-school balcony — will welcome them. They may not notice anything’s amiss until they see the Purple Rain video on the big screen above the bar. Sit back and order a beer, and see what your friends do. If they order brews and set a stack of quarters on the pool table to call next game, you’re okay. But if they freak out and suddenly assume they’re so irresistibly hot that every male in the room must bed them (never mind that the women at the last bar never even gave them a second glance), then it’s time for an intervention. Either way, the clientele at J.R.’s will just smile and continue drinking their beers.

Owned by two leathermen who sport backgrounds in furniture upholstery, culinary arts and retail clothing-store management, the Eagle is an unholy alliance of industrial chic meets bad-boy bar decor. James Ventrello and James Peck (aka Jim and Jimbo) are the couple who designed and crafted the 4,800-square-foot behemoth of a bar. After $400,000 of renovations and six months of blood, sweat and tears, the shiny new perv palace opened last May. The Eagle offers what you’d expect in a traditional leather bar — dark corners, pool tables, pinball machines, dartboards, video games and a Sunday beer bust — as well as the unexpected (luxe-loft look, private mezzanine bar, diamond-plate trim, concrete floors, modern lighting fixtures and two flat-screen televisions). These designer digs serve as stage to a $2 Sunday brunch, a heated outdoor smoking patio and a 1949 Ford vintage truck (parked indoors) that doubles as seating and an express lane for bottled beer and shots. Earlier this month, slow business forced a heavy-hearted Peck and Ventrello to ring the Eagle’s death knell, but an angel appeared and saved the bar after its last scheduled Underwear Night. So was he wearing boxers or briefs?

Seeing a show at Pasquini’s may be the closest thing there is to a house party in Denver. The space Pasquini’s inhabits was once a house, and when it’s music time, tables are cleared out and the band sets up right next to the window. And to see bands like 18 Wheeler, Reno Divorce and Letters From the Front up close and personal, volume turned up to eleven, well, there’s just something inherently DIY about the whole thing. Maybe it has something to do with not having a stage. Punk Thursdays are the main nights here, where the late-night happy hour starts at 10 p.m. and ten bucks goes a long way with $1 PBRs, Kamikaze shots and slices of pizza.

There’s something about stepping inside Mario’s Double Daughter’s on a Sunday night that takes you to a completely different dimension. Dimly lit with subtle red and blue lights, the place is outfitted with chairs that look like they’re made out of lipstick. As down-tempo grooves pour out of the speakers, a Japanese flick — could be the one where some guy gets shot in the shoulder by a mini-rocket launcher and then rips the appendage off altogether — is being projected on the club’s big screen. The film’s audio is turned off, but the subtitles are on — and so are DJs Curu, Eyeam and crew, who are spinning what they call “psycho-tonal extrapolations with mad vibrations for your crazy heads and asses.” Add to that a few Alien Blood Martinis and dollar slices from the adjoining Two-Fisted Mario’s Pizza, and what you have is an out-of-body experience.

All the broke, arty types — musicians, writers, etc. — in New York can’t afford to live in Manhattan. As a result, they flock to less expensive neighborhoods in Brooklyn, which is where hi-dive owner Matt LaBarge and his wife, Allison, once lived. In the fall of 2003, when the couple moved to Denver and took over the former Quixote’s spot, they set out to create a hip space like the places they enjoyed in their old Park Slope neighborhood. Ones that served good food, good coffee and good drinks — even late. Lo and behold, when you build a hip space, the hipsters will come — and they have. Sputnik has an unmistakable vibe that attracts Denver’s boho set, complete with messy-haired hipsters who’ve traded in their trucker hats for Castro lids. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were in Brooklyn.

We all know the words by heart. It’s one of the most recognizable TV theme songs of all time: “Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name/And they’re always glad you came/You wanna be where you can see, our troubles are all the same/You wanna be where everybody knows your name.” Why, yes, actually, we do. And fortunately, there’s a place that fits that description perfectly: 3 Kings Tavern. Owned by three former Nobody In Particular Presents co-workers, 3 Kings is the most welcoming, unassuming joint in town. Each and every time you come in — regardless of who’s playing or what’s going on — you can count on being greeted with a cold brew, a warm smile and a friendly handshake from Marty, Jeff or Reverend Jim, which is why everybody keeps coming back.

One of the best things about being a male is the joy of having a penis. Not only is it fun to hold, but the simple act of peeing out of it feels quite nice! Few men are able to enjoy the simple act of elimination due to the typical height of lavatories and urinals. Most are built so low that peeing becomes a complex riddle of geometry and velocity. A 1/32-inch movement of the penis at waist level can seem like the spray of an unattended firehose at two feet below. But tall men and bad aimers need not worry at Pint’s Pub. The urinals are built high on the wall, which makes them look like some strange new hand-washing apparatus. Once in use, however, it’s easy to see that their height was designed for maximum drainage and minimum splashback. Men under six feet tall can actually rest their penis on the rim, keeping both hands free for text-messaging. Pint’s Pub puts the joy back into being a boy.

Aztec Sol is best known for its exhaustive collection of more than 200 tequilas, carefully curated by owner Jose Lara. The funky neighborhood spot is a favorite among locals who live and drink on the edge of Highland: Both caballeros and condo-dwellers are drawn by Aztec Sol’s cheap eats and potent, imaginative cocktails. In addition to cantaritas and vampiros (two sobriety-slashing tequila creations), the Sol now offers wireless Internet. Sure, the place can be dark and the music loud, but the connection is strong and, like the chips and salsa, free of charge. So log on — vamonos!

Arvada’s answer to a Colfax dive bar, 12 Volt Tavern has all the grit and attitude of the city — without the Colfax freaks. Plopped down in the middle of Olde Town Arvada, the Tavern may seem out of place among its better-groomed neighbors, but its well-worn character is completely authentic. Although the place has only been known as by its current name for the past four years, the bar itself has been at the same location for nearly sixty years. The joint is a choice spot for punks and blue-collar barflies to congregate over drinks and games of pool. During the week, the Volt’s killer jukebox spits out cuts by Sabbath, Zep, the Clash, the Sex Pistols and Hank Williams. And on the weekends, the bar gets hotwired by a steady parade of local punk and rockabilly acts.

At first blush, the Lure is a swank place. Almost too swank. Hang out there for a while, though, and you start to realize that it’s pretty relaxed. Like that really hot blonde in high school that you yearned to talk to but couldn’t muster up the courage, there’s more to the joint than meets the eye. Remember when you finally got the stones to talk to her and found out that she was into Hunter S. Thompson and dug Tom Waits? Yeah, the Lure is surprisingly cool like that. Instead of being greeted by some huge meathead at the door, the first thing you see is a gang of smiling ladies behind the bar. It’s like a grown-up version of the famed City Spirit, which used to inhabit this spot nearly a decade ago.

Recently witnessed at the Horseshoe Lounge: Avery Rains, aka Mr. Pacman, dressed in a full-bodied lion suit, head and paws included, stripping down to a very skimpy and curiously bulged pink thong. True fucking story. Unfortunately, this was a one-off birthday-party gig and not a weekly event, but it does prove how superbly awesome the Horseshoe is for allowing such hilarious debauchery. Outfitted with comfy stools, two booths, a couple of couches, a pool table and a dartboard, the bar is lounge-tastic and tailored for intimate gatherings with good friends. And if you get lucky, maybe Rains will be there and you can entice him into strutting his stuff just for you.

Rockbar could inspire a confirmed teetotaler to do a swan dive off the wagon within ten minutes of walking through the door. Conjuring the bygone decadence left behind by Perry’s — as the joint was known during the last days of disco — Rockbar is the ideal place to relive your wasted youth. The decor in this late-’70s time-capsule remains pristinely intact, with exposed rock walls, patterned carpet, foil wallpaper and vintage lighting fixtures. There’s also a notable kitsch factor about the place — the trashy menu, the lowbrow drink selection (Mad Dog and brands of beer you swore you’d never drink again), the neon band-logo signage and the retro tuneage — that has prompted some detractors to grumble that the brashness is a little too calculated. These people are completely missing the point. For those about to Rock, we salute you.