BEST MONTHLY CLUB NIGHT 2006 | Rockstars Are Dead! hi-dive | Best of Denver® | Best Restaurants, Bars, Clubs, Music and Stores in Denver | Westword
Courtesy of the hi-dive
To keep the momentum of monthly club night going, you have to have a strong identity, a tireless imagination and, of course, the love of the loyal. Rockstars Are Dead! is blessed with all three. But it's not by the grace of God that founder Peter Black (aka DJ Aztec of the legendary So What!) sustained RAD!'s infrequent schedule and high energy level for over a year. Instead, he's an indefatigable self-promoter who plays the industry game at least as well as he spins. And it's paid off: After a promising start at the Walnut Room, Black and his cohorts the Polarity Twins packed up their crates and moved to the more simpatico clime of the hi-dive. There they've been able to expand their multimedia palate, bringing aboard more live bands, guest DJs, art and fashion to supplement the main reason the faithful keep coming back -- to get their asses plastered to the dance floor.
Who is the man known as DJ Wesley Wayne? From practically out of nowhere, he's stormed Denver's indie club scene with guerrilla guest sets and oddball residencies like Sputnik's What We Do Is Secret. But none of that prepared anyone for Night of the Living Shred, a Thursday-night blowout at Bender's that Wayne helms alongside his Pirate Sound System partner, DJ Parris. Spinning everything from hair metal and vintage punk to electro and hip-hop -- plus a few surprises that will leave your jaw under the table -- the duo pulls off wired, schizophonic mixes that would make DJ Shadow proud. And maybe even a little scared.


Babydoll Skylark Lounge

Mason Craig
Name any decade in recent memory, and it's been raped by a million retro-frenzied DJs. But James Sharp -- otherwise known as DJ Quid, host of the Skylark's Wednesday-night party, Babydoll -- has a knack for seeing culture in a non-linear fashion. Rather than stodgily rehashing pop's '50s and '60s golden age, he's tapped into its invisible corollary, one that extends from Buddy Holly to Morrissey, from the Ronettes to the Raveonettes. Most of this music, though, wasn't built to dance to; predictably, Babydoll is more of a chill-out than a boogie fever. But Sharp's picks are so infectious that, come midnight, there are always a few enraptured hipsters shakin' it to Nancy Sinatra or the Cramps. That's the mark of timeless music -- and a great DJ.
There are 6,000 songs in the QuickSand Karaoke catalogue, and every single one of them leads to trouble. Nowhere is this more apparent than on Thursday nights at Bender's, when the place transforms from a cool Capitol Hill music venue into a frantic den of karaoke insanity. Show up early if you want to sing, because by 10 p.m., the competition for stage time is fierce: Everyone in Cap Hill, it seems, has the same pressing need to sing -- badly, drunkenly, obsessively -- to scores of slushy strangers. QuickSand's catalogue is vast, covering everything from Willie Nelson to Paul Weller, which means there's something for every vocal range and pain threshold. Notice how the volume gets louder as the hour gets later; come closing time, you'll be begging the DJ for just
Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? The Comedy Works may be celebrating its 25th birthday this year by bringing in one big name after another, but the club stays fresh by giving amateurs a chance, too. And there are no hours more amateur than Tuesday's New Talent Night, when comedy guru Deacon Gray shepherds about fifteen newbies through brief sets. Not only does New Talent Night give untried comics a chance to perform before a real audience and develop skills, but Gray gives each performer written feedback after the show. Why did the chicken comedian cross the road? To test his wings at the Comedy Club.
John Killup, aka Big John, is one scary motherfucker. He's big, very big, covered in tattoos and usually wearing a scowl that could freeze lava. Get a little out of control at Three Dogs Tavern, and he's going to keep law and order on your ass. But Killup has a softer side, too: The ladies' man models for Suavecito's, the local zoot-suit shop, and when he decides to let down, he has a killer smile. But don't tell anyone.
There's no single formula for a memorable concert, but the odds of greatness are significantly improved when a show takes place in a modest-sized venue and features an excellent group at its creative peak. System's Ogden gig fit all of these criteria and more. The date was part of a brief tour intended to amplify interest in Mezmerize and Hypnotize, a pair of instant classics that had not yet been released, and it more than succeeded. Daron Malakian, Serj Tankian, Shavo Odadjian and John Dolmayan tore through their newest material with humor, fierce pride and a sense of discovery that instantly translated to the fortunate few who managed to score tickets for this up-close-and-personal showcase.
When Polytoxic re-created the Band's Last Waltz in its entirety on the night before Thanksgiving last year, it pulled out all the stops. An epic production that came uncannily close to replicating the real thing, Polytoxic and more than two dozen of its closest musician friends transported the capacity crowd back 25 years, to that legendary night at Winterland in San Francisco. Although Tori Pater and company had previously taken on other classic albums -- one a month, to be specific, including Terrapin Station, Zenyatta Mondatta, Fiyo on the Bayou, The Joshua Tree, Hoist, In the Jungle Groove, Houses of the Holy, Exile on Main Street and Appetite for Destruction -- their performance on this November night was nothing less than stunning.
Molly Martin
The King the Goosetown Tavern. Elvis may be best known locally for putting head to pillow at the old Regency Hotel or shopping at the now-closed Kortz Jewelers on the 16th Street Mall, but it wasn't those venerable locations that his spirit chose to inhabit in perpetuity; it was along East Colfax Avenue, at the Goosetown. Hanging above the bar is what appears to be your standard, run-of-the-mill velvet Elvis painting, but if you watch closely, you can see him get all shook up. Some say his shimmy is just the wind from the front door as it opens and closes, but we know when we're in the presence of royalty. Thank you, thank you very much.
It was a seemingly normal night when all hell broke loose at the Climax Lounge. A few notes into the third or fourth song of their set, the members of No Plot Kill, a Northglenn-based hardcore trio, inexplicably stopped playing, threw down their instruments and tore off outside the building -- with the entire bar in tow. Then the Plot thickened. Apparently the band's ire had been spiked by the opening act -- a group of indignant, prefab, suburban Hot Topic punks called Crack Whore -- who spit on No Plot Kill's frontman David Bartz while he was on stage. In the end, though, the Whores narrowly avoided getting punked: Bartz and company gave the liberty-spiked crumb-snatchers a reprieve when they realized the kids were barely old enough to shave.

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