The Elbo Room
by j.charles @ textproductions
The dull, neon-behind red-plastic offering from the Elbo room marquis isn’t what one would consider to be of the grandest cut. It’s a simple font presented in an affordable manner. But never the less, it gets your attention. Announces to the whole world that you, sir, for the next three hours of your life, will be drinking in the classiest of dive bars.
A flash of the proper age and a push through the crowd gets you into an ugly person’s paradise. To say it’s dim is to bastardize the atmosphere. This shit is dark! Tea candles litter the bar, tea lights line the top of the wood-inlayed crown molding directly above the bartender. Both emanate “red light district,” both do a good job of lighting five square feet. The two other sources of light downstairs are situated over the two bar boxes in back, the green felt clearly proud to have a lamp paying so much attention to it. A lounge vies for equal space with the bar downstairs, making the walkway, littered with drunks and bar stools too far from the actual bar, extraordinarily narrow. On busy nights one should simply expect to spill a frosty one not only on the front of your shirt, but down the back of someone else’s jacket. In which case, just relax. You’ll be gone before they notice, and it’s at least marginally easier to get a drink upstairs after you pay the cover.
Feel like some Pac-man or some sit down space invaders to enhance your alcoholic experience? Belly up to either one inside of the Elbo room, where they are just so conveniently located right next to the door. You know, the hole in the wall spewing in more cold ass air you thought you were ditching once you came inside. On the nights i've been here, which I admit are few, I found it more interactive and social to play the games than to actually talk to a girl. A large cross section of the people I’ve talked to here were just the ugliest thing on ten toes. Anything attractive and up for temporary use and abuse is quckly absorbed, leabing you with your Pabst and your thoughts. If only you could hear them over the house p.a.
Pabst blue ribbon, in both standard and tall can, is available for human consumption, although at somewhat of an exorbitant price. Four tall cans was twenty dollars, about ten more than it should have been. But whatever. They also have Amstel light and red tail by the bottle, as well as the standards of Guinness, Coors light and Newcastle. Stella is on tap downstairs, Amstel light ON TAP upstairs.
The ticket booth, located at the bottom of, should you lose your footing, a paralysis inducing stairs, is also handily located directly inside the door from the smoking section. The only place to smoke with a drink in your hand. Those fuckers pack in there like mice. At one point in the night there was seemingly a waiting list for it. So I had something to laugh about while I gave the house ten more dollars and began my ascension to the showcase section of the club.
The stairs are steep enough that you want to use the handrails, and girls kick themselves in their portly asses for wearing heels. At the top, however, you are greeted with a merch table offering the standard goods. Shirts, ceedees and groupies. You can always tell a groupie. They always hang out around either the entourage or the merch table until the show starts. They always dress marginally better than what would make a Juggs model blush, even in February. And about every fifteen minutes or so, depending on how acute their intentions on fucking someone in a band is tonight, they mutter these famous words; “so where is the after party tonight?”
The Elbo has this sort of throw whatever looks out of date on the walls kind of motif, some of which is like cowboy shit, some of which is rugged corrugated steel, plenty of mirrors. The dance floor is reasonably large. The stage is low and small. The lights are at eye level with the talent. The sound booth is alll the way in back of the room directly behind the upstairs bar, which sells ear plugs for a dollar (hint hint). A central air duct runs directly above center stage, which is the dopest thing i’ve ever felt by accident. I was migrating through the crowd, as any good reporter should do, and I made it to stage right mid floor. I put my hands up to cheer, and a gust of cold ass air went down my sleeve, into my armpits and made me happy. And it was good.
The bar upstairs is small. Like damn small. Like two bartenders banging into each other trying to find the vermouth for my Manhattan small. Like no room for beers in the bottle small. Like three sink dishwasher small. And last of all, like waiting for fifteen minutes small. I can’t blame the bartenders not one bit for this, nor would I short them for this inconvenience. I just double up on my drink order, so I have something to sip on without worry, and something to sip on while I wait to order my next one. Give it a try sometime.
I highly recommend waiting until you’re outside to go pee. Just be aware that the police station is literally right outside the front door. You could spit on a cop from the Elbo room. On this particular night a series of four fire engines quickly make their presence known by blocking off the street temporarily. They all arrived in the time it takes to smoke half a cigarette. Being the deductive genius I am, I knew something was going down when I saw the fire inspector’s car pull up. After the bar had closed, I would find a half burnt wicker chair just chilling on the street, covered in a white powder, the fruits of the fire extinguisher used to choke the burning. What a stupid place to start a fire. Right next to where I pee’d, I mean.
So what have we learned so far? Go to the Elbo room if you want a good drink, but you really want to wait fifteen minutes for it. Go there if you like to chase women who achieve no more than five average on the list. Go there to listen to shitty sound. Or, go there for all the right reasons, like Loco Bloco, Bayonics, good friends and strange goings on. It’s a unique experience here in the Elbo room, and I’m sure I will probably do it again. As long as I can get into a bathroom without my boots sticking to EVERYTHING.