Volume 4, Issue 13
June 27 - July 10, 2002
by Rob Williams
There is nothing I like better than snarling guitars, the odd theramin, spooky organs and some Bad Seed attitude to get my pointy boots tapping. You know what I mean. It's like taking a goth kitty to a Merle Haggard show, they just go together and you can't explain why. Unlucky for me, my goth kitty was away on vacation.
Lucky for me there was a band in town last week that fit that bill. I had only just stumbled onto Pleasure Forever last month while I was putting together the last issue. And I have to say, I was impressed. Dark. Moody. Rock. I had to see these guys. The fates were smiling again for not only was the band playing at one of my favorite venues, The Bluebird Theater, but it also meant the show was close to home. Home being the P. S. Lounge.
If you haven't been drinking in my living room before, the P. S. is the next best thing. In an era of trendy sports bars and theme and scene restaurants, the P. S. has remained comfortably what it is, a neighborhood bar that doubles as a hipster hangout if the show across the street is good.
"Hold on there Tex, ain't you that cognac swillin' lothario that only sips in snazzy uptown watering holes?"
Well first off, I'm not Tex and I love a good dive. Cheap drinks, fat jukebox, authentic vinyl booths and plenty of local color, that's all a bar really needs to make it -- that and a retro '60s giant arrow of lightbulbs pointing to the door.
Resplendent in black cowboy shirt and shit-kickers, I sat my scruffy self down at the well worn bar. Summer is here so I opted for vodka and tonic in a beer glass. Soon, conversation was flowing as fast as the drinks. You really meet some of the most interesting people at the P. S. Lounge. On any given night you may find yourself talking to a stockbroker or a cultural anthropologist or a skateboard punk rocker with his ears, nose and who knows what else full of metal. You might even find a bunch of thirsty artists, musicians and writers. The PS is a crossroads for all these types, because everyone loves music and cheap drinks. Even the loudmouthed English soccer fan tearing in his beer, feeding stacks of bills into the jukebox for Louis Prima and Dean Martin tunes had some sort of appreciation, as he sang every selection to the room. You can't buy local color like that. But I wasn't here for impromptu karaoke.
Three fast vodkas and it was time to make the run through traffic to the Bluebird. After a quick stop at the bar, fresh cocktail in hand, I made my way toward the stage to meet up with Pleasure Forever drummer Dave Clifford and share a cold one and some local music gossip. We gabbed about the Fluid, the Pinchers and a half dozen other 'almost made it' bands from Denver and Boulder before it was time for their set.
A sleepy melodic intro ripped into thundering guitar riffs and hammering drum beats held together by freaky Roland organ key strokes and --yeah, this is the part where I am supposed to describe the vocals. But, unfortunately, the vocals were really hard to hear, and had been for the previous band as well. I'm a huge fan of the Bluebird as a venue, and usually their sound is top notch. I even checked from all over the room. Something was definitely amiss with the board.
Even so, Pleasure Forever wasn't going to let a little technical glitch get in the way of a full-on rock show. No silly lights, no thirty second self-indulgent dialogues about song titles, just rock. Lined up at the front of the stage and giving it their all. Refreshing as Colt 45 Malt Liquor at a wine bar. Simple as a whiskey, neat. Whatever you do, get their CD--borrow it, steal it if you must, get your cyber-geek friend to hack Napster--but give these guys a listen.
When the lights came up I wasn't ready to go home. The folks at the 'Bird are happy to let you hang around and drink, but sipping while the crew sweeps up seems a little sad to this hard drinking art director. So I said my goodbyes to Dave and the band and went back across the street to the P. S. I wasn't the only one with this fine idea.
You'll typically see the post-show crowd, and sometimes the bands, having refreshing beverages crammed into one of the many booths or overflowing into the pool room. You may even see a bona fide celebrity once in a while. The best thing about being a regular anywhere is prompt service. But fear not, even when it's packed, the bartenders at the P. S. are on the job. Faster than I could say "gasp . . . cough . . . gasp . . . thirsty," a fresh comrade of icy booze and frothy tonic was in my fist and down the hatch. Soon followed by another. I could go on about my theory that the Russians won the cold war by making us drink their vile potato liquor that mixes so easily with . . well, everything but Drano. But I digress.
Post-show is time for introspective conversation with complete strangers about a variety of topics, like filmmaking, the average EBay price of a 71 'cuda or my favorite, which Charlie's Angel was the best. Everyone is welcome to pull up a stool and join in. Friendship, comraderie, the feel of a strange girl's thigh squeezed tightly against mine in a microcosm of smoke, liquor and Johnny Cash "Walkin the Line" one more time. It's the kind of night that makes it the Perfect Spot.
The P. S. Lounge, 3416 E. Colfax Avenue 303-320-1200
All Rights Reserved © 2002 Go Go Media, LLC, Denver, Colorado