We're as into strip clubs as the next guy--unless the next guy happens to be, say, Kid Rock--but frankly, we find most of them around here to be problematic. They tend to range from high-end crass to outright scummy. And the main problem with all of them is that they simply cost too much money. On the cheap, we tend to like the conveniently located Skyway Lounge, an old staple in the heart of downtown Minneapolis, mostly because there's no cover charge and the drinks are cheap. But this year a new venue opened nearby, in the old Hotel Seville space that was formerly home to Blues Alley, a bar that had long outlived its usefulness. Dino Perlman, a former DJ at other strip clubs, has smartly positioned his venture as a sort of hipsters' gentlemen's club. Perlman readily acknowledges the pitfalls and perceptions that plague the biz, and he possesses an aesthetic sense--he's constantly on watch making sure nothing "gets out of control"--that's almost PG-13. Uh, except for all of the naked women, that is. Speaking of the women, the waitstaff is more attractive than the talent in other venues in town, and on more than one occasion, we saw crowds that were evenly split along gender lines. Most of the action is out in the open, though a VIP membership (annual cost: $1,000) does afford some privacy upstairs in the mezzanine. The cover usually runs about eight bucks, and there's a full bar and a full menu that's not cheap at all but reasonable compared to other venues of this ilk. More importantly, the atmosphere is low-key, and the ladies don't pressure customers for a lap dance--a rarity, we assure you. (The dances themselves run about $20, which is lower than the norm as well and leaves you with more cash for a good tip.) That means you can leave Club Seville with your wallet, hygiene, and dignity still largely intact.

Let's face it: Victoria's Secret is that's she's boring. If the purpose of lingerie is to make you feel sexier and more naked than when you're merely wearing nothing, why not slip into something truly bad? For 20 years, Wild Rose Tanning and Lingerie has made people feel comfortable doing just that. The cozy storefront offers a striking selection of baby-doll nighties, see-through teddies, corsets, booty shorts, and other items from the 56-year-old Shirley of Hollywood catalog (which is also carried by Frederick's of Hollywood, in case you were wondering). You can special-order whatever else you want (note Shirley's plus-size Intimate Attitudes line) and even try on apparel in the store. It's the kind of unpretentious shop that crowds its limited space with Avon products and consignment clothing alongside the camisoles and feather boas. Owner Janet Bergstrom got her start hosting lingerie parties for shy Minnesotans before opening the place, and now welcomes a variety of regulars, from tanners to transvestites. In other words, this is your neighborhood sex-wear store.

Seattle and New York have Toys in Babeland. San Francisco has Good Vibrations. For years it seemed as if every other city was comfortably enjoying its sex shopping but us. Finally, Minneapolis is fortunate enough to have its own discreet, women-owned adult store. The most obvious advantages over the usual porno retail warehouses are good lighting and a lack of skeezy old men with disappearing hands. But a friendly and knowledgeable staff that can assure their customers that they're not perverts is perhaps even more important. The Smitten Kitten is for the serious shopper who wants to handle the merchandise and marvel at the soft, lifelike "skin" of a personal massage unit, or for the couple looking for instructional videos to attempt a new position they read about in Savage Love. A politically correct sex shop may sound stuffy, but how puritanical can you really look in a faux-leather harness?

For whatever reason, Lady Hard-on open every show they play, which means in the past year they've left hordes of otherwise well-prepared performers with the impossible task of following the best Siamese-sister polka act we've ever seen. (Okay, we hadn't previously seen conjoined siblings do the oompah before, and these sisters are only playacting their sideshow spectacle, but, like, exactly). The dueling accordion-and-organ ditties of Lady Slipper and Lady Pleasure clock in at around 30 seconds apiece, which turns out to be exactly the limit of our patience for off-key jingle covers ("All-American Recreation/All we sell is fun") and deadpan raunchiness ("Teabaggin'/It's the sensation that's sweepin' the nation"), the latter of which achieves the height of ironic hip when delivered by semi-interested girls in French-maid outfits (or German dirndls, or whatever) pretending to be joined at the hip. For the curious--and there's no shortage of curiosity at these shows--the sisters even offer some anatomical clarity. "They only had one," they bemoan during their longest number, the minute-long tale of a tampon search through the vending machines of Mexico. "And we needed two."

Minnesota vocalists ranging from Bob Dylan to Craig Finn have moved to New York City to freshen the imagination, get noticed, and come out writing better than ever--about Minnesota. But Kill the Vultures are probably the first transplants to improve their creative fortunes by moving back: The former Oddjobs (without DJ-producer Deetalx, but with DJ-producer Anatomy still in tow) recently unveiled a radical new sound on local stages and on their self-titled Locust Records/Jibdoor debut. Over a pounding clatter that's part Age of Chance, part Public Enemy, three commanding voices swing like mad over the racket, like Last Poets on a bed of bongos. "Kill the vultures/before they dine on all of us," shout rappers Crescent Moon, Advizer, and Nomi in urgent unison (and that motto is as close as they get to life affirmation). For love ballads, the boys come out screaming: "Dip my dick into the ocean/drown in the wind," howls Nomi before destroying a brick building with "lovemaking vibration." If this is Dead Poets Society rap, don't be surprised if some large portion of the nation stands on its desk.

The best-named DJ in town proved on last year's E&A (with perennial cohort MC Eyedea) that the national attention that comes with national distribution (via Epitaph Records) doesn't have to stunt your growth. Abilities and Eyedea both came into their collabo from successful runs on the battle circuit, only to strike that balance between idea and ability that labelmates Atmosphere keep talking about. The left-brain/right-brain conflict comes to a head on E&A, and the duo actually works it out. To advance the metaphor: it's all cerebellum, baby. For Abilities, that means flexing his mixmaster muscles in subtle and appropriate ways, a welcome relief from other hot-rodding battle DJs who'd scratch a track till it bleeds before sharing the spotlight. Apparently Abilities doesn't have anything left to prove, and for that, we'll gratefully recognize his superhuman DJ skills. It was a no-brainer, really.

A pale woman in a black bob wig is facing the wall, gripping a bar suspended from the ceiling. A second woman, this one with red sparkle pasties covering her nipples, is facing her with a paddle in hand. It's another typical Saturday night at Ground Zero in Minneapolis, and the club's bondage showcase on the mezzanine has drawn another transfixed crowd. But the dancers downstairs couldn't care less: DJ Panic has just thrown on "Night Riders," a catchy darkwave track by local heroes Stromkern, and the packed floor is screaming pleasure, not pain. Panic has been a darksider favorite for years at Ground Zero, and the Saloon before that. But ReVolt, his Saturday dance night, pushes goth culture to its danceable edges, drawing on everything between Iggy and Fatboy Slim, Madonna and Killing Joke. Overseeing the floor from his upstairs booth, inside a chain-link-fenced cage, he takes requests via a clipboard and pen hanging outside, and operates a sophisticated light show. Tossing on the Faint's "Agenda Suicide," he lets the fog machine exhale while the whispery chants of "like a gas shadow" become a throaty wail. The fetish outfits might snap you to attention, but Panic is the true mesmerist here.

Give First Avenue credit for balls: Their dance nights have been pared down, with the V.I.P. room temporarily closed, and regular Mainroom dance hours reduced to Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays (with a 21+ age restriction all three nights). But instead of establishing a surefire cheesy dance format (more '80s hits, anyone?), the big black bus station has let passionate DJs cater to specialized audiences since the change of ownership and brief closing last November. The results have been good for music: Saturday's electro-dance night BA-SIK (along with Tuesdays at Mell's Beauty Bar and Fridays at the Dinkytowner) is a refuge for the post-rave set, with national acts ranging from Chicago house hero Felix Da Housecat to Canadian techno innovator Echoplex, and with local DJ E-Tones spinning regularly in the meantime. Fridays belong to the Energy Lab, a hip-hop/R&B/dancehall night hosted by Verb X with guest DJs including L.A.'s Kamikaze. Thursdays are the club's longest-running success, Ritmo Caliente, which features salsa, cumbia, and reggaetón spun by DJ Tony, along with dance contests for cash prizes and informal dance lessons. The sound system is among the best in the city--no small consideration, particularly for salsa. But these nights have something else going for them--cheap (often free) crossover to see live bands in the 7th St. Entry next door. For those who want rock and roll in their salsa, rap, and techno, First Avenue still beats its rich competitors on a shoestring.

This moveable queer dance night has perhaps best been described as a cornucopia of women: twentysomethings dressed to the nines and fortysomethings who have been dressed to the nines for years; college students, professional women, and auto mechanics. The music includes R&B, salsa, and Indian hip hop, all enhanced by light beer and apple martinis. A three-year-old women-only event, Twilight is most often held at Dinkytown's usually straight Kitty Cat Klub, but also travels to the Varsity, Bobino, the Loring Pasta Bar, and other venues. Wherever the party's happening, the women are gorgeous, the music phenomenal, and the dance floor invariably sweaty. Proof positive, as the event's not-quite-reliably updated website pronounces, "that queer women do live in Minnesota and they do love to go out."

In the Queer Eye era--one of exfoliation, aromatherapy, seaweed wraps, etc.--some on the outside might forget that not every gay man in America wants his bikini line waxed. In fact, every queer guy could use a little straight eye once in a while, and that's where the 19 Bar comes in. Established in 1952, this little watering hole a couple of blocks east of Loring Park has all the best attributes of a workingman's (and drinkingman's) joint. The oldest running gay bar in the city has three pool tables that are in constant play, a jukebox that mixes plenty of rawk with its club trance, and more blue-collar beer signs than you could wave a manicured pinkie at. Who can do those soulless upscale (and downscale) dance clubs every night, anyway? Besides, some soused lip locking is pretty common by the end of the night, a testimony to the friendly vibe of the place. It's that kind of camaraderie--and the cheapest drinks in the neighborhood--that makes the 19 such a necessary hangout.

Used to be that a good man was hard to find, and this year we were chagrined to see that old axiom spill into the bartending profession. Our exhaustive--and we mean exhaustive--survey of bars around the metro rarely turned up a drink slinger who even pretended to be cheered by our presence, let alone one who took a drink order promptly. What happened? This town used to be full of great, working-class characters who would just as likely join you on the other side of the bar when their shift was over. Luckily we've still got folks like Danny McDevitt, whose impossibly young-looking face should be familiar to any of the tourists or regular soaks who make up the clientele on the bar side of the New Delhi, a restaurant on Nicollet Avenue just east of Loring Park. (McDevitt has been seen tending bar at Ike's, the steakhouse on Sixth Street, as well.) Any customer who manages a "How ya doin'?" greeting gets McDevitt's scripted response, "Livin' the dream," a throwback to the old Irish barkeep tradition he comes from: one part bitters, two parts tonic, and several parts of whatever the hell you're drinking. Sure, he's quick with a joke, or a light for your smoke (pre-smoking ban), but he's just as adept with the bottle opener he carries on his belt and twirls six-shooter style. The 30-ish McDevitt is relatively young to display such classic skills, but let's hope he sticks around for a long while. McDevitt remembers your name and your drink, and doesn't act like he's one call away from Central Casting toward leaving you high and dry. The lushes in this town desperately need more like him.

In our judgment, the best neighborhood bar can't be trendy. It can't even be new. It has to be the kind of place you can count on to be there, decade in and decade out, with longstanding regulars but room for newbies. At the Poodle, they're not about to change the formula that's been working wonderfully since 1975 (longer than that if you count the previous downtown location), and for that we thank them. The Poodle's the kind of place that changes decor less often than the Catholic church changes popes; where the staff is always welcoming but not overly so. It's the kind of place where, during karaoke (Tuesday and Wednesday nights), you can watch a still limber and charming but progressively wobblier octogenarian coax every lady in the bar to the dance floor. It's the kind of place where you can comfortably go for a beer at 10:00 a.m., if, say, you have a friend who's about to go away to jail for a while and you're planning a morning send-off (not that we've ever done that). There's room, both physically and philosophically, for everyone here. The backroom pool tables are often taken by whippersnappers while old-timers dominate the bar stools, but they all mingle in the middle, especially on weekends when blues and/or cover bands are performing. The only discernable alteration over the years has been a small overture to the changing neighborhood--huevos rancheros and a couple of other tasty Mexican items on the menu that fit nicely with the American standbys; all the Poodle's food is well executed and reasonably priced. There are generous drink specials, different every day, and pull tabs, two more great-neighborhood-bar requirements. And we like that the customers here vary widely in age, race, and temperament, and that the bartenders are kind enough to remind patrons of the street-parking restrictions after 10:00 p.m. (the Poodle has additional parking in a lot kitty-corner from the bar). Not everyone will know your name here, but we also count that as a good thing.

The Groveland Tap, though small and often cramped on the weekends, offers the best of many types of bars. Up front is the classic pub section where you can sit in a roomy cherry-stained wooden booth and read a book with a burger and a pint, or have a quiet chat with an old friend while splitting a pitcher. In the middle area you can rest at the bar and talk shop with the bartenders or watch the game on one of the TVs (if basketball or football is happening somewhere, people are probably watching it here), and since you are at the bar, chances are you're sitting next to someone who would be more than willing to talk sports. In the back you can hang out and share a basket of fries with friends at the tall tables or shoot a game of pool. And even more friends are to be made while politely trying to make a difficult shot without jamming the pool cue into the couple playing a deer hunt video game or video golf. Who needs a block party to meet your neighbors?

There's no shortage of bar bands out there sleepwalking through blues changes and soul covers, but a tight band of true believers is increasingly a rarity. The long-lived Butanes play blues and Southern soul for hardcore fans, and tend to convert some dabblers in the process. Leader Curtis Obeda's leads recall Albert King or Otis Rush in terms of improvisation panache and pure volume, while his spare R&B rhythm playing would make Steve Cropper smile. He's got a sideman's singing voice, but he gets the job done, belting out well-chosen tunes with humor and soul. The rest of the band is similarly assured. Virgil Nelson plays slightly conservatory-tinged blues on Hammond B-3 (the real deal, with Leslie speaker oscillating behind him), bassist John Lindberg is always in the pocket and justifies his occasional solos; while insouciant drummer Robb Stupka impresses with subtle flourishes and a smart, no-flash policy. Sometimes the core Butanes quartet is augmented with horns, and things really heat up when Willie Walker, a little-known but grade-A Memphis soul singer and local hero, drops by to sing vintage R&B and Obeda originals. Look for a second Butanes-Walker collaboration in the near future, and check the club listings for the next Butanes gig. They're probably playing tonight.

Okay, it might be in a mall, and Uptown may not be Frogtown, that far more bluesworthy locale of the late, great Blues Saloon. But the smell of barbecue sauce wafts out of the Famous Dave's vents like a Kansas City breeze, the drinks flow like an outdoor street party in New Orleans, and if you imbibe enough, the mix of harmonicas, guitars, crooners, and the piped-in railroad sounds will make you swear you're in a Chicago club underneath the Loop. Add the inviting stage, roomy dance floor, great sightlines, vintage posters, and a consistently stellar blues calendar, including Moses Oakland's freewheeling Sunday night open blues jams, and you've got the area's best blues, bar none.

Despite their hit singles and high-profile admirers, Mint Condition have never quite gotten the respect they deserve, so it's nice that they're giving us another chance to show the love. After a six-year break, the group has a new album, Livin' the Luxury Brown, and a new label, their own Cagedbird Records. Keyboardist Keri Lewis has moved on, but the rest of the long-lived, self-contained band is intact, as is their jazz-and-rock-tinged R&B. The new album's "Look Whatcha Done to Me" provides a good sample of the group's gifts as players, writers, singers, and quietly experimental producers. For the full effect, listen under headphones to how the song's handclap hook bounces from the left channel to the right and back again. Then take in the delay effect on the lush harmony vocals, the spare bass line, the artfully placed Al Green sample, the sunny steel-drum sound that brightens the pretty eighth-note chords, and, of course, Stokley Williams's gritty lead vocal. In addition to touring in support of Livin', the band plans to use the Cagedbird imprint to sign new acts and possibly to release an album by JOTO, the Latin jazz side-project featuring Williams and keyboardist/saxophonist Jeff Allen.

After six albums and years of live performing, Dan Israel still hasn't quit his day job at the Minnesota State Capitol. Well, day jobs tend to pay better than night gigs, and Israel's regular-guy quality is part of his appeal. He's the next-door neighbor who gets home from work, takes out the garbage, pays the insurance bill, and then sits down to write a hummable folk-rock tune. He's studied the Dylan songbook seriously, which is apparent in his pretty, unassuming melodies and ragged voice. Lyrically, Israel is more New Morning than Blonde on Blonde. He writes about everyday stuff and celebrates fundamentals--consider some of his album titles: Love Ain't a Cliché, Mama's Kitchen, and Time I Get Home, his latest and finest.

John Hermanson was on the cover of this rag a few months ago. In a dress. He can often be seen singing and playing guitar on local stages. In a tracksuit. That he is costumed and mostly out of the spotlight for his duties as the least flashy member of Olympic Hopefuls is perfectly poignant, for it must be said that Hermanson (of Storyhill and Alva Star lineage) was responsible for one of last year's smartest (if little-heard) pop-rock records, Alva Star's Escalator. Like some indie-rock guide on the road to Damascus, Hermanson takes diligent listeners through the many stages of being in/out/over a band. In other words, songs like "Tornado Girl," "Comeback," and, especially, "Cold and Calculated," nail what it feels like to live and speak the second language (music) of these sound-saturated towns. The feeling here is that his writing chops are incubating during his time with Olympic Hopefuls, and will soon bear more fruit. If not, the guy's had a stretch worthy of another concept album; call it The Year of Living Deliciously.

When you hear it, you know it: the same undeniable spirit that was in the air the first time we heard Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash, or Kat Bjelland exorcising herself into a mic, or Mason Jennings budding in his living-room practice space, or the Rhymesayers blooming in the Entry, or Melodious Owl lifting the Turf Club off its moorings at a show this past February. "The town is exploding," one barfly said that night, and ain't it the truth--what with the sudden hum of the Current and bands like the Gleam (as first heard on Jack Sparks's The Other Side of Country), who cut their teeth drinking and playing at a corner bar in rural Minnesota and are now poised to take the Cities by storm. The eight songs off this debut prove that alt-country's torrid affair with the land of sky-blue waters is alive and shit-kicking, so it's about time we all start referring to these guys the way their kick drum head does: the Goddamn Gleam.

Saturday, September 4, through Monday, September 6, 2004 at the Turf Club

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2005 Best of the Twin Cities HOME
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