One of the reasons I missed EAB is because I spent about a quarter of a tank of gas driving around the block trying to find the club. I knew the address: 2617 Commerce St. I found 2615. And then there was an empty lot. And then there was the ass-end of Club Uropa, to which girls in mini-skirts and peasant tops were running at top speed.
Finally, I just ganked a metered spot on Commerce, found the nearest available hipster and asked for directions. I was only a few yards away. The long, Christmas-light-lit tunnel leading to a skeevy patio with a large bearded man should have screamed "underground rock club" to me, but honestly I had been hoping for at least a sign outside.
Available beer? ZiegenBock. In a red plastic cup. I'd estimate it at roughly eight to 10 months old in a keg with a minor air leak. The bartender? Approximately 68 years of age, appears out of nowhere at random wearing a Members Only jacket with the kind of hair Einstein only wished he could have pulled off. The sound system? Not bad, except for the constant buzzing. I didn't even attempt to enter the bathrooms, as one of my friends told me beforehand: "Go to the bathroom as often as you need, at home, before the show."
I am definitely going back. --Andrea Grimes
