Bar Nine

You walk down the damp brick steps of Factors Walk and hear the bass bleeding right through the heavy wooden door of Bar Nine. It's a cramped little lounge bar sitting below the street level where the humidity hits you the second you step inside. The bouncer just nods you through without making a big deal out of the cover charge. It's dark, sticky, and packed with people spilling out from the small room.

The stage isn't really a stage at all, just a cramped corner where a local indie rock trio is hammering out tunes through an old sound system. Sound bounces hard off the brick walls and gets lost in the crowd. You can't hear yourself think, but that's why you're here. Bartenders are slinging drinks as fast as they can grab the cans from the ice tubs, and nobody's waiting on fancy craft cocktails tonight.

Someone spills a lukewarm Miller Lite right across my sneakers while the guitarist breaks a string on stage. The room doesn't miss a beat. They just keep right on playing while the guy behind the bar hands me another round on a napkin that's already soaked through with condensation and.