When Warehouse Live opened earlier this year, we were skeptical. Live music in a midsize club usually means shitty sound, long bar lines, smokiness and an aesthetic that can only be described as filthy. But after dozens of shows, we can think of just one word to describe the club: perfect. From Bun B to Arctic Monkeys and DJ Diplo, Warehouse Live has established itself as the best club in town and the place where top acts play. With two rooms -- one that holds 1,200 people and another a comfy 300 -- the venue is great for a band of any level. It's got ample bar space, a high ceiling that helps ease the smoke, sound and heat, and it's actually pretty damn clean. Unlike most places, you don't mind hanging out and lounging on the furniture. And because it's in the Warehouse District, Chinese restaurants await when the shows let out. It's Mu Shu Rock heaven.
Some hoity-toity critics contend that David Adickes's sculptures -- which include the enormous statue of Sam Houston set along Interstate 45 -- are more roadside kitsch than art. Love him or loathe him, the parking lot to his studio represents the city's best, and most surreal, public arts project (in progress). Amid warehouses and rail lines, with the downtown skyline as its backdrop, the lot contains dozens of 20-foot-tall concrete statues of American presidents. These comprise his third set of presidential busts, which are bound for Florida. The others are displayed in parks in Williamsburg, Virginia, and near Mount Rushmore in South Dakota. We suggest you check them out before they disappear. Last time we were there, a young Austinite scampered up to George W. Bush, dropped his drawers and flashed a full moon while his gal snapped a picture. If that isn't art, what is?
A little girl sings to her father "You Are My Sunshine." A mother pleads for her son to drink plenty of water after laboring in the fields. A wife chokes on her tears, promising her husband, "My sweet love, I love you, I'll try to see you soon." The forum for all this pathos could only be The Prison Show, a 25-year-old program in which (for the most part) women and children call in on Friday nights to console loved ones holed up in jails throughout southeast Texas. Ray Hill, a convicted burglar-turned-jailhouse attorney-turned-talk show host, somehow keeps this inherently melancholic program upbeat, nudging it along while never cutting off or hurrying a caller. Most messages are mundane. Like classic country songs, you hear the same refrains. And like classic country songs, those refrains never lose their power.
You don't need to lug a camera around anymore to capture moments from your nightly escapades, thanks to the recent rash of photographers who've been canvassing the hottest nightlife spots and snapping shots of regular folks as if they were celebrities. Many of these photographers, including OneOctoberNight.com's Matthew Marand, put the photos online, while other photogs' pics can be found within the pages of Envy, 002 and Barstool. The fact that some stranger wants to take their photo makes clubgoers feel special. And they can enjoy themselves without worrying about anyone trying to swipe their camera gear.
Pool is the drinking man's game of choice, for good reason: The more you drink, the better you play. And there's no better place to get a rack-chalk-and-break game on than Cue & Cushion. Though it's smaller than some pool halls around town, it boasts 16 pristine pro-size Brunswick tables, cue sticks of all lengths and weights, chalk for your hands, a well-stocked bar and a friendly staff that's not shy about pouring a heavy drink. Best of all is the price: Ten bucks gets you an hour's worth of play on a lush six-pocket green, and there's an outstanding happy hour from 3 p.m. to 7 p.m. that won't break the bank as you're breaking the balls.
Many clubs open and close within a matter of a few years, but Rich's has been going strong for two decades. Despite being located, for many years, in a desolate area of town between downtown, Montrose and the Third Ward -- long before Midtown became a nightlife hotspot -- the two-story, warehouselike club has consistently drawn huge weekend crowds. Not only does it boast a stellar imported sound system, five bars, a large dance floor and a huge spiked disco ball, it continually brings in top-rated circuit DJs from around the globe. Then there's the crowd, where gender, sexual orientation and race are never an issue. Rich's is a Houston nightlife institution.
When The Mink and its neighboring Backroom opened last summer, Montrosian hipsters finally had a good reason to hit up the burgeoning Main Street strip in between Wilbern and West Alabama. The Mink is housed in what once was Drink Bar, but owner/nightlife entrepreneur Tim Murrah gave the slender space a face-lift, bringing in a touch of class with lipstick-pink walls, strange artwork, a flower mural, dimly lit chandeliers, vintage couches and a small selection of wines. Then there's the Backroom, a minimal two-story lounge/dance club beyond the back patio. The first floor holds two bars and is drenched in dark brown and natural wood. Like The Mink, it serves as the perfect rendezvous point for friends, who can later shake it on the dance floor upstairs. Whether you're in the mood for low-key or something a little more upbeat, this coupled bar concept has it.
Before setting foot in Rowdy's Roadhouse, all we knew was it had a mechanical bull. We had to assume that its patrons were rednecks and/or refinery workers. We didn't know just how rural the surrounding area is (you can actually see the stars in the big Texas sky), and we didn't know that we'd meet the coolest bar owner around (Rowdy) and his absolutely charming wife, Kim. Aside from the fact that Kim is an ideal MILF, she makes every bar patron feel right at home. And it's Kim who'll give you the confidence to ride the bull. She gets our vote for the definitive bar mom not just because she's a wonderful host, but because her equally cute daughter sometimes slings the drinks.
Clubs in Midtown and downtown are so predictable: They usually have asinine rules and regulations, and there's almost always a queue of suburban dwellers paying upward of 15 bucks to get inside a club playing Top 40 hits, '80s throwbacks or hip-hop. Booooring. But a38 is changing the way we view Midtown nightlife, and it should have the competition worried. Although the bar's dress code disallows shorts (sorry, beach bums), there's never a cover (even when world-renowned DJs come to spin), you'll never hear hip-hop (but you'll hear stuff that isn't being played anywhere else in Houston), and the interior is sleek, modern and hip (without being too fancy and pretentious). The week kicks off on Wednesday with the anything-goes Boys & Girls Club night, then it's on to house music at Vic Vegas and Mr. Bristle's Pure Thursdays. Dustin Swint and Jeffery Mac close it out on Saturdays with a heavy mix of electro and house. The faces in the crowd change every night, so it's impossible to predict what kind of people you'll see. Just expect to have a blast and to dance your ass off.
Leave it to Jason Nodler, the long-absent founding artistic director of Infernal Bridegroom Productions, to return with a bang. After spending time working around the country, Nodler visited the Bayou City just long enough to create his best original show to date. Speeding Motorcycle, a surprisingly sweet rock opera, which Nodler adapted from songs by Daniel Johnston, told the story of a lonely guy longing for love. Cult musician/artist Johnston, who's been written about everywhere from Texas Monthly to The New York Times, suffers from severe bipolar disorder, and his musical world is inflected with mental illness and the extreme loneliness depression can bring. But the story Nodler constructed out of Johnston's powerful tunes was uplifting. There was a disarming innocence to the show and wonderful moments of strangeness -- angels, undertakers and Captain America all came together on the same stage. IBP and Speeding Motorcycle got a terrific write-up in The New York Times, proving yet again that Houston grows some original thinkers.

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