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January 26, 2013
Oh, West Village venue, with your gruff door guy who doesn't give a shit about my ID (WHY NOT?!) and only wants my $10, and your no-frills interior that has bar seating for maybe eight people, and drinks that are probably either incredibly strong or impossibly weak and, I suspect, cheap, but which, thanks to no "two drink minimum", I don't have to buy. You and your dressed-down patrons, who could pass for a crowd from 30 years ago, and live music that can't quite figure out what it is or what it wants to be. You, my friend, ROCK.