365-viii

You'll hear the bass thumping right through the brick on Clark Street before you even spot the faded neon sign hanging over the door. The bouncer checks IDs with a bored nod while a line of shivering smokers crowds the narrow pavement outside.

Inside, it's pitch black and sweating humidity from every wall. The stage sits barely a foot off the warped wooden floor, meaning guitar necks practically graze your forehead if you're standing front row. Sound quality bounces wildly depending on where you're standing, but nobody's complaining when the local punk acts get the floor moving and warm Pabst cans start flying through the air.

Bathrooms are an absolute disaster zone that hasn't seen a deep clean since the nineties, so just hold it until you hit the CTA station. Grab your coat and slip out the back alley door when the amps finally cut out.