Barrelhouse South

You'll hear the bass thumping right through the pavement on Congress Street before you even spot the neon sign above the door. Barrelhouse South is always packed with a loud crowd spilling past the brick facade and onto the sidewalk. You've got to push past the bouncer, flash your ID, and hand over a few bucks just to get past the threshold into the thick of it.

The main floor is a sweatbox. It's a narrow, brick-walled tavern with sticky wooden floors and a massive bar running down the left side. People are shoulder-to-shoulder shouting over whatever cover band is shredding classic rock anthems on the stage upstairs. The ceiling's low, the lights are dim, and every surface is damp from spilled drinks and pure humidity.

Head up the metal stairs if you want any chance of catching the band, though you won't find an inch of breathing room up there either. The bartenders move fast, slinging cheap pitchers and whiskey shots without missing a beat while patrons dance on whatever empty space they can carve out near the speakers. It's loud, messy, and you'll leave smelling like stale draft beer.