Wait 'Til You See Me Dancing: Can San Francisco Still Get Down?
What happened to the good art of the get-down?
What kind of sick people did the human race become that we would rather nurse watered-down drinks while attempting to gain the full attention and temporary affection of some finance jock wearing a Patagonia in a bar MUCH too hot to constitute wearing thermatech down? I’m here to tell you, I think we’ve lost ourselves. So I’ve taken a journey—a spiritual journey, if you will—in attempt to see just where a girl (or rhythmically-inclined male) can cut a rug on a cool Bay night. It’s been a trip, and not all of it was pretty. But I can surely promise you all of it was good, sweaty fun. Consider this “Part I.” of Bob Cut’s quest for a swingin’ San Francisco, my friends.
We’re calling it “WAIT 'Til You See Me Dancing.” These establishments have already had the pleasure:
Love or hate the Bermuda Triangle, and whether or not you admit that Cow Hollow is an actual neighborhood (for the record, it is—or else are you telling me I live in a metaphorical land outside San Francisco's jurisdiction?), you have to admit that the loss of Eastside West was a true tragedy—and travesty. Remember the fun we use to have? I'd speak Spanish to the waitstaff while skip-dancing in line for the bathroom? Someone stole my friend’s phone out of her hand as she was calling her Uber? You were equally likely to meet an upstanding gentleman as you were to see people getting their freak on like it was 1999 up in there? Now, the Bermuda Triangle is missing a leg. To say the least, shit's wobbly.
// Formerly at 3154 Fillmore St
Yes, you can dance here. But only if you want to dance like a frat boy. And shouldn't we all aspire to be better than that? Every time I go to Sabrosa (aka twice, and never again) the smell of gym socks, vodka, and a gust of scent coming from a man wearing AXE body spray despite the fact that he's much too old to be wearing AXE body spray kills more brain cells than the liquor ever could.
// 3200 Fillmore St
Only with the right crowd. And the right DJ. If he ain't breakin' out Jackson 5 on the turn table, I ain't breakin' it down on the dance floor. (For reference—Monroe does the city of San Francisco a true kindness by staging a “Battle of the Decades” every Friday night from 5pm-2am.) In this way, Monroe is really a hit or miss. On one occasion, I stayed for five and a half hours, during which I moonlighted as an interpretive dancer to classics such as “Come On, Eileen” and “Super Trouper.” On another, all I really did was glare at the DJ as we zoomed through the ‘70s hour without so much of a note of Steely Dan or “ABC.”
// 473 Broadway
My 40 year old cousin was the first to show me this place. Whether that makes him extremely with-it or me extremely lame, TBD. All I know is on one night’s occasion, I witnessed a kid wearing a bicycle helmet and fingerless gloves while waving around a series of taped-together glow sticks in the middle of the dance floor. He single handedly had the entire bar mesmerized and I’m still not quite sure how. I ran into an old friend from high school, who proceeded to buy one of my adult cousins a Coors Light and said, “Let’s black out tonight, dude.” My cousin is thirty seven and has two kids. The best part of his night was when I bought him a hot dog from a street vendor. (Not judging, though—that may have been the best part of my night, too). Needless to say, the time for Coors Light has passed, my friend. The mountains are no longer blue.
// 500 Divisadero St
Can we all agree we fucking hate this place? The only time I slightly enjoyed myself here was on Hispanic heritage night. They do, however, have a massive fan that will blast cold air in your face with the sheer energy of a cannon. For these reasons, let’s chalk it up to a 4.2/10 overall.
// 1351 Polk St
// San Franciscans, where do you get down? Let us know—Part II. coming soon. Feature photo of Diana Ross, Getty images, Studio 54, 1979