"I know my beers like I know my fetishes," said Bethany Sherwin, manager at World of Beer. "When it turns cold, people get pissy. They want to come out and have a naughty beer—they want to order a heaping glass of Santa's Butt."
I doubted the "cold" winter had soured many Floridians, but Bethany knew her stuff when it came to what drinkers wanted. Of all the specialty brews sampled at Beer Club (Very Bad Elf, Warm Welcome, St. Nikolaus Bock and Lump of Coal’s Dark Holiday Stout), Santa’s Butt had the biggest buzz. A certain amount of holiday cheer went along with ordering this beer and discussing its taste (dark, creamy and a little bitter).
Obviously, this month’s Beer Club was a classy affair. Auburn lights warmed the brick walls, which were ornamented with stockings: the perfect setting for a rowdy Quarters tournament. Challengers quickly grew frustrated at their inability to beat me and win something from my treasure trove of beer goodies. I had to fake a finger sprain and throw a few rounds to keep the crowd content.
The first person to actually defeat me was Keith Blaker. This man-giant was no stranger to drinking games. For his hard-fought victory, he earned the title of Beer Club Emperor. His royal goblet was promptly filled then emptied into Blaker’s barrel of a chest. For all his drinking gallantry, Blaker was no beer-guzzling barbarian. He had studied his beer facts in order to intelligently discuss this month’s samples. Unfortunately, all anyone cared to talk about was Santa’s Butt.
Across town, Joon kicked off a feisty night of performance rock at Crowbar. The duo sported matching lab coats, wire-rim spectacles and a bit of intellectual scruff, which went well with their calculated, electro sound (the kind of stuff you’d expect to find on Captain Kirk’s Ipod). Next up was Poetry ’N Lotion. Their music is hard to categorize, but a few songs border on amphetamine charged surf-rock. Then Chemlab had a go at blowing the speakers with monster riffs and menacing vocals.
When Gil Mantera's Party Dream took the stage, I felt like I had stepped through a time warp. Gil dressed like a mystic dance warrior like a character too explicit for the fantasy realm of World of War Craft. Wearing only a few strips of leather, he flounced around like a ballerina on acid, finessing his keyboard and delivering synthesized lyrics. Gil’s brother accompanied him in a neo-medieval wardrobe that he peeled off in layers as the singer grew sweaty. Say what you will about their ’80s-aerobic-dance-core sound. There is something magical about music that makes girls and boys alike scream for an encore from two men rocking-out in nothing but boots and party-time underpants.
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This article appears in Dec 5-11, 2007.