I’m not a club person. I don’t particularly like to dance, nor am I a fan of top 40. I don’t own any Hollister clothing, silver chains or hair gel. The subculture surrounding MTV makes me consider domestic terrorism.
It was only, then, by a strange set of circumstances that I found myself at a club in a city near here. Let’s call it “Tao.”
I’d heard all about this sort of place from countless pop songs and paper gangsters, but now I was in the belly of the beast on a very busy Saturday night.
On one level I see the appeal of a place like this. The archaic pseudo-Asian theme of Tao was expertly splashed between ultra-modern sofas and red-lit bars in the way of Buddha statues and calligraphy. The walls were deep red with black accents and joined hardwood floors to high vaulted ceilings.
Incognito black button down-shirted employees (all the men here wore black collared shirts) slipped effortlessly through the ass-shaking, collecting empty bottles and were no doubt ready and willing to taze trouble-starters.
Let’s be clear though: If it wasn’t for a friend of mine getting a favor from the doorman there was no way in hell I was getting inside; nor would you, most likely, unless you happen to be reading this from the inside of a tanning salon or possibly a stock brokerage.
The crowd in this place that didn’t get in solely on favors was about as heterogeneous as a loaf of Wonder bread.
Don’t get me wrong, lots of minorities were present, but if you didn’t happen to look like this guy (Fig. 1), I got the strong impression you could either slip the door guy a fist full of twenties or screw off. And the women? The girls they let in this place made the Hotel bar wait staff look like Metallica in the mid-80’s.
It must be nice to own a business successful enough that you can so thoroughly and openly discriminate your customers and still have the ones you kicked to the curb wanting to throw money at you just for a foot in the door and the opportunity to spend even more money on hiptinis and mojitos.
I can’t be too critical I suppose, though, as Tao’s online mission statement (who ever heard of a dance club with a mission statement?) uses words like “chic” and “posh” and says the idea is to cater to individuals “interested in trendy music styles, clothing…”
This place is clearly oblivious to how pretentious it is, but then again, customers don’t seem to care.
I mean, if people actually want to spend money to be permitted to spend money, so be it. I guess the reassurance that you’ll probably already know everything about anyone you strike up a conversation with is worth the high drink and door charges.
So standing there in my paint-stained jeans, work boots and flannel shirt taking this all in, I honestly wasn’t having a bad time. Rather I was just sort of observing this late-night big city monster that was so different from my familiar Mason jar of beer and heavy metal at the Boro bar. I don’t really understand the appeal, but then again I don’t understand the appeal of hair gel, so I’m sure there is something there for someone.
My own theory is that diving into an atmosphere of such exclusivity, even if arbitrary exclusivity, makes people feel a little more elite themselves.
If I find myself in that city looking for a time, I much prefer the manic insanity of Bar 11.
If I get in a fight there, it’ll be with some guy because I sharpied a distasteful word on his girlfriend, not with a bouncer because I bumped into the velvet rope or sat on a couch I didn’t pay for residence on. Bar 11, however, is a story for another column.
Tao really isn’t a bad time. It is actually a good time. It is just a slightly stiff, stuffy time. It is a time I don’t feel good about paying for.
That being said, if you’re into this sort of thing, I’d suggest checking the place out. The incredible decorations, theme and cleanliness bring it heads and tails above similar establishments in Pittsburgh; just pack a few extra twenties for “lubricating money.”
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