Jason V.
Yelp
I've been to Holocene three times now. Or so my wife tells me. I don't remember the second one at all. Probably the result of being blackout drunk. Actually, I think I've been pretty hammered every time I've left Holocene, so I'm surprised I remember any of my visits at all!
Holocene's a weird place. It has a lot of things going for it, but many of its advantages are squandered by the people running it; particularly, the bartenders and DJs. Their respective skillsets range from eminently competent, to egregiously, laughably terrible.
Let's start at the bar. On this most recent visit, we attended the Halloween night dance party, supposedly themed after the Bronze bar from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. How that theme manifested basically boiled down to blurry projections of scenes from the series playing out on the walls, and a smattering of overpriced themed cocktails that suspiciously continued to shrink over the course of the night. For example, the first Mr. Pointy drink I ordered came in a tall glass; the second in a clear, disposable, red-Solo-cup knockoff; the third, in a tiny, clear cup you'd find in the dispenser attached to your office's water cooler. Unfortunately, the price did not shrink along with the diminishing containers they were served in.
Next, let's talk about the music. Having arrived shortly after the party started, most of the music was an eclectic grab bag of random tracks from the 90s; a cornucopia of dissonant genres, none of which were dance-able. I vividly recall "Trigger Happy Jack" by 90's darling of electronica, Poe, followed shortly thereafter by a remix of Cher's "Believe", and then Enya, of all fucking things. And if that's not enough aural violation for you, the music abruptly stopped (cue record scratch!) around 9:30, allowing for a local indie band to butcher several of my favorite, nostalgic rock and metal classics of the last three decades, for the next 45 minutes. My wife and I ducked out and headed over to Morrison Market, lamenting that the music we'd heard emanating from there, as we passed by on our way to enter Holocene, was light years better than what we were enduring in here. We ended up returning to finish out the night at Holocene, when the music actually became digestible to people with working ear drums, and to lose the costume contest to half-assed cosplayers gallivanting around in cheap, and questionable, Buffy-"inspired" wardrobe selections. Bleh.
Look, I get it. I'm an old man playing a young man's game, holding on to the fading flower of my youth with a white-knuckled grip that is slowly choking the life out of the very thing I'm trying to preserve. It also sounds like I am relentlessly tearing Holocene down, but I promise you, I'm not. I like it here, or else I wouldn't keep coming back. But there is definitely an unhealthy, abusive, love-hate relationship between us. My feelings for Holocene are eerily similar to those I share for the Hawthorne Theater: my absolute favorite music venue, that I also hate with a fiery passion, because I know how great it *can* be. Just like Holocene. Sometimes you walk away happy, drunk, having had the time of your life. Other times, you wake up on the floor of the mosh pit, trampled half to death. The only difference between these two experiences seems to boil down to the quality of the music, the competence of the bartenders, and the presence of a DJ that has an actual ear for dance music. You know. For the dance club.