Traditionally, the downtown Detroit bar scene has not gotten along well with Tony and I. It started about two years ago with a trip to Jacoby’s. I understood from various internet sights that a sister pub, 313 Jac, was upstairs and a great place to visit. While sipping on our opening beers, I mentioned this to the waitress, asking where the entrance to 313 Jac was and if a band would be making noise there. She acted like I was trying to get into her secret club and didn’t know the special handshake. The patrons were just as helpful. Fuck Yous!
A few months later, Tony and I were looking for a place to drink after a high energy Hives show at the Shelter, and we spotted the Sweet Water Tavern. We knew nothing about the place, except that it was nearby and open. Once the door closed behind us, we knew a mistake had been made. We turned into Boone and Flounder walking into the Dexter Lake Club in Animal House. We gave a quick wave to Otis Day and the Knights, and proceeded to walk by the curious black faces staring at us, in search of the back door. The Sweet Water Tavern has no back door. About face, past the same set of now amused black faces and out the front door. Crackers!
I mention this because Tony was not very receptive to my Friday night suggestion of visiting Delux Lounge and The Old Shillelagh in the Greektown area of Detroit. Memories of these past disasters were still too fresh in his mind (he has a great memory, especially for the bad stuff). We ventured into Dearborn instead.
Dearborn is dead.
We started at the Double Olive. It was eerily dark, the televisions were blank, the music was muted and nondescript, and the few patrons were chatting in hushed tones. It is very rare for our opening beers to go unfinished, but it happened. We walked 100 feet to the Post Bar, and although the crowd was slim, the atmosphere was a bit better. The televisions were on, the girls behind the bar were ridiculously hot and you could hear the tunes. We stuck around for a few drinks based largely on the hotness of the barmaid on our side of the bar. I told you us guys are simple. We decided to mosey another 100 feet to Howell’s (aka The Howler) and found it to be loud, smokey and filled to the brim with dudes. Without ordering, we walked another 50 feet to Bailey’s, some faceless corporation’s idea of a cool bar. Under the harsh lights, we nursed a beer and talked about how fucked we were.
I suggested the “D” word to Tony again. He was either drunk enough, or desperate enough to agree, so we headed to our car and the trip to the mean streets of Detroit. While cruising on 94, Tony put in an urgent urine request. No problem, there are oodles of places to piss near the Rouge Plant (sarcasm). I got off the expressway and spotted some shit bar where we both took advantage of their sparkling facilities (more sarcasm). Getting back on 94 proved to be tough, but after a bit of cursing we were on our way once again.
After what seemed to be an eternity, we found a lot in the Greektown area to park for a reasonable $5. Much to my surprise, I was able to pull up a mental image of the map I looked at earlier in the day and we saw Delux Lounge and The Old Shillelagh sitting right across the street from one another at the corner of Monroe and Brush. We decided to hit Delux first, and I was halfway through the front door with Tony at my heels, when a huge black arm stopped my progress. “It’s $20 apiece to get in...and we only have about an hour left to party,” said the hard case blocking our way.
Look, if we are not hip enough to join your party, just say it, and cease with the trumped up cover bullshit. I am not the combative type and am not inclined to venture into a place where I am not wanted. Tony swears that the tough guy at the door referred to us as Wally and Beaver, but I can not confirm...or deny.
The Old Shillelagh was an oasis beckoning two almost defeated Irish lads into its bosom. After coughing up the $5 cover, I looked forward to a cold beer and some great Irish music. I got some cold beer and DJ techno crap instead.
It took a minute or two for my eyes to adjust and see the Irishness of the pub. I found it in the “let’s drink” attitude of the patrons, both male and female. It also became evident in the fight that took place right next to me. To the credit of the staff, they did not overreact and the two main combatants were allowed to continue drinking.
I could not honestly tell you what our beers cost, but I don’t recall recoiling in horror. I do remember that the crowd was a great mix, with a lot of girls hanging in groups (if that kind of thing is important to you). And wonder of wonders, I was hit upon. Does tall, athletic, good looking and bold appeal to you? Even though the opening line of “Do you know me?” was trite, I can’t deny that it felt good to be noticed. Did I mention that it was a guy hitting on me? Fuck all of you, I still liked the attention.
I am still not sure how the techno music on this main floor fits a place called The Old Shillelagh, but it did nothing to discourage the throng. There seemed to be no distinct dance floor, but tons of people got busy, their dancing spilling into the tables and milling crowd. It made for a fun, if not hectic atmosphere.
After downing a couple of cold ones, Tony and I spotted a few people heading up a steep set of stairs, so we followed suit. The longtime house band Black Mist was doing their thing, while a knot of dancers did theirs on the even smaller upstairs dance floor. We stood against the back wall for a bit, though my growing haze prevents me from telling you what tunes were played, or if these tunes had anything to do with Ireland. I can say with certainty that the crowd was lapping it up (along with a generous dose of booze).
It was near closing time when we made our way back down the treacherous steps to the still crazed main floor. Here, Tony thanked me for making him come to Detroit and saluted the drunken mob with a final Tanqueray and Tonic. The Irish and the Irish at heart always know how to have a good time.
Cheers!
-Jim
Old Shillelagh: 349 Monroe St. Detroit, MI 48226
A few months later, Tony and I were looking for a place to drink after a high energy Hives show at the Shelter, and we spotted the Sweet Water Tavern. We knew nothing about the place, except that it was nearby and open. Once the door closed behind us, we knew a mistake had been made. We turned into Boone and Flounder walking into the Dexter Lake Club in Animal House. We gave a quick wave to Otis Day and the Knights, and proceeded to walk by the curious black faces staring at us, in search of the back door. The Sweet Water Tavern has no back door. About face, past the same set of now amused black faces and out the front door. Crackers!
I mention this because Tony was not very receptive to my Friday night suggestion of visiting Delux Lounge and The Old Shillelagh in the Greektown area of Detroit. Memories of these past disasters were still too fresh in his mind (he has a great memory, especially for the bad stuff). We ventured into Dearborn instead.
Dearborn is dead.
We started at the Double Olive. It was eerily dark, the televisions were blank, the music was muted and nondescript, and the few patrons were chatting in hushed tones. It is very rare for our opening beers to go unfinished, but it happened. We walked 100 feet to the Post Bar, and although the crowd was slim, the atmosphere was a bit better. The televisions were on, the girls behind the bar were ridiculously hot and you could hear the tunes. We stuck around for a few drinks based largely on the hotness of the barmaid on our side of the bar. I told you us guys are simple. We decided to mosey another 100 feet to Howell’s (aka The Howler) and found it to be loud, smokey and filled to the brim with dudes. Without ordering, we walked another 50 feet to Bailey’s, some faceless corporation’s idea of a cool bar. Under the harsh lights, we nursed a beer and talked about how fucked we were.
I suggested the “D” word to Tony again. He was either drunk enough, or desperate enough to agree, so we headed to our car and the trip to the mean streets of Detroit. While cruising on 94, Tony put in an urgent urine request. No problem, there are oodles of places to piss near the Rouge Plant (sarcasm). I got off the expressway and spotted some shit bar where we both took advantage of their sparkling facilities (more sarcasm). Getting back on 94 proved to be tough, but after a bit of cursing we were on our way once again.
After what seemed to be an eternity, we found a lot in the Greektown area to park for a reasonable $5. Much to my surprise, I was able to pull up a mental image of the map I looked at earlier in the day and we saw Delux Lounge and The Old Shillelagh sitting right across the street from one another at the corner of Monroe and Brush. We decided to hit Delux first, and I was halfway through the front door with Tony at my heels, when a huge black arm stopped my progress. “It’s $20 apiece to get in...and we only have about an hour left to party,” said the hard case blocking our way.
Look, if we are not hip enough to join your party, just say it, and cease with the trumped up cover bullshit. I am not the combative type and am not inclined to venture into a place where I am not wanted. Tony swears that the tough guy at the door referred to us as Wally and Beaver, but I can not confirm...or deny.
The Old Shillelagh was an oasis beckoning two almost defeated Irish lads into its bosom. After coughing up the $5 cover, I looked forward to a cold beer and some great Irish music. I got some cold beer and DJ techno crap instead.
It took a minute or two for my eyes to adjust and see the Irishness of the pub. I found it in the “let’s drink” attitude of the patrons, both male and female. It also became evident in the fight that took place right next to me. To the credit of the staff, they did not overreact and the two main combatants were allowed to continue drinking.
I could not honestly tell you what our beers cost, but I don’t recall recoiling in horror. I do remember that the crowd was a great mix, with a lot of girls hanging in groups (if that kind of thing is important to you). And wonder of wonders, I was hit upon. Does tall, athletic, good looking and bold appeal to you? Even though the opening line of “Do you know me?” was trite, I can’t deny that it felt good to be noticed. Did I mention that it was a guy hitting on me? Fuck all of you, I still liked the attention.
I am still not sure how the techno music on this main floor fits a place called The Old Shillelagh, but it did nothing to discourage the throng. There seemed to be no distinct dance floor, but tons of people got busy, their dancing spilling into the tables and milling crowd. It made for a fun, if not hectic atmosphere.
After downing a couple of cold ones, Tony and I spotted a few people heading up a steep set of stairs, so we followed suit. The longtime house band Black Mist was doing their thing, while a knot of dancers did theirs on the even smaller upstairs dance floor. We stood against the back wall for a bit, though my growing haze prevents me from telling you what tunes were played, or if these tunes had anything to do with Ireland. I can say with certainty that the crowd was lapping it up (along with a generous dose of booze).
It was near closing time when we made our way back down the treacherous steps to the still crazed main floor. Here, Tony thanked me for making him come to Detroit and saluted the drunken mob with a final Tanqueray and Tonic. The Irish and the Irish at heart always know how to have a good time.
Cheers!
-Jim
Old Shillelagh: 349 Monroe St. Detroit, MI 48226
