Think of every great concert you’ve ever been to.
Now think of all the things they’ve had in common.
Controlled chaos. Stage diving. Keytar solos.
Yet without the appropriately insane venue, you’ve got nothing.
Welcome to the stage Tammany Hall, a multi-floor live music bar/dance hall/tour bus on steroids that looks like a speakeasy, sounds like a rock concert and functions with the necessary level of lawlessness required by both, open now.
One would come here for myriad reasons. Discovering the next big thing. Imbibing scotch-barrel-aged microbrews. Stocking up on brown M&M’s from the elevated green room.
The music: acts ranging from indie rock to big DJs to hip-hop (Drake jumped on stage during a recent private party). None of whom will ever perform “Livin’ on a Prayer.”
Starting on the main floor, you’ve got your general admission. Front-row drinking. Barside eating. The potential of being pulled on stage for a slide whistle solo.
Though if a luxury box vantage point is more your thing, you’ll head upstairs, reserve a table for bottle service and hand off your demo to the most important-looking record exec in the immediate vicinity.
But after the solos, encores and political rants (applicable if Bono’s performing), you’ll want to end up in the basement—a sort of world unto itself where the atmosphere says underground gin joint, but the exploits say backstage dressing room.
At least according to Bowie.
Now think of all the things they’ve had in common.
Controlled chaos. Stage diving. Keytar solos.
Yet without the appropriately insane venue, you’ve got nothing.
Welcome to the stage Tammany Hall, a multi-floor live music bar/dance hall/tour bus on steroids that looks like a speakeasy, sounds like a rock concert and functions with the necessary level of lawlessness required by both, open now.
One would come here for myriad reasons. Discovering the next big thing. Imbibing scotch-barrel-aged microbrews. Stocking up on brown M&M’s from the elevated green room.
The music: acts ranging from indie rock to big DJs to hip-hop (Drake jumped on stage during a recent private party). None of whom will ever perform “Livin’ on a Prayer.”
Starting on the main floor, you’ve got your general admission. Front-row drinking. Barside eating. The potential of being pulled on stage for a slide whistle solo.
Though if a luxury box vantage point is more your thing, you’ll head upstairs, reserve a table for bottle service and hand off your demo to the most important-looking record exec in the immediate vicinity.
But after the solos, encores and political rants (applicable if Bono’s performing), you’ll want to end up in the basement—a sort of world unto itself where the atmosphere says underground gin joint, but the exploits say backstage dressing room.
At least according to Bowie.
