Ottobar: the good and the bad

The Ottobar has a lot of good things going for it.

First and foremost, it's convenient. Located at 26th and Howard Streets, it is four blocks from the south end of campus, which means it's within walking distance -- a fact not lost on anyone who has decided against a trip because of the cab fare, parking or the inability to find a designated driver. For music venues, Ottobar is also cheap. A bottle of Yuengling or a Bass runs $2.75, which is cheaper than what CVP charges. Cover is seldom over $5 if you're over 21. Happy hour runs until 9 p.m. and offers most drinks for $2. Speaking of drinks, The Ottobar is the only bar in Baltimore I know of that offers Brooklyn Lager, which happens to be my favorite beer.

The price and the availability of Brooklyn Lager is reason enough to go to the Ottobar, but the bar itself is something to behold. Upstairs is a bar with pool tables and couches. Lining the walls is (gasp) real artwork, "80s video games (which are there for essentially ornamental reasons) and what might be Baltimore's best jukebox. Johnny Cash, Snoop Doggy Dogg and Blondie blare on the speakers in no particular order. The jukebox's great selection is enhanced by the fact that the people who pump it full of quarters have the good taste to take advantage of the diverse offerings.

The upstairs bar is nice, but the real action is downstairs. The main stage faces a huge dance floor, which is usually packed to the gills.

Last Friday, I went on what the Ottobar's Web site described as "UNDERGROUND -- Brit Pop Dance night!" In my hippest garb, I sauntered in at around 9:30 to find the place nearly empty. There were people by the bar, but the dance floor was mainly terra nullius.

The DJ, who eschewed vinyl for the convenience of CDs, knew what he was doing. Classics from Elastica, The Who, The Kinks, Squeeze and Blur eventually got people dancing. By midnight, the floor was packed and people were dancing on the stage. The Chinese man with a bald spot and a cable-knit sweater, one of four or five people on the dance floor when I first arrived, was nursing his beer in a sea of people -- fashionable people. Indies rule the roost in the Ottobar most nights, with 20-something men in used clothing and thick-framed glasses shimmied and shook with 20-something women flopping their short black hair hither and thither.

It was hard to believe that such a self-consciously hip scene could be found in the heart of Baltimore, within walking distance of the mullets and beehives of Hampden. Then again, parts of Hampden are also trendy, The Avenue being the prime example of a place where one man's old clothing and ornamental housewares become another's must-have kitch. Just like how artists and hipsters are bringing parts of Brooklyn from the abyss of urban decay, the young and fashionable are carving out their niche from Baltimore's rotted core.

It was The Who's infectious "Can't Explain" that brought me down from the balcony to the dance floor. There, I found that the Ottobar isn't all peace, love and cheap beer.

For starters, I don't look like your average Ottobar patron. My picture appears often enough in the pages of this newspaper -- no matter how hard I try, I can't look like anything other than a young Republican. Therein lies the problem.

All night long, I had the inescapable feeling that people were glancing at me like I was a building inspector and not a partygoer. At first, I chalked it up to self-consciousness and thought nothing of it. Then, when I was standing up against a wall and surveying the crowd, a man six feet in front of me made a nasty gesture at me. The exact nature of the gesture is best left to the imagination, but it took me by surprise. What had I done? Was it because I didn't belong? Flummoxed, I ended up leaving a half-hour later.

The Ottobar is a great bar. It has excellent music and is incredibly convenient. Brit-pop night features the sort of music you can't hear elsewhere in Baltimore. That being said, you ought to be sure that you look the part, lest you draw the ire of some schmuck who dislikes your very presence.