skip snitch

o how i long for the days of yore when an up-and-coming indie band would garner drunken golf claps or even caustic catcalls from a tough audience. today, people settle for glares of disgust and vacant confusion - at least, in a 20' by 60' bar in manhattan's flatiron district called "snitch".

goes cube, a friend of mine's band, performed a set there last night. i use the term "set" loosely, as they were only allowed to play 2.5 songs before they were abruptly cut off by a darkened stage and filter's "i wake on my airplane". on top of that, the stage lacked monitors so the band couldn't hear themselves playing. they had to move their mics and rock out on the already crowded floor. something that was super punk rock, but only boggled the minds of the audience - trophy wives and the sleazy wall street "oh yeah man, i used to be a punk rocker" securities traders who cheat on them - who were just there to drool over celebs and unbutton the top button of their button-downs. the rude bullying self-important bouncers who nearly beat up my friends as they were leaving were included free of charge.

velvetly-roped off from 21st street between 5th & 6th ave, this self-proclaimed "rock & roll sports bar" is the place to be if you want matt pinfield and his shiny pate to make your ears bleed from 11pm-3am on wednesdays. ornamented with 20 flat screen tvs (they're the new fail-safe for well-connected aspiring interior designer flunkies), a dinky disco ball, $5 budweisers, a curtained strip club stage, and a stale pop rock soundtrack, scott weiland's snitch is a rock bar that doesn't respect its roots. everyone knows true rock & rollers are too busy busting their butts to give a twitching yelping neutered chihuahua about sports.