Review of Club Heat

Saturday, January 27^th took me on another hula-hoop around SD that eventually landed in club Heat, on 5^th Ave, Downtown. We convened at my friend’s flat on 4^th and Market (prime spot!), and hooked up with a crew of trance DJs who were promoting their new production company, Substance. After spinning turntables for the pedestrians beneath our window, we had a couple of drinks, a couple of smokes, and zigzagged through the Gaslamp Quarter.

Our arrival at club Heat clocked in at 11pm, a bit later than I prefer. The line was short and remained tolerable. As lines go, I wouldn’t expect one of those half-hour party lines like you get for On Broadway. We skipped to the front and made our entrance in style – I guess one of the DJs was next-door neighbors with the GM of Heat. The cover ran us for ten big ones.

First things first. Thursday through Saturday night, Heat is a dance club. If you like to dance, this is a place to check out. But if you’re looking to meet people through casual conversation then you better learn to speak body language. Voice length measures out to about six inches, so personal space becomes semi-public. Although Heat’s website touts four bars, a basement, and a mezzanine level, the mezzanine was roped off for VIPs. It is a “bottle service” area that requires reservations. Only two bars were accessible, and knowing the GM will not garner VIP status.

The main and the lower level were open to our curiosity, and we made it our business to enjoy. Many gallivants arrived in groups either outfitted with a date, or to meet a familiar face. Heat is a great place to bring a special someone and bond on the dance floor. Nevertheless, there were plenty of singles to go around.

Both the lower and the main level were small, perhaps too small, without any walking avenues to facilitate easy migration. Walking had to be practical and for good reason, such as distancing oneself away from that Paula Abdul wannabee, and nearing the seeming unattainable Sirens at the end of the room (not that this happened, and yes, I got their number).

After a couple of stabs, we successfully claimed a piece of real estate on the downstairs couch and stuck with it the rest of the night, grooving to DJ Scotty Robs’ house remixes of classics like “California Dreaming” by The Mommas and The Poppas. We never had to fight for drinks, for which I give complements to the bartenders. Long Islands flowed like wine and the world was our oyster, if only for an hour of mildly happy inebriation. Prices weighed in on the typical Downtown scale: with tip, expect to hash out about ten dollars a pop.

Before we knew it, last call was struck, and the dancing girls puttered out with the music, leaving the downstairs bland and empty.

We plodded back to our pad, considering options for the night. Another one of those after-hours ideas with a dubious track record “to keep the party going” surfaced. Someone knew some guy named Ed who was having a party. But it was a lost cause, the night was ending, everyone knew it. The decision gradually shifted towards a “No” on Ed’s party.

A night cap of conversation and more spinning soon prodded us off on our way towards our parked cars, which then meandered towards our respective houses, where we slept and fed our perennial habit of barring and clubbing.