Consider Greenpoint as an amoeba: Osmosis-like, the Polish ’hood is soaking up the essence of 1996 Williamsburg. While today’s ’Burg has become condo central for I-bankers and Euros wearing tight-booty jeans, once-dowdy Greenpoint crackles with nightlife electricity.
Warsaw, Uncle Paulie’s and Europa are causing club crawlers to pound Greenpoint’s pavements (in Nike Air Wovens, natch). The latest destination is Studio B, courtesy of party-starters behind the Delancey on the Lower East Side and Miami’s hot-pants Studio A. Studio B, as the factory-wasteland venue is known, is a pain-in-the-rumpus stroll from the subway, playing the desolation-equals-trendiness card.
It worked to a T one recent Thursday. Upon arrival, a conga line of too-cool-for-schoolers wiggle down the block.
“For once, I wish word didn’t spread quick,” my bearded accomplice says, as we dot the line’s end. Studio B’s bouncers are astoundingly proficient, and in less time than a bus crossing Manhattan, we enter through a trapezoidal white door.
“It looks like the fireplace from the wedding scene in Beetlejuice,” says my friend, referencing the Michael Keaton/Winona Ryder ghoul flick.
Studio B’s insides are frightening in their own special fashion. Once upon a time, this space was home to the Polish club Pulse. As befitting most Polish nightclubs, Pulse’s designers went gaga over smoke machines and multicolored lights, which flash with an ambulance’s urgency. At perfect moments, these lights rev up the crowd like Red Bull. Other times they can be downright epileptic.
That said, Studio B’s design hits all the dark, spacious, makeout-friendly notes. The raised VIP lounge offers leather couches, while the snug side room (where DJs spin) is ideal for snogging. The main stage features bands and DJs selected by Motherfucker’s Justine D, while the gargantuan dance floor packs in scores of ass-shakers—provided, of course, the crowd breaks its studied Brookylnite cool.
Audience members comprise boys as skinny as their mustaches and pretty girls wearing dresses and shirts allergic to right angles. They’re content to stand around, statuesque, despite the pulsating, conversation-erasing sound system, which rattles my guts like castanets.
“Watch out,” said a boy in gold boots, who was nudged by someone daring to dance.
Jump-starting good times and hip-shaking is easy with drinks. Like any club worth its salt, Studio B offers two bars—manned by maniacally overworked bartenders.
“Whaddya want?” a sweating blonde bartendress asks me.
Studio B serves the typical array of industrial brews (Bud, Stella Artois, Miller High Life), but prices retain common sense: beers run between $4 to $6, while mixed drinks are $6. Following years of skyrocketing alcohol costs, plebian pricing is refreshing. Cheap(er) drinks work their magic, and when headliners 2 Many DJs unleash their mash-up magic, the crowd hoofs it up like crazy.
My worry is that this location may hinder Studio’s long-term survival. As far as snazzy set-up, Studio B is aces—provided owners exercise judicious restraint on the smoke and light machines. And while the crowd is packed for opening night, as well as nights featuring buzz bands like the Klaxons and Tokyo Police Club, novelty’s blush soon wears off. Who travels to an out-of-the-way club for crappy music? If booking remains strong, then I’ll bleed your ears with the world’s lamest pun: Studio B is the Place 2 Be.
Studio B
259 Banker St. (betw. Meserole & Calyer Sts.), Greenpoint, B’klyn
718-389-1880
