256 Grand St. (Betw. Driggs Ave. & Roebling St.)
Williamsburg
718-599-1000
When I was lonely and in seventh grade, I had a plan to make friends: I'd pedal my bike to 7-11, buy Atomic Fireballs, Lemonheads and Bubble Yum, then backpack my bounty to junior high school.
I distributed gratis candy to the cool kids inhabiting my constellation: Zach Smith, Janelle Provenzano and Jeremy Brywczynski all dined. And, sure, finally they talked to me:
"Make sure you get me three Fireballs tomorrow."
"What about some sour Warheads?"
"Sure, sure, sure," I would respond, making a mental post-it to steal a couple dollars from my mom's purse. Making friends was expensive!
So it went for weeks: candy, conversation, candy, conversation, candy, candy, candy… There was no limit to a 12-year-old's appetite for sweets. Or a mother's supply of crumpled bills. My father, also noticing a dearth of pocket cash, gave my charade an un-Hollywood ending.
"The first rule of business, Josh, is buy low and sell high," he said. "The second: Don't give too much away for free."
These maxims lodged deep in my craw and, a dozen years later as I strolled down Williamsburg's Grand Street, I wondered if Trash Bar needed to take a parental economics lesson.
For Trash Bar (ex-electroclash headquarters Luxx and man trap Toybox) has a seemingly counterintuitive method of attracting customers: Get them shit-canned on PBR and discount well liquor. For free.
Another Atomic Fireball, please.
The notion is hardly novel. For years bars have lured patrons into their establishments with promises of something for nothing. The hope is that bargoers stick around and purchase a drink or eight. It's a crapshoot. But with New York City's unemployment rate hovering at 7.4 percent, crapshoot is now business tactic.
East Village's Leopard Lounge. Williamsburg's Royal Oak. Lower East Side's Rothko. More nights than not, these establishments entice patrons with libations both free and free-flowing.
But nowhere is it as ingrained as at Trash. Here's why: Trash is a relatively new music venue. They have nightly bills of rockers like Giraffes, the Break-Up and the Bamboo Kids. Shows average six or seven bucks. Coupled with the cost of admission is drink reign from 9 to 10 p.m.
"Six dollars for four bands and an hour of open bar; I dare you to find that deal elsewhere," says DJ Mojo, talent buyer for Trash.
Still, DJ Mojo says, make no bones about it: "The primary focus is the music. But I'm also a businessman; open bar is a tool to get people to come in and see bands."
Once inside Trash, concertgoers can expect a bar that means its name. Seats from what look like Chevy Astro Vans welcome rumps. Walls are plastered with license plates and vintage booze ads. Cans of PBR and Milwaukee's Best sit inside mannequin hands. Pervading the set-up is a paintjob that could be called whorehouse red.
Unlike other venues, the clientele has options. The stage and pool-table-friendly bar are separate rooms, so locals who want a five-dollar pint and not punk rock drink cover-free.
These touches are wrought from experience and trial and error. Trash Bar is owned and run by veterans of Lit and Mercury Lounge. DJ Mojo himself is a 30-year music-scene veteran who dates back to Danceteria days. An imposing figure who calls himself "the original punk-rock Blacula," Mojo has seen success with the liquor ploy. Mostly.
"For every 10 people who respect the open bar and tip well, you're going to get that one uncool person who orders nine vodka and sodas and leaves a buck," DJ Mojo says.
But the crowds are coming. Upwards of 200 people have become commonplace. Bargoers are varied in that Williamsburg way. Like the studded-belt set playing tabletop Pac-Man while men with asymmetrical haircuts gulp the post-midnight happy hour: Pabst and a whiskey shot for five bucks.
Mojo has no plans to change his honey-to-fly method. In fact, he feels free booze and bands are perfect complements.
"The music is the cherry on top of a sundae," DJ Mojo says. "The open bar is just a really great spoon you use to eat the cherry."
