There is a new bar in Boston called Prohibited, that is being touted as an old-style speakeasy. I am all for secretive, not-well-know spots for people to congregate, but the abject hijacking of a 1930’s cultural phenom that grew from necessity rather than style is, well, “meh”. Pretty soon they’ll be about seven of these around the city. Spread out just enough not to step on each other’s microdemographics.
Think about what this is supposed to give you as a human being. It’s not as cool as the part in “Bad Influence” when you can get into an obscure party with a personal ad as a password. Is it to give you a sense of history? To remind you of a time when the unemployment rate was over 20% and people were so downtrodden that they just wanted a fucking drink to escape. Sadly, no. These places are about the decor and the sense of new experience, but only for the vapid awareness of stating that you’d visited it.
Perhaps the true underground can only be glimpsed by the rarity by which it surfaces to skittishly peer at the mainstream. And that, my friends, is the truth.