Night Moves

Bringing the dance to the dance club

Adapt and overcome -- this is my personal mantra. Whenever I'm faced with a challenge, I tell myself there must be a solution of sorts, and all I have to do is adapt and overcome. So when I walked into Soho Lounge, a club on East Sixth Street, with Sally and my sister Haley and saw not a single dancer, I panicked, then I envisioned my editor telling me, "That's OK, you don't have to turn in a column ... we'll pay you anyway." But since that was not going to happen, I had to assess the situation, adapt and overcome.

After touring both levels and still finding no signs of dancing (except a lone man), I asked a bartender if there was a dance floor somewhere in the club. Who knows? Maybe I missed it. Dumber things have happened (like when my brother decided to play astronaut with a plastic bag over his head as a helmet -- we removed the bag before he caused any permanent brain damage).

"Well, some people dance downstairs," the bartender replied while shaking up a cocktail. The bartender, who shall remain nameless, was neither helpful nor supportive.

Photo by Kelly West/AA-S Soho Lounge on Sixth Street might not be a hoppin' club, but if there's a bachelorette party going on, you'll get dancing. Soho Lounge. 217 E. 6th St., 472-1916.

And it is a cool place. The first floor supports a long bar, some comfortable seating and a raised area, which for the night was roped off for a bachelorette party. The second story was basically the same, minus the raised seating area. The club is dimly lit with chic crimson hanging lamps, and while the club is more lengthy than wide, it has plenty of space and isn't claustrophobic.

The crowd was your basic Sixth Street crew. Casual yet stylish (for the most part -- there are always a few bad apples) guys and gals, ranging from the mid 20s to late 30s, filled the club, sitting, drinking, flirting ... sitting.

"Yeah it's nice, but I thought the point was to go somewhere where people were dancing," Haley replied.

"That one guy's dancing," Sally optimistically remarked. I think her shoes were starting to hurt and she was afraid I would try to make her walk somewhere else, or worse, drive somewhere else and have to re-park.

"Hello, the emperor has no dancers."

"I'm with Haley," I chimed in. "One dancer does not a dance club make." And just as the words tumbled out of my mouth, the bridal shower party descended onto the floor and one dancer became 12 (or so; I didn't actually count because that would be sad). Now I had something to work with.

The DJ was putting out some old-school rock and hip-hop. Jumping around to "High So High" or rocking out to "Here I Go Again," the lone dancer, pre-wedding ladies, Sally, Haley and I got the party started; we even had a few others join the seemingly impromptu dance wave.

In the end everything worked out, unhelpful bartender aside, and Soho lived up to its promise of being a dance club (sort of). Sally and I had fun as always, as did my sister, and I think we all learned a valuable lesson: It doesn't necessarily take a village to make a dance club ... just a bachelorette party.