233 Starr Karaoke & Eats

Bass hits the sidewalk on Starr Street right as you walk up from the train station. You're dodging puddles and hearing someone murder an old rock track through the front glass. It's loud before you even touch the heavy door. The guy checking IDs barely looks up when you slide past him into the dim room. Neon glows off sticky tables and people already huddle by the small stage waiting to grab a mic.

The spot isn't a massive concert hall, but it's got this wild energy when a packed Bushwick crowd starts screaming along to the chorus. Drinks are heavy-handed and cheap enough that you won't care about tomorrow morning. The sound system feeds back every five minutes, yet nobody complains because everyone's too busy yelling lyrics at the top of their lungs. Bartenders move fast behind the counter, slinging tallboys while dodging amateur singers tripping over monitor cords near the back wall.

You'll probably leave with your ears ringing and your jacket smelling like stale tequila and cheap fried food grease. Someone's dropping the mic on the floor right now while the next singer steps up.