31st Street Pub

After walking off a disappointing brief tour of Lawrenceville taverns I decided to give 31^st pub a go since I was heading back towards downtown to catch the T. Purely a no nonsense and stand up establishment here with dark smoky attitude and décor. There were no bands scheduled but the stage was charming and alluring to my 4 eyes. Drinks were stiff and beer options while not abundant were suffice. After chatting with some young long haired bucks they proceeded to play some great tunes on the juke (ZAPPA included)
I will have to return when there is a show and let’s just say that if 31^st was a dame (and yes that is an outdated yet still a term of endearment in my odd world) she would be the girl who wears combat boots even during the summer but has a big heart, But if you betray and disrespect her, those boots are going straight up you arse/​into your nuts. hahaha

Over the past score of my life, I have passed the legendary 31^st Street Pub an estimated 5,000 times. Yet until the other night, I kept putting off going since the concerts often don’t end until after 2am! Thus, I’ve missed countless gigs, and not without much regret. Long is the tally of what could’ve been: Church of Misery, The Wildhearts, Byzantine, Absu… ugh. Oh Hecate, I’m about to weep, slapping my calvous skull as I write this. However, last week, I noticed that another band who’d headlined a concert here 2 years ago, one that I also skipped for whatever lame reason, was returning. Until the actual date of the show, I was still wringing my hands… at 7pm. The start time was 9:30! I gazed into the mirror, saying to myself, «It’s on a Friday night! I don’t have to get up early tomorrow! My doctor’s appointment isn’t ’til 11:30! My woman is away for the night! I just got paid! I have Lyft on my iPhone! It’s only $ 10 to get in! I can do this!»
Before I could debate with myself further, I was showering, shaving, brushing my teeth, deodorizing, donning my «good» black boots, my «good» jeans, grabbing some ear plugs, and pulling on one of many concert tour shirts that I own.
When I arrived, I was surprised that only one floor was utilized. All of the head-​snapping action was to occur in the back of the room. For all of these years, I’d thought the magic happened upstairs.
I looked about nervously. I didn’t see anyone I knew… yet. I gazed at the death-​themed knick-​knacks, guitars, and drum covers that bedecked the walls and ceiling. I cautiously sat at the bar, ordering a Pepsi. A devil doll of a barmaid smirked, brought me a PBR, and said, «2 bucks. Trust me, it’ll regrow hair.»
Hell, I thought the hipsters had completely co-​opted Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, driving the price into orbit. Like a house of worship is to vampires, their kind would not be welcome here, but was I?
A sweaty hand planted itself onto my scalp as I sipped on the bitter ale out of politeness. I spun around, my back tingling. I was anticipating a brawl!
«Hey, maaan! I seen them 20 times,» A bearded, portly, long-​haired gentleman said to me, pointing to my Testament shirt. «They’re cold-​blooded.»
I’d made a new friend in the time it takes to whip up a mixed drink.
«Anybody gives you shit abaht not havin’ no hair, you tell ‘em Rob Halford’s bald too,» he advised.
«But wait, you ain’t gay are ya?» he asked only to explode into a roar of wobbling, cheerful laughter. I grabbed him for fear he was going to fall off his stool.
Shortly, friends from the local metal scene were seeping in, shocked that I’d finally showed up here, exclaiming «It’s about damn time» as they patted my back.
«Is that… him?» I asked one of my comrades.
«Who? Where?»
«Over there. Eric Wagner, the former singer of Trouble, hanging out with one of the chicks from Derketa? What’s he doin’ here?»
Alas, it was him. Shyness overcame me, but before I could work up the nerve to say hello, a creepy, clanky, thrash metal ghoulfest was underway, Deceased mastermind King Fowley proving to be one affable ogre of a man, a composite of Hagar The Horrible, Shrek, Homer Simpson, and Gardner’s Grendel.
The stage is close to the floor, making shows not only intimate but interactive. Halfway into the first song on the setlist, Fowley was lurking around the entire bar while vocalizing as I wondered if his cord would be long enough, urging fellow concertgoers to sing along, and you’d better know the words when King calls on you and sticks a microphone into yer yap.
I made the wonderful mistake of standing at the corner of the stage, but the band’s energy overcame me. Asudden, I was staggering around like a minion of of Samhain, Lord of the Dead…
Fowley would don a zombie mask, mock strangling me before the finale, a cover of this seminal track that spawned an entire subgenre…
An hour and a half of serrated guitars, flailing mallochios, and guttural screams, ended with me trapped in a bearhug by Fowley himself, my eyes red from cigarette smoke.
«You looked like you had a bad-​ass time,»
«I did, I did.»
«How come I never saw ya here before?»
«Eh, I dunno.»
Chuckling good-​naturedly, the manbeast bid me adieu. Outside, the rain intermittently spat cold droplets upon me as I contacted Lyft for a ride home. I awoke at 10:30, narrowly making my appointment on time, thanking a relative with a reliable car profusely.
The green cube of brick, wattage, noise, and sweat that is the 31^st Street Pub has stood for longer than I’ve been breathing. Not much is ornate about it. Just enough room is allotted for the bands to do their thing and give Baphomet his due while you just rock out like its your sworn duty, cause it is! Lovers of metal and/​or punk: Your attendance is mandatory.

I happened to be in town on business right around the time of the ⁶⁄₂₆ D.R.I. show, so I got my first taste of the 31^st Street Pub during that visit.
This is one intimate venue, especially if the place is crowded (I’m assuming the show I attended was one of the more crowded ones, as I was told beforehand it was «almost sold out»).
Inside, the place isn’t very wide (30 – 40 feet of available space maybe?), with a bar running most of the length of the building up the right side. From the very back of the club to the stage appeared to be somewhere between 100 and 120 feet.
The ambiance in here is «punk rock dive bar» through and through. Posters, flyers and stickers cover almost every inch of available space. Behind the bar, there was more of the same, but also a long shelf/​cabinet filled with skulls. There’s also a section of ceiling, from about mid-​bar to the end closest to the stage, that has autographed cymbals attached to it. Acts both big and small have passed through the doors of this place, from the looks of those cymbals.
Other reviews have mentioned the scrolling electronic sign that «disses» some of the older Pittsburgh music venues, which was a fun little touch.
The stage only stands about 18 inches tall, if I had to guess, didn’t look to be more than about 20 feet wide, and there was an obstruction on the left of the stage in the form of some speakers. A musician could easily be obscured behind that thing if they’re not into moving around too much.
Despite my concerns, the sound system was up to par, and all of the bands sounded pretty clear.
I had to hit the bathroom twice over the course of the evening, and the men’s room was about what you’d expect from a place like this. It was small (two people could be in there at once, max) and filled with stickers and graffiti.
There were plenty of cheap beer options, but not nearly enough craft brews for my liking. There were only two that really caught my eye, and one of them was totally tapped out after I’d only been in the door for about five minutes. On the plus side, those couple of craft brews were the expensive ones on the list, and only cost $ 4.50 apiece. While still expensive considering the average price of a six-​pack, it was still way less than the $ 7-​$ 8 I was expecting to be socked with.
I had a 1.7-mile walk back to my hotel after the show, so I knew I had to keep things in check (beer-​wise) if I wanted to get back in one piece. So I switched to bottled water pretty early on, and was glad to find out they were only a buck apiece.
All in all, three bottled waters and a single craft brew only ran me $ 7.50 (minus tips), so it was a pretty economical evening.
Call me a wimp if you must (go ahead, it’s okay), but after years and years of clubs prohibiting smoking, it was tough for me to adjust to the fact that smoking was allowed in here. I was enshrined in a cloud of smoke most of the night from the people around me, and I smelled dreadful (well, more dreadful than usual) when I got back to my room.
But, enough of all that…
To sum up, intimacy is the key to a place like this. There probably isn’t a bad spot in the place to watch a band. Towards the end of D.R.I.‘s set, I went to the merch area (right near the entrance), which is about as far as you could be from the stage, and was still able to see everything taking place on stage.
I’m not often in Pittsburgh, but the next time I get an opportunity to see a show here, I’m totally down.

Here’s the thing: great live rock venues are a dying breed. Joel’s survived by having consistently amazing bands and treating them well. Live music has struggled due to a lot of attention competition in the last 10 years. Living and performing for 10 years in NYC during the ’00’s, there were few if any club owners that understood how to build and develop loyalty among a scene. Joel and the Pub have managed to withstand the difficulties of economic and cultural change by simply doing one thing brilliantly: present kick ass rock n roll, reasonable drinks, and a nurturing atmosphere. I miss my touring days and I mostly miss playing the 31^st Street Pub. Luckily, I still do once a year. Joel –keep the torch lit, and the Jäger cold!

Listen: I don’t like Metal.
But listen again: I still had a great time at 31^st Street Pub.
Now I don’t know if you have to be a Metal band to be booked here, but last Saturday my friend’s friend’s band was playing, and all the other bands playing that night were of that genre.
It was packed, but not so packed you were squeezed up on everyone. The stage was small, but the band was close. And loud.
Plastic skulls line the walls. Signed cymbals on the ceiling. A scrolling neon sign says: F*uck pretty much every other venue in the city. A bulky golieth of a man takes your 5 dollar cover when you enter.
The crowd is extremely varied and most people smoke. A lot. But all are welcoming. I came in thinking I’d be well out of my element, but left thinking I’d like to stop in again sometime.

This is a kick ass punk rock bar! Everyone was friendly. All original music is a guarantee, the bar is decorated with all kinds of cool stuff to check out, the staff is on point, and if I lived in Pitt I would be coming here all of the time. Only bummer was no food close by, but I wasn’t there for the food.

There is a sign above the stage and above the bar that says «Absolutely no covers». That alone gets this place 5 stars — giving a thriving scene to musicians that create their own work. The ceiling and walls are lined with drum heads and broken cymbals of bands who have rolled through — look hard and you’ll see some names that would sell out Stage AE these days. Smoking is a downside, but it’s hard to complain about it in a place like this. If you like rock, come on out. The drinks are cheap, too.
Also, I love the electronic sign above the bar that scrolls through «fuck *your favorite place here*». Some of the names on the list shut down years ago — that just makes it even better.

I LOVE this place. They put on some amazing shows, particularly of the punk/​rockabilly/​metal persuasion. They also find awesome local talent. I haven’t gone here when there wasn’t a concert going on so I can’t speak to an average night at the bar but the events were enough to merit a 5. Along with Belvederes, one of my favorite places in Pittsburgh.

This place is a 21 and up club that caters to the biker and gearhead lot. I drove up to Pittsburgh with the intention of seeing a really good psychobilly show at this pub and amen, I got what the hell I showed up for. The bar itself is a special kind of classy, from the Frankenstein green paint job on the exterior to the glass showcase full of skulls that leads the way to the bathroom, this bar has a great atmosphere. This is a place where any ruffian wishing to relive the glory days of their bad ass biker grand pappy can happily swill down cheap beer and tap their knee to a running bass line in their finest leather jacket. The place is cleanish, crisp, it’s a working class bar (between sets they played nothing but The Bruisers, I was in heaven). I’m going to go to more shows here, as many as I can, and I hope more people show up because I want to see the touring bands coffers runneth over.
Notables:
–They have «underwear afternoons» sometimes where bartenders are dressed in lingerie.
–Shows start at 10:00 PM and the whole place is 21 and up.
–You can smoke
–A ton of good shows that run the gamut of excellent underground music.