“It’s down these teeny-tiny little street,” one girl slurs, pointing toward the sky like the street is above her. Her thick white-blond hair is in two long pigtails that tick back and forth as she sways unsteadily. “And it’s got a ½ on the door. 81½, 52½, 96½, I don’t fucking remember. Do you guys?” Her friends mumble in the negative. “Anyway, that’s it—the number, but no sign. And it’s awesome.” She nods knowingly, then places a finger squarely on the tip of my nose. “But it’s a speakeasy. So you have to look for the half.”

FINALLY, WE FIND the nondescript door halfway down Concord Alley in a very old, dark building. It’s wider than a single brownstone, but not quite as big as an apartment building. And the girl was right: a tarnished brass 89½ in the center of the door is the only sign. There are windows, but they are dark, maybe covered with curtains. When I go to open the door, I expect it to be locked. For someone inside to ask for a code, for a chain to keep us out. But the door opens easily. There’s a second one inside, also unlocked, and beyond that a curtained vestibule. Pausing there, I can hear a single voice, speaking eerily into silence.

When I finally push my way through the curtain, there are in fact lots of people there, just all facing the stage at the far end, all quiet. The floor is covered with sawdust, and there are black-and-white photos of musicians hanging on the walls, painted a fading red. When I stand on my toes, I can make out a man at the microphone. Short and rumpled in a baseball cap and a baggy sweater, he sounds much more confident than you’d expect him to be. And no wonder, with the crowd hanging on his every word. Not that I can make any of them out. Back on my flat feet, my only view is a wall of backs, and his words are all muffled.

I meet eyes with a husky bald guy with hoop earrings and a black leather vest perched on a stool near the door. Definitely the bouncer. He squints at us, like he is trying to decide if we are worth the bother of pushing to his feet.

“Let’s go,” Jasper says, noticing him too.

We weave our way through the bodies, more tightly packed as we get farther back toward the stage, until finally there is a small corner of space near the bar—though kind of unfortunately right in the bouncer’s sight line. Already the next person is onstage, a very tall girl wearing a beatnik paisley skirt and cowboy boots.