Polly Esther's

181 Eddy Street

(415) 885-1977

I’m sure that most of the people who visit this site would never go to Polly Esther’s (or probably even consider it in the first place). I however, harbor a deep-seated love for cheese-whiz 70s and 80s music and all the inevitable tackiness and, ultimately, unhippness, that follows.

It was with this in mind that I agreed to get my groove on at the new club last Saturday night (nestled on Eddy street in the ‘Loin). Polly Esther’s is new only to SF; it’s a thriving theme-oriented chain with locations in other major metropolitan areas (like, New York I’m told).

My friends’ younger brother was in town and she wanted to take him out dancing. Why we didn’t select one of SF’s finer clubs or colorful watering holes, I don’t quite know.

I knew Polly Esther’s would be a tacky-ass bastion of bridge and tunnel types and BAD 80s music. But, the possibility of hearing vintage Adam Ant and Duran Duran got the best of me.

Upon arrival, we waited in a long, boring line manned by satin-jacket wearing guys with headsets.

You can always tell what a place will be like by checking out your line-mates. The guys were pretty evenly split between Guido-types wearing longish leather jackets, slicked hair, and conspicuous gold chainage about the neck. The other half had that preppy, nerdy, not-quite -cute enough to be J. Crew look. In a word: Dockers.

The girls were basically female versions of the above-mentioned guys. And the trashy contingent was also in full swing. A lot of short slit skirts, tube tops (I do give them credit though—tube tops are very 80s) and insect clips in the hair.

My friend Foxy looked askance at crowd as we shuffled in and said, "everyone’s got to be from San Jose."

The concept team behind Polly Esther’s definitely gets a big old A for effort for the design of the place. The 70s and 80s are on separate floors and mammoth murals chronicling various aspects of the eras’ pop culture history grace the walls.

Not surprisingly, the ubiquitous Charlie’s Angels and the Brady Bunch gazed down at us with frozen gaiety. My favorites though, were the Playboy room and the velvet Top Gun painting above one of the bars.

The Playboy room had framed portraits of every single playmate to grace Playboy’s cover. This strangely fascinated me. I’m sure if my old women’s studies professor could have seen me she would have had a heart attack. Anyway, our Playboy room experience was short-lived because we got busted for smoking by one of the headset guys.

The dance floors

Too small, crowded with people bumping and grinding amidst that horrible smoke stuff that often billows out at clubs. I declared that I would not dance in that contact lens-drying madness and headed back to dance by the bar. A man grabbed my ass and called me "Mama."

The music

Pretty big disappointment. I like to think new wave, new romantics when I think of 80s. I didn’t really need to hear that "Hey Micky" song or listen to a throng of tasteless people chant that Jr. High refrain to "Mony, Mony" (for those of you who don’t remember: Get Laid, Get Fucked, over and over again, ad nauseum).

I did get to hear some New Order though, and my beloved Adam Ant. I was disappointed that no Prince made it into the rotation. I mean, what the hell would the 80s have been without Prince?

So, would I go back? Probably not ($12 cover, I admit, is too steep for me. I’d rather have three drinks at a dive bar. Polly’s drinks were watered down). Would I recommend it? Sure! Everyone should go once and set their 80s demons free.

Kezia Pearlman

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