Alice Tully Hall

You walk off Broadway into Lincoln Center and the marble lobby hums with old coat rustles and hushed ticket talk. It doesn't feel like your usual sweat-drenched rock club because it isn't. The security guards wear ties, and nobody's spilling a PBR on your sneakers while you wait for the house lights to dim.

Once you’re inside the hall, the wood paneling wraps around the room like a giant acoustic guitar. The seats actually have legroom, which feels weird when you're used to standing on sticky concrete floors all night. The sound hits you dead center, crisp enough to catch every single breath the cellist takes from row twelve.

There's no dive bar stench or sticky bar rails here. You grab a overpriced glass of white wine at intermission and stare out the massive glass facade at the rainy cab lights spinning on 65th Street.