"Club Mate" Baltimore, Md -- Do not knock it until you try it!!

I was a little worried when I headed to Club Mate. It wasn’t the sex club-like name—I’ve been burned before—or the fact that Brooklyn isn’t exactly known for its happening nightlife. It was because of the disturbing sadomasochism that seems to have taken over Baltimore’s club scene. I just can’t stand the idea that we should be on our knees thanking clubs for letting us pay exorbitant cover fees to be inside their hallowed halls. And Club Mate, with its VIP area and reserved seating, seemed like a likely spot for this sort of attitude. Instead, Club Mate manages to straddle a very fine line, by making VIPs feel like royalty without making the rest of us feel like serfs.

Finding Club Mate proved surprisingly easy on a recent Friday night—I just followed the strappy heels and flirty skits of a surprising number of sharply dressed club-goers working their way through Brooklyn. But the real surprise came when I realized that Club Mate is housed in the former Thunder Dome—making it a dance club that arose from the ashes of a hair-metal hangout.

As I headed in, one of the door guys asked me if I knew what was going on that evening? I’ve gotten that question before, usually when I take my white girl self to a local club on “urban” night. But it turns out he just wanted to let us know that there would be a large cover because Bobby Valentino was making an appearance. He even offered us VIP passes for another night if we wanted to come back then instead. But my friend is a Bobby Valentino fan, and I get reimbursed for this column, so what did I care? We paid our $20 a piece to get in but decided not to pay the additional fee for access to the VIP area. City Paper isn’t made of money.

The layout of the place is basically the same, but the front bar that used to look like a biker hangout is now a haven of crisp white minimalism, offset by velvety beanbags so large that once you sink into them it seems unlikely you’ll ever get out, especially in heels. The walls of the main room are hung with glowing orange circles that set off the plush booths, tables, and large dance floor. The roped-off staircase to the balcony is guarded by a burly and resolute-looking man. It seems impossible that these posh digs once sported inflatable dolls hanging from the ceiling.

After getting over the initial shock, I headed to the bar. The drinks were pricey but not horrifyingly so. My only real complaint is that getting a cosmo in a plastic cup is just a bit sad. The crowd was mostly, but not exclusively, African-American, and the outfits ranged from team jerseys to white button-downs, jeans to barely there skirts. Everyone was clearly dressed for a night out. With so many different looks, it wasn’t easy to stand out, but one woman managed. Dressed in white with sunglasses perched in her short hair, she made an impression on Club Mate's laid-back dance floor—while the other dancers swayed to midtempo hip-hop, she shook it like it was being banned tomorrow, going into squats that would make a personal trainer jealous. Simultaneously entranced and intimidated by Badunkadunk’s moves, my friend and I edged onto the dance floor, then quickly decided we needed another drink.

At this point, the club was starting to fill up and just getting to the bar in the main room seemed impossible, so we headed to the front bar to try our luck. Before we got there, a man in a baseball cap came up to us, said something about the VIP area that we couldn’t hear over the music, and fastened VIP wristbands on us. Surprised and more than a little bit flattered, we headed to the stairs and the rope was parted.

The VIP area was nice. Tables and couches lined the walls. A buffet was laid out with sweet potatoes and other yummy-looking comfort foods that don’t normally mix well with tight clothes. The drinks came in real glasses and there was even a VVIP section with beds. Not glorified lounge chairs, but fluffy-white-pillowed areas that looked harem-worthy.

Amid the opulence, I learned the truth about the VIP area. The people upstairs, most of whom paid extra money to be above the rabble, spent their entire time glued to the balcony watching the people below dance. And we were no different. The dance floor was now packed, and the swaying had given way to full-blown dancing led by my personal hero, Badunkadunk, who had been pulled onstage by a bouncer to show us all how it’s done. And she didn’t disappoint, dipping down and undulating like a charmed snake. After a while, a girl in a tiny black skirt and a woman in a gold satin gown were brought up as well. They tried to keep up but couldn’t, falling back on girl-on-girl freaking. Badunkadunk didn’t have to pander.

After a while, I realized that my friend and I were doing the we’re-not-dancing dance, our bodies moving a little here and a little there in time to the music. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who noticed. A guy came over and told us it was time for us to stop watching and start doing it. We couldn’t argue, so we followed him down and joined the crush of bodies. We danced the rest of the night, moving with the sea of bodies, under the gaze of those still up in the VIP area.

But as closing time approached, one thing started to bother me. Where was Bobby Valentino? He hadn’t made an appearance all night. Just as we grabbed our pre-last call drink, Valentino took to the stage. While the DJ played his music, he said, “Hi everyone, feel welcome.”

Club Mate