Lucky 13

LUCKY 13

273 13TH ST. (BETW. 5TH & 6TH AVES.), BROOKLYN 718-499-7553

IN THE ABSTRACT, I appreciate heavy metal. Silk-screened skull tees and sledgehammer bass lines are, separately, awesome. But when paired with, say, atonal screams, faux Satanic worship and scraggly- haired men whose cumulative tattoos and unhygienic piercings are worth more than the per-annum income of Mexican sharecroppers, well, that's where the line is drawn in fake blood.

Such acolytes are often shunned and forced into dim-lit quarantine. However, long-standing sanatoriums like Mars Bar, Ace and Manitoba's have lost their needle-tipped edge. Save for Mars' hepatitis-infested bathroom, these hell pits are stumbling to a head-banging graveyard. Gentrification has priced many metal-ites out. So where have the 'heads gone, Joe DiMaggio?

To a former karate dojo on Park Slope's southern border. "We brought a metal bar to Brooklyn because we've been priced out of Manhattan," says Jeff Blanchard, co-owner of Lucky 13 Saloon, Brooklyn's only "full-time punk-metal-death rock- alternative bar." Located near a calm stretch of take-out cantinas, bodegas and cut-rate clothing stores, it is an unlikely respite for Pantera veterans. And, on a crisp, early fall evening, me.

The bait is alluring: one-dollar cans of Busch and Busch Light every day until 8 p.m. According to a sign above the heavily lacquered bar, this is "like drinking a cloud." This may be the first cloud I can crush against my head-and the hardest beer to convince a friend to drink.

"No fucking way," Angie says when I try dragging her inside the Lucky 13. "The last time I was here a Dungeons & Dragons crowd took over. They were old and hairy and?" She makes a circle with her hands and holds it several feet in front of her stomach.

"Whatever. I'll buy you a beer," I say. My shallow-pocketed magnanimity wins her heart, and we settle our tushes onto stools. An initial glance around Lucky 13-kept dark by thick curtains-gives the impression of a Halloween supply store close-out sale. A skeleton in a wedding dress dangles from the ceiling. A bloody, razor-fanged doll sits above the women's bathroom. Gargoyles stand stone-like. What else would you expect from a couple of Bellevue escapees?

Co-owner Melody Henry, a former Flashdancer and Limelight cage dancer, met Blanchard while working as a bartender at Port Authority's metal dive Bellevue. For the uninitiated, this hole was infamous for coffin décor (since removed) and heavy-handed goth kitsch.

Cozy little Lucky also draws inspiration from East Village's Korova Milk Bar (silent flicks like Faces of Death play on tvs) and long-venerated CBGB's 313 Gallery. Henry and Blanchard utilize a wall for a rotating display of, umm, let's say alternative art. Past exhibitions have included an oil painting of Christ's head encased in a bird cage and photos of menstrual -blood-covered fingers. This month, a painting of a skeleton frenching a ghostly wraith takes center wall.

"Boo!" Angie says, breaking my stare. "We need more beer."

We order a couple bucks of inebriation. Busches are placed in hand. A chalkboard behind the bar catches our eyes. "Leave a drink 4 a friend" the header says. Bill, it seems, has bequeathed a Heineken for Paul. Luis left two PBRs for Toast. There's no Josh to impersonate.

"So lots of people do this?" we ask the bartender with a belly-baring shirt and enormous back tattoo.

"Oh, yeah. We have to write small to fit all the names," she says, gesturing to a 20-deep chalk list. PBR and its can brethren dominate conferred brew.

The jukebox, on the other hand, is ruled by Hatebreed, Sepultura and a homemade mix dubbed, "Death Fucking Metal." Its play list is manna to Bay Ridge metal heads set adrift when venerable punk club L'Amour closed in February. They pack the place on the weekends, Blanchard adds. And scare young ladies, I want to say.

But that's not always a bad thing, especially when the trade-off is an immaculate bathroom. In a break from dive-bar tradition, Blanchard kills, not cultivates, cockroaches. Angie, too, lauds the restrooms. "No poo," she declares, returning from her toilet sojourn. She sits down and drains her beer backwash.

"More Busch?" I ask.

"Certainly," she says and, as befitting the snarling Megadeth overwhelming our ears, we cordially head-bang our agreement. o