The Vault: the story of a great place on a bad night

By Mayka Mei

With my clubbing series coming to a close, I think it best to end the reviews on a good note. Thus, I introduce you to my favorite Downtown San Jose nightspot: The Vault.

The Vault is a place I call home. A searchlight sits in the parking lot of the "Ultra Lounge" like a bat signal for professional clubbers. It is my homing device the way Swig is for Santa Clara house partiers.

Excluding their non-operation on Mondays and Sundays, I've been there every night of the week: Tuesdays in the fall when they gave out free condoms (wrapped); Wednesdays and Thursdays with late night revelers who didn't know the excuse, "I've got work in the morning"; and Saturdays when the place was more poppin' than the panini line at noon.

Clubs are defined by the calendar day, the people, the DJ, the bar service and other such variables.

That said, I find it my responsibility to set aside my bias toward The Vault and say that Friday night sucked.

I blame the DJs. All five of them.

April 21, 2006

10:45 p.m. -- Every night is ladies' night!

Past the velvet rope, I get the token VAULT stamped across the inside of my wrist and proceed to the main bar (one of three).

Wait. Back up. Did I mention that The Vault is always free for women? No, I didn't, because I take it for granted.

Men, on the other hand, either need to get on the weekend guest list ahead of time or cough up a Jackson at the podium ($15 on weeknights).

Unfortunately, the primarily heterosexual establishment does not give concession to gay male friends. I've tried. From what I have observed, however, they do admit cross-dressers and transsexuals for free.

As I regroup with the night's entourage (I switch it up, but always travel in great company), I notice the staff's all-white apparel for the evening.

There isn't always a uniform with the employees, just predetermined themes.

Some nights, the male bartenders wear metrosexual black button-ups with magenta ties, while the server girls wear corsets. On weeknights, they may all dress cas.

Vault clientele, however, are consistently held to a higher degree of sophistication. A sign at the door immediately announces the "do-nots," including, and not limited to: boots, sportswear, flannels and baseball caps.

Even girls, who normally get the more lenient look-over in club lines, are not permitted to wear thong sandals -- Shiny Shoe Rule.

When a-Vaulting, I do two things: 1) Don't hydrate. 2) Don't wear a jacket.

The Vault's restrooms are pathetic: small, limited and always unclean. Don't "get sick" here.

The coat check, while it serves its purpose, is a portable coat rack with plastic hangers. It costs $3 per item, which is $3 more than what I care to give.

11:00 p.m. -- Time to explore

As the club starts to fill, we head upstairs to the balcony dance and lounge area.

I spot a guy in sunglasses. Why?

Girl shot. Heading toward the smaller bar, we get some Sex on the Beach.

The upstairs DJ, whose sound pervades throughout the majority of the club, brings it back with some "Return of the Mack" and "Can I Get a?" The music seems good, but it's time to get what I came for.

11:17 p.m. -- The Back Room

I love the back room. Despite The Vault's great open lounge areas and fancy private special rooms, I am all about the box at the end of The Vault's skinny corridor.

The music is great. With its own sound system, the back room DJs tend to play harder hip-hop and old school than the dance, pop and techno that's usually in the front. It's a horrible place for a conversation, but I don't go to clubs to meet people.

I place my empty Sex on the Beach glass on the counter-like ridge lining the walls. Others finish their drinks and place them on waist-high red boxes.

Thankfully, Vault staff quickly clean up empty glasses, for if they didn't do their jobs, there would be no safe places for the good, the bad and the ugly of box dancing.

11:42 p.m. -- Bad boxing

The first females of the night climb onto one of the boxes and dance -- remarkably, without any sort of crowd or sex appeal.

11:46 p.m. - Bad boy boxing

The first male of the night climbs onto one of the boxes. He lasts for about five seconds and gets a visit from the bouncer. No men allowed.

The failed go-go boy is the first of the typical three to five per night with a short-lived stage life.

11:52 p.m. -- Signs of a bad DJ

A sudden silence comes through the speakers, an unwelcome occurrence in the world of live music mixing.

It appears that the man on the tables has changed. The night's back room music is being monitored by about five different turntablists, and that silence was actually a lack of transition between DJs and their songs.

Realizing how badly the music has been flowing and meshing, I begin to doubt the infallibility of The Vault.

12:14 a.m. -- Overdoing it

I notice a girl huddled in the corner nursing a toe cramp, a reminder that high-impact dancing in heels can be dangerous.

I think I'm the only person in the world who is sick and tired of Usher's "Yeah." I take the opportunity to check my hair and make-up in the convenient mirrored wall.

12:26 a.m. -- Free show

Some guy stands at the base of one of the boxes, unabashedly placing his face at the approximate height of the hips of the moment's go-go girl. Lucky? I'll let you decide.

12:45 a.m. -- Yes, I am that good.

Having had enough of lame exhibitionists, I take another turn at the box with some friends. As we represent, a female stranger crawls onto the box.

This is not unusual. I politely make room for her, as she seems happily sloshed.

She then turns to me and actually makes conversation: "I saw you dancing up here earlier, and you were so -- oh my gosh! I told my girls, 'When you see her up there again, tell me!'"

Wow. This chick just came up to dance beside me. I told you I was a pro.

Flattered to discover that I don't know the limits to my game, I thank "Jill" for the compliment.

The DJ puts on a track that has already been played. Are you kidding me? Box time ends.

12:58 a.m. -- Back at ground level, I bop along with noticeably less enthusiasm.

More songs are replaying and causing a disturbance in my dance force. Then my spidey sense begins to alert me of something lurking behind.

I employ The Vault's handy-dandy mirror again and check the male prospect.

I like my men tall, but I do not like them ugly. I swiftly cross the circle. (Note: Inner beauty doesn't get you into clubs.)

1:42 a.m. -- The cop-out way to end the night

After playing a boatload of repeated tracks -- some songs three times within three hours -- the eleventeenth DJ of the night roughly switches -- not mixes -- from hip-hop to "Welcome to Jamrock."

I love ending club nights on reggae and island sounds, but the DJs' horrible lacing leaves me perturbed.

The DJ starts directing everyone to head out as the song comes to an end.

Unsatisfied with the evening's deplorable mixing, I check in with the backdoor bouncer.

I explain my disappointment with the evening's music selection, and he informs me that Remy, my favorite Vault DJ, plays exclusively on Saturdays now.

Phew. I was worried that I'd have to find a new home.

Thank you to all my loyal readers. It's been a good run. Want more? Send cash.

Here's to every great night on the town.

You can stop MySpacing me now.

Contact Mayka Mei at (408) 551-1918 or m1mei@scu.edu.