Aragon Ballroom

Lawrence Avenue doesn't care if you're freezing your ears off while you wait for that massive marquee to let people through the security checks. You're standing on concrete that's seen a century of boots, and once that door swings open, you're hit with a wave of hot air and stale popcorn from the lobby. It's loud before you even catch a glimpse of the floor.

That main room is huge, basically an old Spanish courtyard where you can look up and see faux balconies and twinkling lights strung across a ceiling painted like the night sky. The floor slopes down toward a stage that feels miles away if you get stuck in the back. Sound bounces all over the place because of the high plaster arches, so don't expect crisp acoustics. You're here for the sheer scale and the crushing mass of bodies pressed together near the rails.

Getting a drink means shouting at a bartender over a wall of noise while your shoes stick to the spilled cider near the taps. Security keeps things moving, but you won't find any room to breathe once the headliner starts stomping through the monitors. It's exhausting, sweaty, and entirely too loud.