Editorial Review

Chicago's club scene will never be New York's but that doesn't stop it from pretending. Take Vision, for example. Early or late, doormen keep the line artificially long. Pay your $20 cover, step past the teenage girl at the cash register texting her friends and hear…Nu Shooz? I-I-I can't wait to get a drink (well vodka, $8, icy and weak). Several giant rooms to choose from: Persian mafia here, underage O.C. girls there, lil' thuggie gangs of shiny-shirted Eastern Europeans omnipresent. Clubs are supposed to make you feel exclusive and elite but I've never felt less sexy. And forget doing a compensating pick-me-up in the bathroom: I don’t know what's thicker, the cigarette smoke or the backed-up toilet water all over the floor. Note to management: the state smoking ban applies to the whole club. But for the occasional high-stakes electro or alt-dance guest (MSTRKRFT ripped the place apart in early 2008), skip it entirely.