Bars and Nightclubs
Melbourne CBD, Melbourne

Pony

68 Little Collins St, Melbourne, VIC
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Clandestine to a point, Pony Bar on Little Collins Street is filthy, sticky... and kind of cool, in a greasy, contaminated way. The lights are dim, the corduroy couches are threadbare in places, and the glasses are plastic. But that's actually part of its charm. Pony was one of those bars my Emo friends loved to go to as soon as we turned eighteen, and while Pony does see a crowd of twenty somethings haunting its shady corners, the vibe is still very much the same. If you've never considered yourself a black 'no one understands me' sheep at one point in your life, then you don't belong here.

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Pony Bar Review


Review By Courtney-Therese Ashworth

Cardinal rule of Pony: Don't touch anything.

Clandestine to a point, Pony Bar on Little Collins Street is filthy, sticky... and kind of cool, in a greasy, contaminated way. The lights are dim, the corduroy couches are threadbare in places, and the glasses are plastic. But that's actually part of its charm. Pony was one of those bars my Emo friends loved to go to as soon as we turned eighteen, and while Pony does see a crowd of twenty somethings haunting its shady corners, the vibe is still very much the same. If you've never considered yourself a black 'no one understands me' sheep at one point in your life, then you don't belong here.

A great location for young, underground bands to get out there and get their music heard, Pony generally has a mash of different bands playing almost every night of the week, and most of the late [by late, think after midnight] shows are free entry. This was the reason I was at Pony one Thursday night, a friend's band, a l e x a n d r i a - think progressive/experimental/ melodramatic pop - holding a 10pm slot. If you've ever known [or in my case dated] someone in a band, you know that 10pm really means somewhere between 10:30pm and 11pm.

Knowing the stage was upstairs, and wanting to show my first time Pony friend I knew the layout like a regular, we made our way towards the front bar, ignoring the half bored, half scathing looks from a heavily pierced girl with serious dreadlocks and striped stockings in the far corner, and bought ourselves a reasonably priced drink. Plastic glass in hand, I led her to the staircase at the back of the bar, not noticing the number of men descending beside us. It wasn't until we turned to the right that we realised - to my friend's horror - that we were in the men's very open urinal. The guy closest to us, dirty jeans, black t-shirt and five day old beard glanced over, eyed us two blushing girls with a thousand yard stare, then glanced back at the wall in front of him. We'd been dismissed. So, running away from the sight, and smell, I located the correct staircase, paid my five dollar entry fee and escorted my friend towards the tiniest stage in Melbourne's gig scene. Already packed with people watching the first duo acoustic act, we knocked back our drinks, ordered another from a guy wearing an Indonesian beer tee and a permanent scowl that probably wasn't just put on for the tourists.

A girl next to us, tattered tank top, cargo pants and army boots, splashed beer over my jacket and down her top as she waved her arm to emphasise a very important point in her drunken deep and meaningful with a gorgeous girl dressed in pin up style, right down to the back-seam tights. 'I'm so sorryyyyyy! 'She slurred, turning around to me. 'That's really okay.' I assured her, pulling my jacket out of her uncoordinated grasp with a polite smile. She fell over me, laughed then staggered off, the pin up girl looking at me in commiseration.

Luckily, my friend's five piece band began setting up, having to bring the two guitar players into the audience to make room for the drum set, keys and the impressive electric double bass that took up half the stage. The crowd huddled closer, the beer soaked girl taking my hand and screamed, 'This band is amazing!' at me before they'd even introduced themselves. 'Do you know them?' She asked me, mascara running down her face. 'Yeah, I know the guy playing keys.' 'Wow.' she breathed, looking at me with awe, then, 'I know the guy playing keyssss! 'She boasted to the crowd, whistling and shooting both arms into the air. The crowd joined her, and the only thing I could do was laugh. After the set, [and my new drunk friend had hugged me for the hundredth time, told me she loved me and left] a quartet of young guys in leather jackets and retro lee jeans took the stage, their rock n roll tunes catchy enough for my friend and I, sticky, covered in cheap beer and other people's sweat, to hang and jump around with the rest of the crowd.

Coming to Pony for one band, we ended up staying until 6am, watching band after band change it up with various beats and sounds, before we stumbled past the bouncers and into the street, where Pony still looked illicit, but a lot less threatening. If you can swallow your skepticism, Pony really isn't as bad as it first appears. There's a real sense of 'don't like it, then leave' kind of attitude that gives the bar it's credibility.

The patrons, as a general rule keep to themselves, unless you go looking for conversation, which to be honest, isn't really the name of the game here. And if you do, prepare yourself for what whatever it is you might get. Just don't touch anything, or climb the back staircase, and you'll be fine.

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