Hotspot: Toad

1920 Massachusetts Ave, (617) 497-4950, No cover, 21+



Welcome to my new favorite Cambridge venue: Toad. The place just feels like home. Maybe that’s because it’s about as big as the bedroom in my apartment. Maybe it’s because there’s no cover. Maybe it’s because it’s only a T stop or a five-minute bike ride away from Porter Square. In any case, I’ll be spending quite a few nights of my senior spring at this sweet little hole-in-the-wall.

One of my friends met me at the club; upon arriving, his first question was: “Is this it?” Yes, this is it. “There’s no more? Just this one room?” Yup. Just a space the size of an Eliot common room, but slightly more rectangular. A third of the space is occupied by the bar—with fairly decent beers on tap, though nothing spectacular—while a teeny stage sits at the far end of the room.

A few stone toad idols sit above the bartender’s head, prompting a dude sitting near me to tell me about this time in college when he caught and domesticated a toad. If you put a piece of rice paper on a toad and poke it, it will secrete a milky substance. Then you eat it off the paper—which, I’ll allow, sounds pretty goddamn nasty—and trip for a long time. Apparently what evolved as a deadly poison to most of nature’s predators provokes not-unpleasant hallucinations for humans. At least, this guy said so. I digress, perhaps, but my point is: toads are freaking sweet.

I damn near hallucinated over the fact that Toad charges no cover, yet books musicians who rock. I arrived during the set of some obscure, yet awesome, New Haven-based band whose name escapes me. It featured a guy in his fifties playing some mean bass, an early twenty-something on guitar and vocals, and a drummer who I didn’t really pay any attention to. They played thoroughly entertaining alt-rock.

Toad boasts great live sound, especially given its miniature scale. The volume is fine-tuned such that you can still talk with your friends, though you may have to raise your voice. The bass is just strong enough to give you a little kick in the pants. It is a superb place to hear unfamiliar bands.

After the opener came the headliner: Starhick. They performed a set of excellent alt-country. ‘Twas laid back, mellow, yet rocking, and it went well with my Bass ale and mildly shouted conversations. The stage was a tad too small for a four-piece band—Starhick’s rotund bassist had to stand on the floor a couple feet below his bandmates. We left before they finished their set, but I’m fairly confident that it continued to be sweet.

Also, we ran into the “boatmaster” of Harvard—whose job involves taking care of the logistical issues for Harvard’s rowers. It was hard for me to hear him over the noise, but he’s clearly a regular.

“This place is my living room,” he confirmed.