The High and Lonesome Club

Been their once and I love it. Most people there were hippies and really really high .very different from other bars that I have been before. Very small dance floor, strange dancing style probably when u are high u dance like that. very friendly crowd, you feel like you are in different planet when u get to that bar like planet hippies .i felt like they had no dress code, probably they even let u in with ur birthday suit.

Super cool little venue if you want to go someplace different. It’s dive-​y looking but in the best possible way, and the staff are nice. Has a cool history and a list of iconic acts have stopped by over the years.
They make a mean quesadilla at a low price and can even accommodate vegans. I like to check out Thursday nights when there’s a comedy open mic and music til the wee hours if you so desire.
You will get asked for spare change on the way out, so if you’re squeamish about pan handlers it’s best to move along.

Great place. This is a landmark in terms of uniqueness. I love the view of Main Street behind whatever classy band is playing.
It’s a small and popular place, so get there early.

My favorite character spot for local Winnipeg flavor. Where else can you toss the chicken and throw beer at the band and not get sent to jail?

Who knows what a traveler from out West will find while wandering alone the wide streets of downtown Winnipeg. I had only been in the city for a few days, and most of that in the suburbs, so I decided to see what Winnipeg had to offer on a Friday night.
My aimless steps led me to the corner of Main and St. Mary, where glancing up at a sign above an ancient doorway, all paint peeling and character, I read the words «Faith Can Work Miracles.» A mission? Perhaps. Beside these words were others, painted above the wide windows that looked in on the friendly but sad darkness of a disheveled bar and ancient tables: «Times Change (d), High and Lonesome Club,» in a script resembling every «saloon» sign of every western picture you’ve ever seen. I squinted as I entered the High and Lonesome, and immediately felt both: the place drew my senses upward and around and my soul as low as the faces that adorned the walls in ancient posts for deep south blues shows from throughout the last century. Dark hardwood, neon «Jim Beam» signs, and a giant chalkboard above the short bar at the back filled with the words, «WELCOME HOME.» The place was small — looked like it could seat 25 — and dark, with a weak pulse that was waiting to be revived, that had faith it would be revived, by the twanging of instruments and voices that would soon overcome it.
All but empty of patrons, I somehow knew it would fill up. Could I be the only one who felt like I had stumbled onto the genuine vein at the back of the fool’s gold mine? The band was quietly setting up: a drummer who looked like colonel custard in a mac jacket, a guitarist who would have fit in well with the less-​brutal looking kids at a slayer concert, another guitarist who could drive truck from Portland to Virginia, but surely would have lived in the wide space right between, and a tall lanky bassist who looked somewhat uncomfortable but knew who he was. Alone against a wall sat a hefty young first nations man in plaid and a tired smile, and in another corner five guys who could only be described as indie scene regulars. I chatted with them a bit and got the lowdown on the High and Lonesome: it’s the best spot in Winnipeg, they said, hands down. It would be standing-​room only in a few hours, they said, you won’t believe it. I looked at my watch: it was 9:45.
The owner and operator of the place, John, though young and seemingly soft-​spoken, is quickly becoming somewhat of a legend around town. He fought for years to keep the place as intimate and unique as it is now, and after narrowly averting a takeover from the (now defunct) sports bar (!!!) next door, he was finally able to buy out the owner of the property and bring the place into its own in 2003.
At twenty after ten the place was starting to hop. All the eight or so tables were full, and from my spot in the corner, President-​slash-​janitor John, behind the bar, white-​aproned with a black cowboy hat stuck awkwardly on his shaved head, brought a sizeable bullhorn to his goateed lips: «Well good evening! Here at the High and Lonesome, we know you’re all good people!» This brought a murmuring cheer from everyone in the place except for my confused self and the two young busy waitresses. The words were comforting, and John’s smiling face as people settled down to listen to him showed he believed it. I guess he always opened with those words. I could hardly hear what he was saying as he continued through the bullhorn, but it didn’t matter. I think he said something about Merle Haggard, and how he appreciated the bands that were going to play. Then before he finished, the honky-​tonk rhythm started on the bass guitar from the other end of the place, overtaken by a guitar a few moments later. The music was trucker-​country, and just what my far-​from-​home heart needed.
I left hoping that I could bring some of the spirit of the High and Lonesome club with me back to Vancouver. It seems a long shot — Vancouver specializes in heady and refined, in contrast to the comfy ruggedness of the High and Lonesome, but I’ll keep believing that something like this will make its way to Raincity. After all, as the sign above the door says, «Faith can work miracles.»