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Below a neighborhood spot known for wood-oven pizzas lurks its “red as sin” id. The black ceiling is plastered with rock band stickers; the barkeep is plastered with tats; the patrons are plastered from whiskey and beer. Weekdays, aged punk-rockers show off their latest hair colors while hunched over four-tops; bespectacled East Villagers try not to get hit on by bearded trannies on break from Lucky Cheng’s. When the nightly D.J.s rekindle the passé anthems of their suburban youth (L7 or Faith No More), any of the above might jump on the fluffy couches and air-guitar as the barkeep simulates a lightshow with a flashlight and the dimmers. Grotesque masks on the velvet-draped walls make this small room feel even more like a lights-out party at the Patricia Field store— that is, until the weekend warriors commandeer the taps. — Daniel Maurer