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The Charleston used to be your stereotypical rock-and-roll rathole: bathroom conditions that would make GG Allin hold it in and a light system consisting of one guy running frantically around the stage flipping switches on and off. But things have been changing since the owners of the Alligator and Crocodile lounges took over—well, except for the bathrooms—and the place has assumed an almost-quaint retro feel, complete with comfy booths and comfort food in the form of personal pizzas (free with any order during happy hour, $1 each after that). The dirt-cheap rock shows have moved downstairs into what looks like a WWII German bunker, while the upstairs bar area plays host to Wii nights. The crowd is vintage Williamsburg, with hoodies and leather jackets predominating and the occasional youngster rocking an ironic bowl cut. — John Metcalfe