“If I said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: the ‘Dad Lounge is the most drinkable bar in America,” declares Arkansas musician Dylan Earl from the stage of the Trinidad (aka “Dad”) Lounge, before taking a shot of house-furnished tequila.

It’s a stormy spring night in the small town of Trinidad, Colorado, but the turnout is surprisingly strong for a Sunday. A dozen two-steppers populate the compact dance floor, located in the center of the shotgun-style dive bar. Another 20 or so patrons watch from its long semi-circle bartop. Several others shoot pool in the back, their volume level suggesting they’re impervious to Earl’s brand of neotraditional country and Southern charms.

Since opening in April 2021, the Trinidad Lounge has unexpectedly established itself as one of the great music venues in the Rocky Mountain West, bringing acts like Silverada, Kelsey Waldon, Willi Carlisle, Johnny Fritz, Emily Nenni, and Vincent Neil Emerson to the sleepy, former coal-mining town. “We try to attract our kind of people,” says proprietor Curt Wallach, referring to both the artists and his clientele—“a little world of weirdos.” Along the way, this “drinkable” bar near the New Mexico border has also tapped into something deeper—becoming a haven for touring musicians and a catalyst for community revitalization.

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Wallach and his wife, Suzanne Magnuson, were longtime Denver residents and part-owners of the city’s iconic music venue the Hi-Dive, where Nathaniel Rateliff got his start. But in early 2020, with the pandemic raging and a young daughter to raise, the big city couple decided it was time to find a smaller town—and a smaller bar. “As soon as I saw the ‘Dad, I knew it was the one,” Wallach recalls. “It looked like The Life Aquatic meets Unforgiven.”

Curt Wallach and Suzanne Magnuson

Flanked by weed dispensaries, the former Circle Lounge had sat shuttered for a decade inside Trinidad’s business district. Not only did its dark, wood-paneled interior resemble the hull of a ship, the previous owners left a sea of 1970s nautical decor behind—old rope, antique helms, a brass bell, fish nettings, and maritime lanterns—much to its new owners’ delight. “It was a time capsule,” says Wallach. “We kept it the same because you don’t create a dive. You need age, that dust, you can’t fake it—people can tell.” Magnuson agrees: “Don’t rock the internet-jukebox.”

“There’s something about that bar where it’s like, Oh, this is exactly how I would want to do it,” says singer-songwriter Chris Acker. “It’s inviting in the best, shady way.” The New Orleans–based musician points to the “legendary,” doorless men’s bathroom, which boasts kama sutra tiles and a single, stall-less toilet. “One time our guitar player really needed to go, but he was just a deer in headlights in that open bathroom,” Acker recalls, laughing. “The second the show ended, he ran down the street and took a shit in an alley.”

Wallach and Magnuson did make some updates, adding a neon sign, back patio, and retro photobooth; and displaying dozens of personal mementos, from antiques and toys to a framed photograph of Bruce Springsteen and a smattering of sports memorabilia. “Every inch is covered in something that means something,” says Magnuson. “An authentic bar is an extension of the people who care about it and for it.”

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While the isolated mountain town lends itself to a quirky clientele, Trinidad wasn’t exactly begging to become a destination for a who’s who of the indie country scene.

Founded as a trading outpost in the mid-19th century along the Santa Fe Trail, Trinidad boomed with the railroad’s arrival in 1878. Workers poured in to operate its prosperous coal mines and build the opulent Victorian buildings that still give the town character. After the mines busted in the 1950s, an economic downturn lasted until the “green boom” of the 2010s. The town locals call “Almost New Mexico, Colorado,” was a convenient cannabis source for consumers from neighboring prohibition states. However, in the wake of New Mexico’s legalization of marijuana in 2021, that industry—and Trinidad’s population—has waned.

“Curt and Suz took a gamble opening this place,” says a regular named Brooke, from her red-leather-topped barstool. “When I moved from Austin 10 years ago, Trinidad was a ghost town,” she says. “There was definitely no live music.”

Initially, the bar faced growing pains. “We’re newcomers who re-opened up an old school bar,” admits Wallach. “When things change, people see it as disrespectful of their memories.” In the first few months, they eighty-sixed dozens of patrons for fights and bad behavior. “It was like Road House,” Magnuson laughs. Certain aspects of the new business were also new to Trinidad, like cover charges: “What do you mean I have to pay at the door?!” Both the customers and the couple adjusted, the latter even acquiescing to requests for karaoke nights and bottled Coors Light (they prefer draft). Still, Magnuson insists they won’t compromise on the important things, like not serving craft beer.

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Mid-set, Earl takes an extended interlude during the sarcasm-heavy song “Outlaw,” to recount his ‘Dad Lounge debut. He was on his way to play the Dad’s grand opening party with fellow Fayettevillian Nick Shoulders, when an ill-fated pit stop in Amarillo led to a police search of his van, the discovery of a long-forgotten tab of acid, and an overnight vacation in the Randall County Jail. “I got released a couple hours before the show and hauled it to Colorado as fast as I could,” Earl narrates. “When I walked through the door, the whole bar broke into applause.” He describes how Wallach rushed over with a tall-boy of Hamm’s, a shot of Espolòn, and a joint for the sleep-deprived singer. “Curt gave me a big hug and said, ‘You’re on in 10 minutes!’”

Enticing national talent to the ‘Dad was (relatively) easy from the start. Partly because, as veteran musicians themselves, the owners understand the needs of those on tour. “We know what it’s like to travel for hours only to get $10 and a warm beer,” says Magnuson, the powerhouse vocalist for her and Wallach’s punk band, the Townies. “We try to provide decent money and little creature comforts—laundry, dinner, a safe place to sleep.” She adds: “Do not become a talent booker unless you’ve slept on a floor and eaten Taco Bell that’s been in the back of a van for four days.”

Their venue largely caters to musicians looking to fill dates between bigger gigs on the wide-stretching I-25 corridor—Albuquerque to Denver to Laramie—or on the desolate trek between Texas and California. “As soon as you get west of the Great Plains, the distances between cities are profound,” explains Nick Shoulders. “Being expected to play after driving for six-plus hours sucks, it’s really hard on your head.”

“The ‘Dad’s a savior spot,” says Earl. “A place that will book you on a Tuesday, break up the drive, and fill-up your gas tank.” On more than one occasion, Acker has called Wallach last minute for a much-needed pit stop on a long haul. “If they don’t have a show—or even if they do—they throw me on,” he says. “They’re incredibly supportive.”

So are the patrons. “The locals are so stoked when we roll up,” says Zack Wiggs, an Austin pedal-steel player who’s played the Lounge with honky-tonker Pat Reedy. “They’re just immediately enthusiastic: Who are you? When do y’all start? Can I buy a T-shirt? They figure if Curt and Suz like you, then you must be good—musically and personally.”

Merch sales do well at the Dad, Wallach says, both because locals want to thank the bands for coming and because the area’s clothing options are limited. “Oh, I buy all the T-shirts and bumper stickers,” confirms Brooke, “even if I can’t stay to see the show.” Ever since Texas psych-country band Rattlesnake Milk played the Lounge, “every store and restaurant you go to is playing them,” says Wallach. “Walk down the street and you’ll spot someone wearing their shirt.” Wiggs says those sales are especially appreciated since the ‘Dad never takes a cut. “They are truly the exception in this Live Nation world.”

Though Shoulders now sells out theaters and books major music festivals, he continues to prioritize the ‘Dad. “Since lockdown, we’ve had this weird ascendance to playing larger rooms,” he says. “But I’m very nostalgic for when we had a more intimate connection with our audience; places where you can just step off the stage and go shoot a game of pool.” Though his band had more lucrative Halloween-show options this year, they chose to play Trinidad. “We wanted to throw a raging party with people we adore, in an environment that makes us feel whole…the quality of that hang supersedes the interests of our promoters.”

Much like the men’s restroom, ‘Dad hangs have generated their own lore—though the stories are often more wholesome. The time Shoulders smoked a local cowboy at pool; Willi Carslie identifying backyard insects with the owners’ daughter, Willa; Acker’s band using the couple’s family pass to the aquatics park; hikes and barbeques—all welcome respites from the grind of the road. “Those things feed the soul,” says Acker. “That’s the shit that actually keeps you going.”

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Arguably, the ‘Dad’s revitalization has extended beyond its black velvet painting–covered walls. Over the last three years, there’s been a noticeable uptick in younger and bigger-city transplants to Trinidad. “We’d been thinking of moving here for a while, but when the ‘Dad opened it was like, OK, our people have landed!” says Hannah Withers, who is opening a restaurant. Other newcomers have started plant shops, vintage clothing stores, and eateries—all encouraged by the presence of a badass music venue. “Whether they intended to or not, this bar has upped the game for Trinidad having a cultural outlet,” says urban planner Sky Tallman. “The village sophisticates drink here.”

For others, the ‘Dad Lounge simply fostered a homecoming. Bartender Amy Harmes grew up in Trinidad but had been living in Denver prior to the pandemic. “I wouldn’t have moved back if it wasn’t for the ‘Dad,” she says. “It’s the community that I was searching for when I left, and it’s the community that keeps me here and in love with Trinidad.”

That feeling is mutual, as evidenced by Magnuson and Wallach’s robust community engagement. They fundraise for local causes, sponsor the town’s minor league baseball team, the Trinidad Triggers, and co-chair a board working to renovate the historic Fox West Theatre.

 “We don’t want somebody coming here and turning it into Denver,” says Kevin Cox, who’s been imbibing at iterations of the Lounge since 1985. “But if you appreciate it for what it is and do something to make it a better version of itself, I’m all for that.”

 Post-show, Earl slides onto a barstool next to Cox, a new fan. Leaning into the vinyl cushion-edged bartop, Earl remarks that this cozy setup is why the ‘Dad is so drinkable. “It’s just ergonomic!” he grins. But what really makes Magnuson and Wallach’s bar special, he says, is the intention behind it. “It’s cool to see folks not only give a fuck about our music scene, but give a fuck about the scene in this town.” Cox nods, adding, “They took this old place and brought back its energy and character…but with better music.”

Country music’s other favorite savior spots

Desiree Cannon: Apple Jacks, La Honda, CA. “It’s magical!”

Willi Carlisle: White Water Tavern, Little Rock, AR. “Honestly, White Water is hard to beat.”

Dylan Earl: Thirsty Beaver Saloon, Charlotte, NC. “A Thirsty Beaver Sunday gig can make or break a tour.”

Joshua Lee (Hooks & the Huckleberries): Hotel Turkey, Turkey, TX. “Not a dive, but definitely a cool gig between larger markets.”

Suzanne Magnuson (Townies): Ruffed Up Duck Saloon, Laramie, WY.

Cole Reeves (Reeves Brothers): Narkeeta Icehouse, Daleville, MS.

Emilie Rose (Two Runner): Smiley’s Saloon, Bolinas, CA. “And Trout Lake Hall (Trout Lake, WA)!”

Nick Shoulders: St. Roch Tavern, New Orleans, LA. “It fills up the soul-tank.”

Zach Wiggs: Healer, Indianapolis, IN. “It’s just a very funny little place.”