There are certain types of music that are inextricably intertwined with horrible milieus, e.g., punk with fetid basements, and Southern Rock and the South. For house music stripped of Euro-cheese, try Label.
Helmed by a former Cielo manager, Label's mission's to spin nu jazz/deep house/disco funk in an unassuming, subterranean sleeve-bar unlikely to attract open-shirted Trance Vampires allergic to garlic and ring tones not sourced from Ultra Chilled vol. 13. Furthering the anti-club atmosphere are antler-sconced walls, a stocked, street-vendor-style empanada stand, and a location so far east, revelers could face a Silverstein-ian demise by falling off where the sidewalk ends (Attorney Street). But Label is serious about the music: a tech'd-up DJ booth feeds high-end speakers strategically placed to blow out the 20-person dance floor while providing convo-compliant volumes at the bar and in the banquette'd nooks -- though this does sabotage your usual club trick of mouthing "I can't hear you" to droning friends.
Label's laid-backery extends to its DJ booth (soon to be art'd), its wall decorations (soon to be hung), and its banquettes' ottomans (soon to be ordered), a level of incompleteness itself inextricably intertwined with __________.