BROWARD’S BAD BOYS OF BEER

Lately, Ft. Lauderdale’s Laser Wolf has looked more like a warehouse party than a craft beer bar and everybody who hangs there seems okay with that. On March 1st, the small pub threw down with the Death Jam Posse, a trio of bass rap anarchists whose collaborative single “Death Wolf” was being celebrated with craft beer and unadulterated ratchetness – a mix that would seem unnatural anywhere else in the world – but not there.

The bass rattled, booties popped, and there were even reports that things got hot in the bathrooms. It was a far cry from the moustache-and-bowtie tasting parties that have become so common in the craft beer world, and Laser Wolf cofounder Chris Bellus wouldn’t have it any other way.

“We’re not trying to be something that we’re not,” he says, “and that’s the whole reason behind the bar. We’re trying to celebrate good beer and not worry about it fitting into a scene.”

Bellus and his brother, Jordan, opened Laser Wolf in 2011 as one of South Florida’s first and only craft beer watering holes. Three years later, the Bellus brothers now boast one of Draft Magazine‘s best beer bars in America, and they’re priming the craft beer scene for a total reclamation with their bar’s slogan “no jerks, yes beer.”

Even though four-finger rings and tulip glasses aren’t often found on the same hand, it was Bellus’ desire to push boundaries that spawned the idea for Laser Wolf Records (who released the LED-eyed vinyl single from Death Jam) and the collaboration of booty bass and Heady Topper.

“There are five of us at the bar,” says beertender and Death Jam emcee Young Lauderdale. “Three of us are in Death Jam, and the other two are the owners. So, it just stemmed from after shifts, just sitting at the bar having a beer. It all happened one night where everyone was a little bit tipsy, and I played them one of our earlier singles, and Jordan stood up on his seat and smashed his bottle on the ground of his own bar. He was just like, ‘fuck you guys, this shit is amazing, we want to be involved, what do you need?'”

The idea started as a Halloween gag, where Bellus asked Lauderdale and his two coconspirators (rebranded Mr. Belvedere and Da $wap $hop Kid) to do a bum-rush performance.  In the spirit of the evening, the three took up exaggerated personas and did party anthems over break beats. After that, it was obvious that they should reprise their performance and that the bar should be involved.

Thus, one of the most unusual partnerships in craft beer history was forged.

Bellus’ idea was to keep it local. Given that Death Jam’s death-metal-adorned thrash rap was borne of the same Florida grime that gave us Plies and Spring Breakers, the collaboration made sense, even if it didn’t have a precedent.

“We try to work with people it makes sense to work with, but the local stuff has a great reception here,” Bellus says. “There’s no reason you can’t go to a dance party and have a good time and also have a great beer at the same time.”

This idea of celebrating the local scene extends to what’s in the patrons’ glasses. “If you’re gonna host an independent band, are you gonna serve these corporate drinks?” he says. “Why not support local music and local breweries at the same time? If you’re gonna spend money, why not give it your neighbors, the people you see in line at the grocery store?”

Keeping it local was part of what inspired Bellus to team with Death Jam for “Death Wolf.” Bellus had been a fan of Lauderdale (who also performs under the moniker Bleubird) since seeing him perform at a local warehouse show years before the two teamed up, so he seemed like a natural collaborator in reinvigorating Ft. Lauderdale – an area that has long lived in the shadow of the hyphy Miami.

“They have everything to do with what is making Ft. Lauderdale a cool city,” says Lauderdale. “I was born and raised here, and I really disliked the place for most of my early college and post-college years. Then I came back here, and things had changed.”

Lauderdale points out that the bar’s presence in the SoFla beer scene has been instrumental, noting a deep mutual respect from other local beer figureheads such as Funky Buddha and Cigar City. “All of the guys have the utmost respect for Laser Wolf,” he says, “because they were the first and they did it on their own terms.” Now that they’ve defined the scene in South Florida, it was time Laser Wolf pushed the paradigm by adding in more local elements – namely, bass rap.

“[Chris and Jordan] just want people to try new stuff and open their minds to it,” says Lauderdale, “so it only makes sense that they’re gonna be the ones to mix craft beer and Miami bass.” For him, it’s the most honest music he can make, considering his surroundings. “We all grew up on it. This music – bass music, booty music, party music – is closer to my heart than any other music I’ve ever made, in a way.”

Of course, as craft beer becomes bigger and bigger in the national consciousness, purists and elitists are grimacing at the greasy experimentation that Laser Wolf and Death Jam are bringing.

“There are a lot of people who are sort of calling us traitors,” says Bellus. “They really seek out craft beer and want it to be super limited, but we have a lot of friends and a good crowd of regulars.”

At Laser Wolf, they’re no strangers to the perception of craft beer drinkers as snobs. By not carrying Bud Lite and other macros, the Bellus brothers have situated themselves apart from the palates of most Miami bass enthusiasts. “People who don’t really know craft beer sometimes come away from the bar thinking ‘oh, those guys are snobs,’ ” says Lauderdale. “That’s only because, in their head, if you don’t have Sam Adams and Corona, that means you’re a snob.” That was never the intention, though. Says Bellus, “We just built a place that we thought we would like to go to.”

By opening the doors to some of Broward County’s wildest partygoers, Laser Wolf is building craft beer awareness while tearing down stereotypes of staunchness and exclusivity. And there is no better petri dish for their MIA-meets-IBU experiment than their hometown.

“There’s something about Florida and the heat,” says Lauderdale. “Nobody is dressed, and everybody wants to party – it’s not a very serious or forward-thinking mentality. Bass and booty music is a huge part of our culture. People want to party, they want to shake their ass, they want to have a good time here.”

And there’s no reason a stoutly hopped IPA can’t be a part of that equation.

[All photographs courtesy of Ian Witlen]