It's a sweaty, booty-shakin', chick-chasin', money-wastin' Saturday night at Tramps, a Manhattan R&B/zydeco club that comes about as close to a down-home N'awlins/Houston juke joint as New York gets.
No pretensions here. These thirty something yupsters are throwing down heartily after a hard day's work on Wall Street. Power ties are removed, and correct blazers are peeled and draped around chairs as patrons knock down shots of tequila and bottles of Corona before heading for the dance floor.
