Nice Hits! is a Reverb column that unironically dissects, reviews, and appreciates the best songs of the current Top 40. It is unsnobbishly premised on the logic that just because a lot of the music on the radio is crap doesn't mean all the music on the radio is crap.

Rob Dowsley

​The hit: "Rocket Man," Mike Posner featuring Bun B (off The Layover mixtape).

Current chart position: Every now and then I like to write about songs that aren't charting on Billboard or iTunes but have the potential to; this is one of those songs. Mike Posner isn't a stranger to the Top 40, either--last year his hits "Cooler Than Me" and "Please Don't Go" both cracked Billboard's top 10. ("Cooler Than Me" also won him an ASCAP award earlier this year).

The team: Posner's "Rocket Man" cover can be found on The Layover mixtape, which he released in late November. The songs on that mixtape were produced by DJ Benzi, who's remixed songs from Lil Wayne, Jay-Z, and Kanye West, among others, and Don Cannon, the Philadelphia producer and DJ who's worked with Young Jeezy, Fabolous, and 50 Cent. "Rocket Man" itself was obviously originally written in 1972 by Elton John and Bernie Taupin. Except for Bun B's verse in this cover. Elton John didn't write that.

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Leave aside for a moment that the band Bad Company was a supergroup consisting of members of Mott the Hoople and King Crimson, the fact is that like a lot of acts from the pre-video age, they didn't look as "bad" as they sounded.

They don't look like bad company, they seem like nice fellows.

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​There's a dead ringer for Jenny Humphrey of Gossip Girl sitting outside the Unicorn on Friday night. She's wearing a pseudo vintage dress, black lace tights and leather ankle boots - very Urban Outfitters. A cigarette dangles from her lips as she texts on her phone and hums along to Duran Duran's "Ordinary World" which is blaring from inside the bar.

The Unicorn (1118 E. Pike St.) on Capitol Hill has quickly become a favorite hangout for hipsters like Miss Humphrey since opening at the start of the year in the space formerly occupied by the Satellite Lounge.

At midnight, the bar is already filled to maximum capacity. Patient patrons wait in the street and enter in increments, as others leave and free up space. Upon entering, we're accosted by a drunk birthday girl. She's one of three that night. MGMT plays on the jukebox, the smell of fried food lingers in the air. Guys in skinny jeans, girls with side-swept bangs, corn dogs, and well drinks occupy every table. We wonder aloud if the other popular hipster hangouts, Cha Cha and Linda's, are closed.

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Paul van Dyk played at Showbox SoDo on Sat., March 13, 2010.

​German DJ Paul van Dyk (real name: Matthias Paul) has dominated the electronica charts with his hypnotic music for well over a decade. And unlike many of his popular peers--cough, Benny Benassi--he's never relied on just surging steroid-fueled beats to get a hit. He's always treated techno as a respectable genre capable of passion and sophistication, as evidenced by ethereal tracks like "Nothing But You" and "For an Angel." It's the reason all walks of life--Microsoft yuppies, flamboyant homosexuals, and holier-than-though hipsters--congregated at Saturday night's all-ages rave.​
The DJ superstar spun a scorching two-hour set that went to 1:30 in the morning. A majority of the 21+ crowd appeared intoxicated. One girl with suspiciously dilated pupils approached me in the restroom and cooed compliments about my hair and outfit though neither were impressive that night. Several people were in their own little worlds, glowsticking and glowstringing to the music. For some reason or another, a young group sat on the grimy floor, susceptible to being tripped over and having drinks spilled on them. Regardless of whether Paul van Dyk was onstage or not, people also took the time to tweet via their iPhones and Crackberries.

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​Barca (1510 11th Ave.) is gorgeous in a creepy sort of way, with giant wooden doors, blood-red walls, and glass-blown light fixtures that provide more aesthetic appeal than they do actual light. Victor Hugo's Quasimodo would be pleased.

The Capitol Hill bar can feel depressing on weeknights, when only a limited number of patrons sit in the high-backed booths, quietly drinking and conversing. But on weekends, it transforms into a full-scale club, with techno and funk music playing so loud you have to let out a murderous scream to be heard.

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​Happy hour? Try happy day. Twist (2313 1st Ave) offers a 4 p.m. to midnight happy hour that ensures that even people with the shittiest jobs have a tolerable week. (Seriously, check out the menu. It's awesome.)

We miss the post-work rush by arriving at 8:30 p.m. on a Thursday. There are still several people on dates or in groups taking advantage of Twist's awesome happy-hour menu (try the pomegranate martini!), but finding a good seat doesn't present an issue -- unless you're one of those people who likes to sit by the front windows of a trendy establishment so that everyone passing by can witness how much fun you're having.

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​Deafening house music pours out of See Sound Lounge (115 Blanchard Street) on Friday night. Aesthetically appealing patrons look as though they coordinated with one another before arriving. There's an abundance of mini dresses, blazers, spiked heels, and spiked hair.

We're greeted with a $10 cover charge (guys and girls pay up here) since it's after 10 p.m. The fee seems a little steep, given that the dance club is far smaller than its peers Heaven and Last Supper Club. But that doesn't deter anyone, as evidenced by the elbow-to-elbow crowd. The dance floor is filled with sweat and hormones, the private booths are all occupied, and it takes 10 minutes to get to the front of the bar.

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​People are waiting in line outside Jazzbones (2803 6th Ave.) like it's the hottest thing since Vegas' Tao Nightclub. The guys are rocking faux hawks and Ed Hardy shirts, the girls have on full makeup and stilettos. It's raining, the air reeks of cigarettes, and there's a gruff police officer lurking around the corner, warily glancing at the fast-forming crowd. But everybody's still willing to wait for 15 minutes on a cold street to get inside Jazzbones.

We're in Tacoma. It's a Monday night.

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​Boom Jinx, Armin van Burren, Lady GaGa - it's evident by the names that have graced the Last Supper Club (124 S. Washington St.) with live performances that the venue is a level above others in the city's limited club scene. Pioneer Square's two-story bar offers a solid DJ lineup, seizure-inducing techno music, and potent cocktails that draw huge weekend crowds, despite the pesky cover charges.

Upon entering, we're accosted by the smell of hair spray, cologne, and sweat. Go-go dancers are writhing atop platforms in their underwear, bros are buying rounds of shots, and girls are alternating between sipping cocktails, dancing with friends, and reapplying their lip gloss. Patrons scream at each other to be heard over the frighteningly loud music. It's as close to a nightlife scene as you're going to get in hipster-ridden Seattle.

Our designated driver--who frequents Capitol Hill's Moe Bar on her nights off--is so overwhelmed that she excuses herself for some fresh air. A bouncer who resembles Kevin Federline slips her his phone number while she's out there. "I need to be drunk for this," she sighs.

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​Kells (1916 Post Alley) is an Irish restaurant and pub that stands just above Pike Place Market. But the only thing that appears Irish about it on the surface--at least on weekends--is the steak and kidney pie featured on the menu... which I've been informed, is actually British. Sorry to take away your credit, Brits!

It exudes the same sort of atmosphere that '80s nights does at so many college bars. The joint was packed with 20 and 30-somethings drinking beer and throwing back shots of tequila to Bon Jovi and Journey on Saturday night.

It was fun and unpretentious until we spotted a guy lifting up his shirt so that the three blondes he was chatting up could - I kid you not - count his abs. (From where we were standing, the total came to eight.) The girls actually giggled and played along. Wow. When did the cast of MTV's Jersey Shore move to Seattle?

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