My third week in Amsterdam I found my way to a small speakeasy tucked away amongst a labyrinth of cobbled alleyways. A doorman waved me inside, a knowing smile twisted around the half-smoked blunt hanging from his lips. I made my way down crooked, narrow stairs into a dimly lit room full of patrons nodding in the haze, feet tapping in time as they smiled and sipped at green-tinged cocktails. The soft sound of glasses clinking amongst murmured conversation served to accentuate the flaw in the scene before me; there was no music. Realising I'd paused in the entrance long enough to draw a few amused looks from the tables nearest me, I regained my composure and headed towards the bar, pondering the mystery before me. I reached the counter as the barman was mixing a cocktail and waited, but before I could order the man turned and placed a glass in front of me, the same half smile on his lips the doorman had shown me as he nodded at a specials board listing a Pistachio Sour. It sounded good so I took it to an empty seat and returned to my examination of the bizarre room. As I sat down a grinning girl next to me offered a toke on her joint, and as the no indoor-smoking law was clearly being ignored here I gratefully took a careless draw. As my coughing subsided I took a deep gulp of my drink, and suddenly music flooded my ears. My jaw dropped as I raised my head to see a guy on stage mesmerising the crowd with chill beats, house music permeating the formerly silent bar. The girl with the joint smiled at my amazement. "His name's Sune" she told me, "Welcome to 8 Till Late".