Situated a safe distance from the freewheeling mania of Broadway, Nashville’s honky tonk ground zero, Santa’s Pub is blissfully free from bachelorettes and bullshit. The owner, nicknamed “Santa” for his Kris Kringle-worthy beard, is something of an icon around these parts. 

Gussied up with Christmas lights, North Pole-centric paraphernalia, and a decade’s worth of Sharpie bathroom stall graffiti, this converted double-wide trailer is a dive bar stripped down to its essence. Don’t even think about asking for a cocktail—the bartenders stick to dirt-cheap beers, which suits everyone just fine. You’re not here for fussy drinks; you’re here for the vibes. 

Santa’s Pub is the type of watering hole where just about everyone is a regular—and those that aren’t will feel like it after an hour or two. The crowd is a mix of crusty old-timers, twentysomethings downing PBRs, and warmly welcomed travelers. 

On any given night, half the room is probably in a band—a fact that comes in handy when it’s karaoke time. Expect to hear some killer country music covers, all without paying a cover charge. If you plan on taking your turn at the mic, know that Santa takes the stage rules seriously: “No Beer, No Cussin’, and No Cigarettes on Santa’s stage!” Sing a song that’s too vulgar and expect to be booted off.