Unlike its universally beloved and comparably sized neighbor, the Bowery Ballroom, Crash Mansion offers flannel-decorated indie-rocking of smaller, more intimate, less overexposed proportions. You and 349 fans can squeeze into this couch-lined cavern of stone and leather, so grab a drink and watch a cast of scratchy-voiced, reverb-generous bands vie to Make It Big. In these close quarters, though, you can't attempt the normal rock-concert antics. Leap off the tiny stage and you'll headbutt the person in front of you; crowd-surf and your nose will scratch the ceiling. Such is the price of intimacy.