Bhutan’s capital city, Thimpu, is a surprising and not altogether lovely clutter of new construction, litter-clogged gutters and stray dogs. The buildings are all made to the same temple-inspired design with maximum speed and minimum cost: clumsily assembled cement cubes with brightly painted wooden skirts and entrances. Monks in red robes, gory-mouthed with betel nut, men and women in the surreal national dress and teenagers in on-trend trainers and Rage Against The Machine T-shirts all check their phones in the shadow of the sacred Himalayas and a giant Buddha made of gold.

Among it all, just across the road from the vast stretched temple that is the National Stadium, squats Mojo Park. Thimpu’s only dedicated live music venue is low-ceilinged, dingy and perfect. It is the sticky-floored blues club in the red-light district from the nasty corner of your mind, complete with dated Jimi Hendrix posters, pillars in your line of sight and wonderfully terrible toilets. I love it because it’s unpretentious and irreverent in all the right ways.

When I was in town for the Bhutanese International Festival earlier this year, Mojo Park was where all the artists and performers in Thimpu ended up, jamming together on the small stage, getting silly on Red Panda or the dangerous Druk 11000 malt liquor beer. I watched an exquisite performance by the Harvard string quartet through which three Bhutanese twentysomethings played Angry Birds and giggled loudly; I saw Indian popstar Lucky Ali team up with a local violinist for a rapt crowd singalong.

It’s open seven days a week (even “dry Tuesday” when the sale of alcohol is prohibited). There are no bouncers, the vibe is excellent, the sound is surprisingly good, the seating is ramshackle and there’s a fire out the front. Proper job.

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