Ok. A dump? No. You apparently haven't visited a real dump strip club, where the dancers are so high they can barely walk, where caesarian scars are like badges of office, where the owner with the bad combover lingers by the bar in a polyester suit, where the bartender is a pregnant former dancer in semi-retirement. This sounds like a cartoon stereotype from a bad novel, but it isn't. I've stupidly, drunkenly walked into places like that. Anthropologically speaking, they're amazing. But it is like stepping into a special section of hell.
This is not the Sundowner. The Columbian talent alone makes it five steps above 'dump.'