Thumping pub rock’s not conducive to supping fine ales and wine.
IT’S A great night, you’re surrounded by friends, you’ve got plenty of money in your pocket and the vibe in the bar is good.
No scruffy elements, not so much as a whiff of trouble and everything you say is sparklingly witty. And then the band starts up.
Your conversation is drowned, the thumping of the bass is causing strange reactions in your chest and the floor seems to be shaking as though an angry giant has decided to throw the bar around in a strop.
The singer approaches the mic and you know what’s going to happen now. Much as you’d like to flee to more salubrious surroundings, you are transfixed by the horror of what is about to happen. You know it’s going to be gruesome but, as though in some terrible nightmare, you are unable to move.
And then the singer starts bawling like a freshly gelded bull: “Why does love do this to me?” and within seconds, your night is ruined and you are asking yourself: “Why does life do this to me?”
Okay, that’s a generalisation, but we’ve all been there when a terrible band has destroyed a good night out. Don’t get me wrong — I love music and I love music in bars, but some bands shouldn’t be allowed out of the garage.
I’ve played music in bars and it’s not always a pleasure for the bands either. Being approached by drunks demanding their favourite song is a pain; when it happens repeatedly it’s like having a chronic illness.
But from the customer’s point of view, nothing can kill a night as easily as an over-loud group of young men who think volume equals ability.
DJs aren’t beyond reproach either. Relentless thumpety-thump isn’t really conducive to the lowering of fine ales and wines, but it’s getting harder to convince bar operators of this. They need to work this out, otherwise we’ll disgrace ourselves when all the visitors arrive from countries where plodding pub-rock is no longer acceptable.
Good music, at a reasonable level, is a fine addition to any bar, but too many bands either misjudge the size of the venue or are simply convinced that they are playing at Glastonbury to thousands.
I once had a word with a truly wretched folky type who was caterwauling in a bar. He didn’t get the hint when I suggested he play by the window and I’d help him out. He declared that he had the music inside him. I only wish it had stayed there.