Jukebox AdventuresA guest post, contributed by Paddy.

I just moved to the area. It has the reputation for being progressive and features at least one century-old dive bar on every square block. Last Saturday, I decided to make the rounds. After all, some of these watering-holes were likely to become my second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh homes. I kind of made it an all day thing, and it was going quite well.

Later on, I had invited a friend to join me and we stumbled in to a particular bar. It was a lot like the others: small, with a pool table taking up half the room, and oozing with character. Like all the others, it had a jukebox. One of those Internet jukeboxes, in which if you pay more, you get access to the big database.

I was feeling quite good, and decided to put in $5 worth of all jazz songs. Now, I fully understand the implications of this. But it was my dime, and jazz is what I wanted to hear. Aware that there are certain responsibilities that come with picking jukebox songs, I was conscientious enough to pick some jazz tunes that I deemed universal enough to maybe pass muster at this homey, neighborhood bar. Hummable and bluesy ones; one or two patrons may even recognize them. I picked like three Kind of Blue cuts including "So What" and "All Blues." I think I slipped in a more accessible Coltrane tune like "Impressions," and I remember going for at least one bluesy Mingus tune. If anything, the music would be harmless.

Preceded by a couple of Bon Jovi songs, my picks came on. Seated at the table next to ours were five or so guys, and immediately, a quiet and steady din emanated from them, as Paul Chambers punched out the bass intro to "So What." I could sense a touch of passive panic, like something was wrong. As Coltrane and Cannonball Adderley were getting knee deep in their sax solos, the rumblings grew steadily more intense.

The next Kind of Blue tune came on and the barometric pressure in the room rose as that table next to us nervously twitched. When my third song came on, someone said, quite loudly: "more jazz?" The entire table then simultaneously launched into a conversation with each other about "what is this bullshit?" and "what the hell is this shit?" and "who put this on?" Now, I am not sure if they made the connection that I was the one who put this shit on, but they continued to berate the picks for the next five minutes. Even the bartender whom had earlier served us our beers came over to that table and joined in with a couple of "what the fuck"s and laughed.

I got pissed off about this strange and open hostility, so, I finished my beer quickly, said "let's go" to my bewildered friend, and we left.

Okay, so I picked a shitload of jazz tunes and jazz tunes have the tendency of being over four and half minutes long and apparently not everybody likes even greatest hits bebop, BUT, a few things:

1. I paid for the songs
2. The bartender cost the bar a potential frequently drinking customer who would have probably stopped in at least monthly.
3. What? You can't take it? You can't function in the bar without hearing the sound of a flying-V guitar? You can only survive from chorus to sing-along chorus? We all have to put up with jukebox picks we don't like, but deal with it. Try talking. This strange hostility is not cool.

Anyhow, we went a bar on the same block called The Squirrel Cage, where I didn't put any jazz tunes on the jukebox, but I played pool, talked, and had a good time.