No single criterion can make or break a bar for me more than
the presence of an internet jukebox. Breaking the limiting bonds of physical
media, these portals to a vast landscape of sonic potential supplement any
evening of spirits and socializing with bottle-rattling double-bass kick drums
and the hateful grimaces of the bar’s regulars.
Oh, sweet schadenfreude, thy name be Metal tonight.
You see, when my brothers-in-billiards and I stride into any back-water saloon, cue cases in hand, and we see that welcoming electronic glow of an LCD touch screen, we know our pool games will be soundtracked by the most unfriendly and unforgiving genre of music to be found in cyberspace. Any Roadhouse would have to have their own Swayze on retainer to quell the musical bedlam we’ll lay upon its unsuspecting patrons. Of course, maybe to say we’re not under suspect is to deny them credit; when a jugallo rolls in, ICP hoodie over Twizted t-shirt, followed by a man known for wearing his Mohawk with more colors than the NBC Peacock logo and yours truly, who has been finding Sampson-levels of confidence and strength in his ever-increasing rock-star locks, your average Iron Ranger at the bar will deduce that we don’t exactly listen to Conway Twitty.
It usually doesn’t take long into the first Fear Factory or 40 Below Summer track to summon grumblings of complaint from those who wished for beer and quiet reflection on their Monday night. The bar starts clearing shortly thereafter, usually through the first verse of whatever perverse ICP hip hop track Deuce picks out. Heaven forbid I’m in a foul mood: where I usually pick the tamest selections from Machine Head’s or Iced Earth’s back catalogue, there are times I’ll eschew any attempts at civility and instead play some Arch Enemy, Children of Bodom, or Shadows Fall.
I realize my readers are mostly uninitiated in the ways of heavy metal, so let’s put it this way: these two extremes could be defined as “Metallica” metal and “Cookie Monster” metal. I don’t know anybody who would still be unclear after that comparison.
We’re unapologetic about it, as well. It’s not our task to cultivate a scene or culture for whichever bar we’re shooting pool in. If the manager or owner of the bar wanted to meticulously maintain a reputation for being a certain type of establishment, they should employ an archaic disk-based jukebox and supply only music choices fitting of their wishes. But given the opportunity, our pool team is going to engineer an environment more fitting to our musical styling. Usually it proves beneficial; music we enjoy pumps us up and if our opponents dislike the taste of our medicine, they might choke at the table.
Our musical warfare isn’t always catching waves, Zarathustra, and the smell of napalm in the morning. Sometimes we get our Cold War spy suits on and work our malevolence in more clandestine ways.
A few years ago, when everyone lived in near enough proximity to make regular social excursions in Duluth possible, I’d find myself in the company of Hustler and F-Dot at whatever bar had an open pool table and cute bartenders. Often times it was Dubh Linn, with their 5 tables and short-skirted waitresses with legs up to here. Hustler taught me to shoot pool, showed me the b-rate joy to be found in pool movies, and generally was the closest thing to a frat brother I ever had in my fledgling community college career. He’d often wear the white letters on black “Hustler” t-shirt when we’d go out. F-Dot is the third of our Stooges. If I lived life like Spinal Tap, and Hustler lived life like Poolhall Junkies, F-Dot lived it like the Rat Pack’s Ocean’s Eleven, enjoying as many of the finer things in life that a rapscallion can. Sometimes we were joined by Prime, named so for his optimal love of Transformers and his recent personal transformation in the gym, going from doughy tri-chin to svelte stud in recent years.
Regardless of who joined us on these Dul-Sup adventures, we’d bounce from bar to bar, shooting pool, sometimes slamming Irish Car Bombs, and sating our hunger with appetizer menu items. There’d be the usual testosterone-driven conversation, the stereotypical male ogling of women. Hustler always had some girl fawning over him, and when we’d go out he’d do his best to pass down some seduction pointers to the awkward and shy F-Dot and I. Occasionally we’d play some 8-ball against whoever would put up a round of drinks against us, though I’ve long forgotten whether we were successful more than we lost.
Invariably, when the cues are put away and jackets go on, our most clever secret agent, F-Dot, would slink his way to the jukebox, dollar bills in hand, and surreptitiously queue up as many plays of Hanson’s “MMM-Bop” as he could afford. We’d linger near the door at the end of the bar for a bit, paying our tabs or sipping one last beverage while the current song finished up, and sometimes we’d endure the first iteration of our weapon of choice, but usually by the time the song starts to repeat itself, we could see the disgust creeping up on folks’ faces, and we’d walk out, chased by confused calls of “WTF!” and “Who the hell played this?!” Those poor souls we left in our wake, victim to a nightmare of pop culture we’d all just as soon forget.
Oh, sweet schadenfreude, thy name be Metal tonight.
You see, when my brothers-in-billiards and I stride into any back-water saloon, cue cases in hand, and we see that welcoming electronic glow of an LCD touch screen, we know our pool games will be soundtracked by the most unfriendly and unforgiving genre of music to be found in cyberspace. Any Roadhouse would have to have their own Swayze on retainer to quell the musical bedlam we’ll lay upon its unsuspecting patrons. Of course, maybe to say we’re not under suspect is to deny them credit; when a jugallo rolls in, ICP hoodie over Twizted t-shirt, followed by a man known for wearing his Mohawk with more colors than the NBC Peacock logo and yours truly, who has been finding Sampson-levels of confidence and strength in his ever-increasing rock-star locks, your average Iron Ranger at the bar will deduce that we don’t exactly listen to Conway Twitty.
It usually doesn’t take long into the first Fear Factory or 40 Below Summer track to summon grumblings of complaint from those who wished for beer and quiet reflection on their Monday night. The bar starts clearing shortly thereafter, usually through the first verse of whatever perverse ICP hip hop track Deuce picks out. Heaven forbid I’m in a foul mood: where I usually pick the tamest selections from Machine Head’s or Iced Earth’s back catalogue, there are times I’ll eschew any attempts at civility and instead play some Arch Enemy, Children of Bodom, or Shadows Fall.
I realize my readers are mostly uninitiated in the ways of heavy metal, so let’s put it this way: these two extremes could be defined as “Metallica” metal and “Cookie Monster” metal. I don’t know anybody who would still be unclear after that comparison.
We’re unapologetic about it, as well. It’s not our task to cultivate a scene or culture for whichever bar we’re shooting pool in. If the manager or owner of the bar wanted to meticulously maintain a reputation for being a certain type of establishment, they should employ an archaic disk-based jukebox and supply only music choices fitting of their wishes. But given the opportunity, our pool team is going to engineer an environment more fitting to our musical styling. Usually it proves beneficial; music we enjoy pumps us up and if our opponents dislike the taste of our medicine, they might choke at the table.
Our musical warfare isn’t always catching waves, Zarathustra, and the smell of napalm in the morning. Sometimes we get our Cold War spy suits on and work our malevolence in more clandestine ways.
A few years ago, when everyone lived in near enough proximity to make regular social excursions in Duluth possible, I’d find myself in the company of Hustler and F-Dot at whatever bar had an open pool table and cute bartenders. Often times it was Dubh Linn, with their 5 tables and short-skirted waitresses with legs up to here. Hustler taught me to shoot pool, showed me the b-rate joy to be found in pool movies, and generally was the closest thing to a frat brother I ever had in my fledgling community college career. He’d often wear the white letters on black “Hustler” t-shirt when we’d go out. F-Dot is the third of our Stooges. If I lived life like Spinal Tap, and Hustler lived life like Poolhall Junkies, F-Dot lived it like the Rat Pack’s Ocean’s Eleven, enjoying as many of the finer things in life that a rapscallion can. Sometimes we were joined by Prime, named so for his optimal love of Transformers and his recent personal transformation in the gym, going from doughy tri-chin to svelte stud in recent years.
Regardless of who joined us on these Dul-Sup adventures, we’d bounce from bar to bar, shooting pool, sometimes slamming Irish Car Bombs, and sating our hunger with appetizer menu items. There’d be the usual testosterone-driven conversation, the stereotypical male ogling of women. Hustler always had some girl fawning over him, and when we’d go out he’d do his best to pass down some seduction pointers to the awkward and shy F-Dot and I. Occasionally we’d play some 8-ball against whoever would put up a round of drinks against us, though I’ve long forgotten whether we were successful more than we lost.
Invariably, when the cues are put away and jackets go on, our most clever secret agent, F-Dot, would slink his way to the jukebox, dollar bills in hand, and surreptitiously queue up as many plays of Hanson’s “MMM-Bop” as he could afford. We’d linger near the door at the end of the bar for a bit, paying our tabs or sipping one last beverage while the current song finished up, and sometimes we’d endure the first iteration of our weapon of choice, but usually by the time the song starts to repeat itself, we could see the disgust creeping up on folks’ faces, and we’d walk out, chased by confused calls of “WTF!” and “Who the hell played this?!” Those poor souls we left in our wake, victim to a nightmare of pop culture we’d all just as soon forget.
I know it’s brazenly obvious to state “Music is sooo
important to me!” and think that I’m the only one to feel the melodious
gravitas of modern music. The universal appeal to music as emotional catharsis is
banal to the point of inanity. But when you take a listener out of the familiar
country of their car’s top 40 radio station and confront them with the barbs of
extreme metal, or perhaps make them taste again the bitter pill of music once
cherished yet poorly aged, their reactions are nothing short of stellar
entertainment to me.
Sometimes the ultimate display of suave coolness in the hands of Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli, the jukebox can also be a terrorist bomb, a dark power that all too often falls into the wrong hands: ours.
For those about to rock: we salute you.
Sometimes the ultimate display of suave coolness in the hands of Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli, the jukebox can also be a terrorist bomb, a dark power that all too often falls into the wrong hands: ours.
For those about to rock: we salute you.
"surreptitiously queue up as many plays of Hanson’s “MMM-Bop” as he could afford"
ReplyDeleteI like that.