Shaken and stirred, here you have it, a whole bunch of vids featuring bars.
It’s no good – Depeche Mode
How I love everything about this vid: Handsome Dave Gahan as sleaze-dog cabaret performer, the boob ogling, the bottles smashed over heads, and, most especially, the gold lame (pronounced the French way) bobby-dazzler suit.
I want you so hard – Eagles of Death Metal
Cock rock to blast your kit off and everyone’s favourite extra, Dave Grohl, as be-wigged barfly = fully rad. I want to be best friends with the be-nuded business dude at the end, if only for that look he gives. Don’t worry, you’ll catch it.
Lived in bars – Cat Power
True, there are many benefits to going to a bar where everyone knows your name, particularly at that stage of the eve when you can’t quite remember if you’re called Suzie, Sally, or… er… Stephen.
Barbados – Models
The narrative for this is more Mid-80s Definitive Australian Experience than the World Expo ‘88 up in Brisbane (which, if you take in the date there, was actually a Late-80s Definitive Australian Experience. However I never got to experience that Experience because my family was too stingy/poor to go up north to Queensland). Take a look, it’s all there!
1) Being towed to the pub on a speedboat already pre-drunk
2) Singing into a mop, which, in turn, you use as a pool cue
3) Making a sly pass at your best mate, and, finally
4) Being dragged home by your mum who looks like she might just be a man.
All that’s missing is a six-pack of West Coast Coolers.
See, about nine years ago, I passed by James Freud in a bakery in South Melbourne. In fact, he held back the plastic fly strips on the door for me. In my hands was a loaf of banana bread and a rather large and sticky Boston bun. Then, I knew that not only was James Freud a fine singer of songs such as Barbados, but he was also a gentleman.
And so ends my fascinating anecdote.
Love is the slug – Fuzzbox
Any bar/dodgy nightclub where you can sneak in a coffee mug containing your favourite spirits is a good one in my books.
Stay – Oingo Boingo
Midgets, tables that split in half like a cartoon earthquake, sinister eyeballing, and waltzing ghosts. All in one bar.
I love rock n’ roll – Joan Jett and the Blackhearts
Look, for assorted reasons, I cringe whenever I hear this song. And yet, I kinda… well… love it. There, the filthy truth’s out there. Yes, I love Joan, on account of her work with the Runaways, razor-sharp cheekbones, and long service of being a fully hot chick with dark hair (like myself). And I just generally love people named Joan, mostly because one of my grandmothers is a Joan. In fact, I wouldn’t mind being called Joan, but I’d probably insist on the softer epithet ‘Joanie’. Moreover, I love jets and aerospace technologies as a general ‘idea’, despite my increasingly morbid fear of flying.
Right, I’ve covered the ‘Joan’ and the ‘Jet’ (sic) aspect, so what’s up with me and I love rock n’ roll? Basically, it’s the fact it’s such a bogan singalong song, and, if you knew where I grew up, then you’d understand why bogan singalongs kinda rankle me. (And I’m not meaning to offend anyone, Shane.)
It could also be all that raunchy chit about the 17-year-old dancing there by the record machine. With that, memories of every smooth talkin’ kid with grey long-shorts, 8-hole Doc Martens, and an undercut and/or seriously girlie bobcut I cavorted with when I was 17 or thereabouts, come wafting back like a Pepe Le Pew-esque plume of ‘Jazz’ by Yves St Laurent tempered with Southern Comfort swigged from a 2L Coke bottle.
Still, if I’m in a bar, and I’ve had enough shandies, and an I love rock n’ roll singalong strikes up there by the record machine, I’ll be the one rocking my Joanie-ness before you can chant “PUT ANOTHER DIME IN THE JUKEBOX, BABY!”