A classically good time at Classic Rock

A classically good time at Classic Rock

JAKARTA (JP): It was a Saturday afternoon at The Jakarta Post
and as usual, I was languidly doodling while eying the twelve
voluptuous new hackettes who had just jetted in from the New York
Times for a spot of on-the-job training (don't believe a word he
says - Ed). Suddenly, the telephone nestling expectantly at my
elbow rang out shrilly. It was my editor, a cad and a bounder if
ever there was one. "Get your ass over here," he bawled down the
line.

"What's up, Boss?" I asked, trying to wrap submissiveness,
humble-pie and temerity all into one (hopefully) acceptable
package. "It's not what's up, it's what's down -- our ratings,
m'lad," he replied shortly. "And rumor has it that you're part of
the problem." He followed this vicious insinuation with dark
mutterings about my (allegedly) having lost touch with the
younger generation. "So, what you're going to do this week is to
get out of your old-man pubs and head down to somewhere where
it's all happening, like, be COOL man -- groovy."

Hmmm. It was then that I remembered an invitation from a group
of acquaintances (mostly of the Bohemian, if not downright
hedonistic variety) to go partying in the "raunchy" Blok M area
of South Jakarta, at the Classic Rock pub to be precise. Perfect!
Not only would I be able to keep the evil editor at bay, but I'd
also have the opportunity to drink copious quantities of the
amber nectar at the Post's expense. Talk about killing two birds.
Everything was going to be SO cool, man, like, yeah, dig it,
baby.

Location: Jl. Falatehan 1 No. 12, Blok M, South Jakarta
(phone: 7251440, 7251308). This is the same street as such old-
timer dens of iniquity as Top Gun and the Sportsman's, so no need
to despair if you don't dig the Classic Rock -- there's plenty of
other watering holes to choose from.

Hours: From 7 p.m. to 2 a.m., seven days a week.

Bill, please: One of the main things that the Classic Rock has
going for it is it's prices. A glass of draft beer (Anker) will
only set you back Rp 7,500, while a generous pitcher of the same
brew will hit you for Rp 85,000. Astonishingly, one of the pretty
barmaids told me without even blinking that a shot of Johnny
Walker Black at Rp 24,000 was the same price as a shot of Johnny
Walker Red -- surely some mistake here! As for cocktails -- "No
have, mister". But they do have those strange kinds of beasts
that have become known as "mocktails", i.e., glorified fruit
juices, all of which go for Rp 10,500. Could be a cheap night out
for the teetotalers! And, by the way, there's no cover charge to
worry about.

What's it got: As usual, a fully stocked bar, although by no
means as fully stocked as many similar establishments. In other
words, don't go there expecting to find your favorite brand of
Outer Mongolian light ale.

Here's looking at you: Alas, my expectations of a cool,
happening place with million decibel techno music lifting up the
floorboards, spaced-out nymphettes and an orgy in every corner
proved to be ill-founded. Yes, as so often in Indonesia, Saturday
night means reggae night. And true to form, there he was up on
the stage, Brother Bob Marley's long-lost Jakarta twin all decked
out in de rigueur multicolored floppy hat, dirty-looking
dreadlocks and "power to the people" T-shirt, prancing around for
all the world like he had a broomstick firmly planted up his ass.

What is it about Brother Bob that appeals to so many aspiring
young local musicians that no matter where you go for a beer
throughout the archipelago, you're almost guaranteed to end up
listening to "No woman, no cry" for the zillionth time?
Could it be that the music is not so technically demanding?

While I used to be quite partial to the odd bit of reggae,
after a couple of years spent lurking in Indonesian bars, those
days are now long gone.

But I must admit, as reggae crooners go, this particular
outfit wasn't half bad. The Brother Bob look-alike was backed up
by an able female vocalist (who didn't look anything even
remotely West Indian) and, over in the corner of the stage, an
absolutely wonderful pair of jack-the-lads playing the trumpet
and sax really knew how to jig up the scene and get the punters
out wiggling and wobbling on the dance floor.

Other than the band, Classic Rock turned out to be a pretty
nondescript sort of place. Long and fairly narrow, with the bar
running along one side, it's the kind of dive that would be great
for hosting a young band on the up.

Dark and slightly seedy, it's not hard to imagine the joint
filled with smoke and heaving with pushing, shoving and sweating
revelers. But "imagine" here is the operative term for on the
night I paid a call, there couldn't have been any more than 20 or
30 would-be revelers there at the max -- and I was there until
the band called it a night at 2 a.m. Maybe I'm not the only one
in town who's had it more or less up to the gills with Indo-
reggae, even if the band is a cut above the rest.

Odds and ends: Was informed, for some unknown reason, by one
of the bouncing babes on the dance floor that the cubicle in the
ladies restroom lacked a lock, with the result that disaster
almost ensued as she tried to hold the door closed while
endeavoring to take aim at the bowl. Most unfortunate, no doubt!

Last call: Given the fact that reggae is already what could
fairly be described as "old-man" music, it goes without saying
that Classic Rock is not exactly a clubbers' paradise, not the
sort of place that's so cool you're likely to catch a cold sort
of thing. But, having said all that, at least you can hear
yourself talk and get a beer in without too much hassle (and
without breaking the bank into the bargain). Much more my style,
I must admit, though I've no idea what the editor will have to
say! He might even refuse to reimburse my beer bills. DISASTER!
(Bill Blade)