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)