The good, the bad and the Oriental disco

The good, the bad and the Oriental disco

By Alan Smithee

JAKARTA (JP): The Oriental Disco, one of Jakarta's very first
and finest discotheques, reopens at the Hilton Hotel after a
major face-lift and more than a five-year absence. My initial
reaction to this announcement was a very unenthused "whoop-dee-
doo!" as I twirled an index finger in the air. My mid-1980's
memories of the Oriental were more than a little hazy, but I was
intrigued to see how things had changed so I bit the mirrored
glitter-ball and accepted the Friday Night Fever assignment.

When the Oriental shut its doors in 1994, Jakarta, and
Indonesia for that matter, were very different places than they
are today. The Asian economic boom was in full swing, foreign
investment dollars were flooding in faster than they could be
squandered or misappropriated, and it appeared as if Soeharto
would be Indonesia's second president for life. Amid the golf
course, karaoke and concrete gold rush, scores of new hotels and
nightspots sprung up overnight, displacing many of the dance-
hungry hordes from such enduring old disco enclaves as the
Casablanca, the Music Room and the Pitstop. The Oriental was not
immune to the excess competition and, as they say in the big
city, the rest is history.

My expectations were raised as a throbbing bit of electronica
accompanied my 11 p.m. stroll down the long corridors leading
into the bowels of the Oriental (little did I know that it was
the first and last such number I was to hear all evening). Open
from 7 p.m. to 3 a.m., the weekend cover charge was Rp 35,000,
although entry is free during the workweek. I surveyed the layout
-- a simple large rectangular room with an octagon-domed
disco/dance floor at one end, and a similar-domed bandstand and
dance floor at the other. Scores of cushy turquoise chairs and
sofas and elegant marble tables filled the center. Balinese masks
with unusual rainbow-colored explosions of plastic hair adorned
the walls. The place was packed with very few vacant tables, so I
grabbed a stool at the near-empty bar that was guarded by two
Godzilla-sized Ramayana masks. The draft beers were Rp 25,000
(plus plus) and house-pour drinks ranged from Rp 40,000 to Rp
60,000. There was a small stand-up menu of bar snacks, but given
the steep drink prices, I gave them a pass. This was a disco
anyway -- people go there to be seen, socialize and shake some
booty, not to munch on barbecued chicken wings.

As I recalled, the Oriental Disco of yesteryear was haunted by
mostly young wealthy Indonesians and aspiring Jakarta yuppies,
with the occasional handful of petroleum industry expatriates and
vacationing tourists tossed in for good measure. As I scanned the
present horizon, it was not quite the title of a well-know Roman
Polanski film (starring Jack Nicholson and Faye Dunaway), but one
particular ethnic group definitely outnumbered the majority of
Donna Summer and John Travolta-obsessed patrons. The crowd was
more mature too, mainly in their 30's and 40's, and dressed to
the nines in an assortment of long flowing evening gowns, slick
dinner suits, stylish European jeans and sparkly up-market
designer drags. The only expatriates were a few befuddled-looking
European businessmen (obvious hotel guests far away from home)
and a young Frenchman who was dancing badly with a group of
giggling young local gals (a newly-arrived Schlumberger engineer
I surmised). When the club went totally wild over a dance remix
of I Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You, I finally realized that this
truly was the same Oriental crowd as the good old days -- bopping
to the same classic 1970's and 1980's disco tunes -- only they
had all grown older, and apparently more prosperous as well. No,
there were certainly no signs of lingering "Kris-Mon" here baby.

The clock struck twelve and the attention shifted to the far
end of the Oriental as the 10-piece Wach Dach Band took to the
stage. Fronted by four male and female singers, they ran through
a competent set of top-40's numbers such as Mambo No. 5, You
Can't Hurry Love, I Will Survive, Cher's Believe and the Gipsy
Kings' blistering rendition of Volare. Most of the audience was
content to give their feet a rest and sit out Wach Dach's show.
Even though this was far from my kind of music (give me some
Stones or Pink Floyd any day), I was actually starting to enjoy
the well-performed and lively set. This was of course until they
unfortunately played the one song that is so utterly painful that
it triggers gastric seizures of near-nuclear proportions in my
digestive tract. Some people can handle durians or strong drink,
but Abba's Dancing Queen is a composition that was never meant
for consumption by man or beast. I guess that's why so many girls
love this song -- they know how much it can royally nauseate
their husbands and boyfriends!

In this age of "reformasi" many things will change, but
fortunately -- or unfortunately (depending on your tolerance
level for nostalgia) -- some things will always remain the same.
Even with the Abba intrusion, it was not a bad night out; and
there is little doubt that the Oriental has tapped into a solid
local market, albeit one caught in a perpetual Studio 54 time
warp. So if you're not a rock n' roller, dislike droning house
music and hanker for more familiar pop music with strong melody
and a danceable beat, may I suggest that you take your spouse or
date down to the Oriental Disco and give it a thoroughly
enjoyable retro-boogie shake.