April Update
Blok M update, April 2004
Status report
“Water, water, everywhere” has been the catchword for one of the longest rainy seasons in living memory here in dear old Jakarta, but as April unfolds it does seem that the rains are at last drawing to a close. With the end of the wet weather in sight and the election season having fizzled out like a damp squib, we revellers look forward to a revitalised and flourishing Blok as the absent guys and girls drift back.
With friends like that …
Truth, they say, is the first casualty of war - it’s certainly the first casualty of Blok M. As he sits quaffing a sociable beer in D’s upstairs bar one evening, one of the girls asks what’s happened to his arm. His boozing companion shoots out a quick reply in fluent Bahasa Indonesia that makes the girl blush and run away. “What on earth did you tell her?” asks the Reveller, a bit perplexed. “I told her you’ve done yourself a serious injury through excessive and over-energetic masturbation” chuckles his friend. So now the Reveller gets solicitous looks from all the girls in D’s Place who don’t know the true story…
A bit of what you fancy
does you good, according to the old saying. And how very true it is! Having been heartened to hear that a steady and sustained intake of red wine is good for the old ticker and keeps your whole system in swiss-watch condition, the Reveller is delighted to learn from a fellow shagger (with a wicked gleam in his lecherous eyes) that frequent ejaculations have now been scientifically proven to be an effective way of preventing prostate cancer.
But contrary to other old sayings, self-abuse does not make you go blind, and neither will wet dreams make you impotent. So worried by these momentous matters was our benighted government some time ago that it actually issued posters to reassure all healthily-active red-blooded young males that there’s nothing wrong with coming inadvertently. You don’t believe this? - well, here’s the proof!
The crawl to arms
As the Reveller’s revelling capacity is severely limited, he decides to see in the new month with a leisurely trawl of the Blok M dives to find out how they’re faring, and how they’ve changed over recent months. Three nights of painstaking research have been devoted to this challenge, each followed by a morning of coffee and aspirins to mitigate the side effects of this arduous but necessary task.
The news about My Bar is like the parson’s egg - it’s good in parts, and it’s bad in parts. The good news is that after the razzmatazz and brouhaha of the opening a while back, it’s settling nicely into the life of the Blok and seems to be attracting a small but devoted band of followers. The not-so-good news is that it’s still not grabbing a healthy slice of the late-night action, nor the early evening out-on-the-town trade.
The rains and the elections, with their malign impact on the numbers of guys and girls out on regular revels, are a double whammy for My Bar - the reduced numbers hit all the bars to a greater or lesser extent, but most of the guys seem to have stuck to their tried and trusted haunts. The management is doing the right thing, which is to soldier on through the doldrums and brave out the slump. The Reveller is doing his bit by dropping in for a jar or two most evenings he’s out, and urging his mates to do the same thing.
Calling into My Bar late one Friday night, the Reveller is greeted by quite a sizeable crowd. Most of the gang are girls - many of them rather jaded and blowsy specimens from Up North - but there’s a goodly number of the regular Blok M girls, and plenty of guys too.
As the Reveller sets up his drink and sits down at the edge of the disco floor, all attention suddenly shifts to where three scantily-clad young things are clambering onto the top of the main bar, each wearing what might best be described as a tacky two-piece outfit made from industrial-strength pink PVC rubbish bags that have been savagely hacked into ragged strips with blunt kitchen knives and then inexpertly stitched together by a kindergarten sewing class.
Yes, My Bar has introduced go-go bar-top dancing - an art form previously alien to the Blok, and curiously out of place in Jalan Pelatehan. But top marks to the management for trying, and looking for new ways to titillate the tired carouser. The trio struggle gamely, but alas only one of them has the sinuous flexibility to carry off this style of dancing. The other two resemble marionettes that are being manipulated by a slightly dyslexic puppet-master.
As he leaves My Bar to its gimmicks and breathes in the night air, the Reveller notices that the neon sign above the entrance is only half lit - there’s a sinister dark patch in the glare. Meandering down the street he wonders if this is an omen, a portent of ominous things to come.
Wandering into Oscars at about ten thirty one night, the Reveller is greeted like a long-lost friend by the bar staff and the Oscars girls. There’ve been a few changes during his long-time absence - nothing that hits you in the face, but enough to give a distinctly different feel to the bar. It’s a bit like an ageing dowager who’s changed her make-up in a heroic but misguided attempt to look more youthful.
Looking round the bar, the most striking observation is that the walls have been repainted - gone, alas, is that bilious ancient emulsion that made the place so alluringly seedy, and in its place is a lick of fresh white paint.
Ah, and the bar stools. Instead of the rickety, wobbly, spindly jobs they used to have - unsafe at any angle - there are now reassuringly solid, heavy-duty stools, some of which even have a low-slung back support. And wait a minute, the bar staff are now wearing natty yellow tops and white minis - they look like animated marigolds as they bob and weave their way between the tables.
The band podium looks different - yes, there’s a whopping great screen hanging on the back wall, and one of those titchy video projectors lurking among the fans and spotlights on the ceiling. When the live music stops the screen shimmers into life, and there’s a vintage recording of a Rolling Stones concert to entertain the troops.
But the real shock of the evening is the fish. Alas, the Reveller’s old friends, the economy-grade fancy carp, have all gone - in their place are four tropical beauties that the Reveller can’t put a name to, except for a Lohan with a particularly disdainful, bored air which bears a distinct resemblance to a girl he knows in Lintas Melawai.
The music is just the same as ever - loud and penetrating renditions of some vaguely modern stuff, performed by an androgynous group sporting the latest de rigueur scruffy-look, shapelessly baggy gear. (Indeed, the Reveller and his drinking companion spend their first ten minutes in the bar trying to establish the gender of the lead singer.)
Now what’s that swaying in the shadows next to the podium - good heavens, it’s the Elvis impersonator himself! You’ve got to admire this guy. He’s been performing in Oscars for as long as the Reveller can remember, belting and crooning his way through the King’s repertoire to generations of carousers. He’s a real trooper who’s become a Blok M institution in his own right.
There isn’t a big crowd in the place - not surprising, as it’s mid-week and a bit on the early side - but a handful of frisky young guys stroll in with their floozies, obviously regulars, and there’s a fair sprinkling of the older denizens propping up the bar and chatting cosily with the girls, as they have since time immoral.
Bidding farewell to Oscars, the Reveller surveys the half-empty street and decides to have a nightcap in Top Gun. Entering the main bar who should he bump into but his old friend the Poisonous Dwarf, who hisses and shuffles off into the shadows as the Reveller parks himself at the bar. The bar staff, bless them, give the Reveller a warm welcome and we have a good chin-wag about times past and mutual acquaintances long since gone from Jakarta.
Since the suicidal renovations that a self-destructive management inflicted on the bar a year or so ago, the Reveller has to admit that it looks better than the last time he ventured in. The lighting, for a start, is a big improvement - it’s reverted to the patchy dimness that used to be the hallmark of Top Gun. And they’ve lined the walls in the far corner with mirrors, actually quite an enhancement.
The bar staff are wearing yellowy-orange outfits, echoing the fashion in Oscars. They look quite nice, and the Reveller approves of the change - but he hopes that there isn’t a hidden political agenda in the choice of colours.
Alas and alack, the bar is nearly empty. Every able-bodied girl has drifted off to D’s Place for the Ladies’ Lucky Draw, leaving a handful of the old guard to decorate the place. Top Gun has retained a small band of real diehard regular customers; a few of these guys are stooped over the pool table, some are huddled round the bar tables deep in inebriate conversation.
In spite of cosmetic changes to the bar decoration and furnishings, Sportsmans still has the same feel and atmosphere it’s always had, and the same old gang of earnestly cheerful business chaps enjoying a sociable jar with their buddies.
Feeling a bit peckish the Reveller orders a beer and settles down to peruse the menu, and is soon tucking into a pretty good steak that’s really rare. Now as those of you who haunt the local eateries will confirm, getting a nice, juicy rare steak in Jakarta is about as difficult as finding a virgin in Blok M, so the Reveller is doubly impressed with the Sportsmans kitchen.
Mopping up the last dollop of tasty wine and mushroom sauce, the bill is called for and the Reveller forsakes the depressingly wholesome atmosphere of Sportsmans in search of late-night sleaze - so what else should he do but wheel sharp left and mosey up the road and mount the steps to D’s Place upstairs bar.
The lights are getting dimmer by the day in D’s upstairs bar, so it takes the Reveller a good few minutes to adjust to the gloom. In place of some of the previous mini-spotlights there are now ultra-violet tubes that make white fabrics glow eerily in the dark - but also have the interesting effect of fluorescing the quinine in tonic water, and making dandruff sparkle and twinkle brightly.
The place is surprisingly empty for a Saturday night, and not until just before eleven does the bar start to fill up. What’s the reason for this? the Reveller asks his drinking companion, who drops in almost every night and has his finger on the pulse. “Well, it’s the Ladies’ Lucky Draw - or rather, lack of it”, is the reply. Apparently there’s been an increasingly frequent omission of the advertised early evening draw, and the girls don’t like this one bit. Many of them have left their regular haunts for the D’s draw, and feel a bit cheated if there isn’t one. So a lot of them are now cutting their losses, and only come for the late-night session.
Another (and rather odd) innovation is that the tops of the disco mirrors have been decorated with swags of white and green material. The Reveller remarks to his fellow carousers that this is completely out of kilter with D’s house style, and has the unfortunate effect of making the disco look like a downmarket Victorian funeral parlour.
Eleven twenty comes and goes, and so does the Reveller - still no sign of a lucky draw. So into a bajay he gets, and off he goes to LM for a late-night bash.
It’s half-past twelve on Saturday night, and the Lintas Melawai disco is pathetically bereft of life. There aren’t many girls in the place, and those that are present seem to be in a state of suspended animation. The place has a sorry air about it, and the bar staff lack their usual vivacity. Indeed, it takes them almost fifteen minutes to prepare the Reveller’s bar bill - and there are only eight paying customers in the entire place. So at one o’clock he decides that the place is terminally inactive, and trudges out to search for a bajay to take him home.
Comments at Lintas, and the next night in D’s place, confirm his suspicion that LM is going through another bad patch, and is in serious danger of losing its reputation as a sure-fire late-late spot for hardened revellers.
Ditching his bajay outside the Ambhara Hotel early one evening, the Reveller makes a foray into the Stamford Arms. Nothing has changed since his last visit - it’s the same synthetically comfortable hostelry it was the day it opened. But it’s a pleasant, relaxing spot in which to while away an hour or so, and has the inestimable advantage of being a good place to meet and talk with friends as it hasn’t got music pounding out at full volume like the local bars.
Actually, as he sits nursing his glass of beer the Reveller notices that the erstwhile shiny brass rail round the bar is now a bit dull and tarnished in places, while the obscenely shiny wooden floor is now losing much of its varnish and gaining a bit of patina. These endearing little touches make the place far more authentic than any number of bogus sports trophies, miniature ship’s wheels or pastiche hunting scenes can ever do.
A quick sup, and then it’s off across the road to the Club to see what’s cooking there.
Now the Club is a writer’s worst nightmare. Once you’ve described it, there’s nothing more to say - the place simply never changes. Sitting down at the “safe” side of the bar, well away from the predators, the Reveller is rapidly surrounded by a gaggle of girls. These, too, seem to have been around ever since his first visit nigh on five years ago, and look exactly the same - they’re the Dorian Grays of Blok M.
Glancing idly round the scene, he’s reminded of those little two-picture puzzles that you get in the syndicated comic-strip pages of the popular Sunday newspapers - the task is to spot ten minute differences between seemingly identical drawings. The only discernible difference between last week’s visit to the Club and this night’s is three ketchup bottles and a couple of salt and pepper sets on the bar next to the kitchen. That says it all, really.
Sad, sad, sad. This is the Reveller’s immediate and overriding impression as he pushes open the door and walks into Everest for the first time in many weeks. There’s a forlorn feel to the place, almost as though it’s become resigned to being the also-ran of the Blok M bars. The downstairs dining area has shrunk to a desultory half-a-dozen or so tables clinging to the bar end of the space, and a much scaled-down music podium is now tucked timorously into the farthest corner. A pool table has been set up on the left hand side of the area, but it looks out of place and uninviting.
There are only two other paying customers apart from the Reveller in the downstairs bar, and the bar staff have little or nothing to do so they just chat to each other or dance to the band music. It’s a sad comment, but it looks as though Everest has peaked and is now on the downward slope to oblivion.
Epilogue
Well, there you have the long-awaited update on the bars and discos. The picture is a pretty mixed one. D’s is thriving, and the owners reckon that My Bar has only dented their profits by five percent or so - which must be very welcome news, given the formidably aggressive and well-financed machine that’s opened right on their doorstep. Top Gun and Oscars are chugging along, victims of chronic mismanagement but still holding their own. Sportsmans firmly holds on to its market slot, and My Bar seems to be gathering momentum nicely. The Club is just the Club, and the Stamford Arms fills its ecological niche quite effectively. The relegation candidate has got to be Everest, short of a miracle.