I was at Bloodhound on Saturday evening, hanging out and watching the Emerald Bowl (meh, kinda boring) and drinking and so forth. It was pretty dead; there were only maybe 10 people in the place, total. One of the owners was playing a great mix of old soul and funk from his iPod, which we were heartily enjoying, when one of our fellow patrons stepped up to the jukebox. What followed was an object lesson in why some people should never be allowed around a jukebox.
Now, let me preface this by saying that Bloodhound has a pretty good jukebox. It's not one of those Internet jukeboxes that lets you play any song ever recorded; no, it's preloaded with CDs, but there's some great stuff on there, like Blitzen Trapper's "Furr" and "Dear Science" by TV on the Radio and both discs of "The Essential Clash." Homegirl skipped right over all this musical goodness.
No, she seemed bound and determined to play a set that sounded just like any drive time on KFOG, one tired, played-out radio hit after another. You know what's great after Fleetwood Mac's "Say You Love Me"? Why, "Jammin'" by Bob Marley, that's what! Oh yay! And then how about "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic"? I've only heard that 10 or 12 thousand times. I almost forgot what that sounded like. What, nothing from "Steel Wheels"? I can tell you wanna rock; that's why you put on "You Better You Bet," one of the lamest Who songs. Am I in a bar, or in the back of a soccer mom's Windstar? "Hey Mom, play 'Fire and Rain' next!! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!!!"
By the time her set mercifully ended and mine started, it was about time to go. She put on like 15 songs of relentless blandness. The musical equivalent of American cheese and mayonnaise on Wonder bread. Painful.