I used to be awesome at the jukebox. It began in 1984, in a bowling alley's arcade. Shawn Bruner, the coolest guy ever, was smacking metal balls up the second-floor staircase of Haunted House. While waiting for my turn, I sank a free quarter into the belly of what resembled a modified cigarette dispenser that spat out tunes instead of Kools. I queued Duran Duran's "Union of the Snake," David Bowie's "Let's Dance," and Elton John's "Kiss the Bride," then waited in anticipation. Did I do it right? Did I punch the right button combinations? I breathed a sigh of relief when Kool & the Gang's "Joanna" ended and up came Simon LeBon purring like butter about telegrams. "Yeah!" Shawn shouted. "This song fuckin' rules!" We sang in unison on the chorus as best we could: "The union of the snake is on the cliiiiimb/zazzazazzazazzazazza race zaza borderliiiiiiine." "Let's Dance" was received even more enthusiastically; Shawn slapped Haunted's sides in tandem with the electronic beat. "I wanna kiss the bride, hey!" Shawn shouted with Elton. I felt pretty good about myself that day.
Within six years, however, I'd lost the touch. By then I'd really gotten into music and was suffering from intense music snobbery. It was my duty to convert everyone. At high school dances I was one of the select few who brought his own "recommendations" for the DJ. You may have heard one of my contributions at West Albany High's Christmas prom in 1989—all one minute of it. I wanted to slow-dance to Victory's "Lost in the Night," from Culture Killed The Native; the sound system demurred, clipping the chorus and replacing it with AC/DC's tried-and-true "You Shook Me All Night Long." Later that night I retrieved my cassette from a pile of shamefaced also-neglects: Violent Femmes, Echo & the Bunnymen, 10,000 Maniacs. For the rest of the year, I had only one success, Sir Mix-A-Lot's "The (Peek-a-Boo) Game." Just my luck, I was in the bathroom at the time.
My reputation only grew in the passing years. At any greasy spoons unlucky enough to house a jukebox, my dinner companions would cringe whenever I started fishing for loose change, my eyes fixed on the gorgeous contraption posed seductively against a back wall. They'd regard my innocent prey with pity as I closed the gap between Patsy Cline's "Crazy" and Gary Glitter's "Rock & Roll Part 1"—not to be confused with its better-known, thankfully instrumental sequel. Their eyes begged, "Why do you do this to us?" as, satisfied, I'd return to my eggs, sunny-side up.
Why do I do it? Simply put in rather vulgar language, I hate hearing the same old shit. There's a restaurant I frequent near my home, and it's got a pretty sweet setup: vintage mini-consoles at every table from which you can select a pair of tunes for a quarter. There are some awesome sides stored in that jukebox; unfortunately, they rarely get the opportunity to breathe fresh, omelet-scented air. Because the clientele, diverse as it is, leans on the same tired hit parade. Within the space of an hour, you're guaranteed to hear all of the following: Eagles, "Hotel California"; Elvis Presley, "Hound Dog"; The Doors, "Break On Through (To the Other Side)"; The Knack, "My Sharona"; Buddy Holly, "Peggy Sue"; George Thorogood & The Destroyers, "Bad to the Bone"; Soft Cell, "Tainted Love"; Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love"; and, of course, AC/DC, "You Shook Me All Night Long."
Admittedly, all of these songs are classics. They've earned their place in the cultural pantheon. The dreamy opening of "Hotel California" still stirs images of Riunite-colored waves slapping stucco beneath a blood-red sun. "My Sharona" remains bouncy fun for drunken car rides home. "Hound Dog" and "Peggy Sue" helped assure rock 'n' roll's immortality, although both artists paid for their legends with their lives. George Thorogood is perfect for rolling into parking lots with the windows down, especially while driving under the influence of sunglasses.
But they're classics in the sense that they're ubiquitous. You hear them all the time, on even the most uptight oldies stations. They're literally in the air we breathe. You could hear "Hotel California" at home for free by turning on the radio or by plucking it from your own collection. Or stand in an elevator. Sit in a doctor's office. Hell, you don't even have to listen to it to hear it—just summon your favorite passages at will. You don't need to open your penny-purse to hang with Don Henley while scarfing handfuls of ketchup-coated French fries—just get that shit to go.
Where, I ask you, are those enterprising diners who regard that coin slot as a quarter-powered path to another world? Who understand that "Rock Around With Ollie Vee" is a mere letter entry past "Peggy Sue"? That The Doors actually recorded more than one hit, and that Soft Cell's one hit is perhaps best limited to two accidental listens per year? Does the restaurant staff need to be pelted by 200 rounds of "Mountain Music" daily? Why must I hear "Suspicious Minds" four times during a single hamburger?
I can only shake my head in arrogant exasperation, then dip into my pockets and free that live version of Peter Gabriel's "Solsbury Hill" lying dormant in the ether. Let it roam happy for a while. Stretch. Grab an ear or two. Slip back into its coma. Think about it: It costs less than a cup of coffee, and for the equivalent of a pay-phone call, you, too, can release up to four forgotten songs from their exile. Elvis Presley's "Paralyzed" is waiting. It's the only humane—and snobby—thing to do.
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