After a long day of disappointing markets Mr. M and I decided to hit up another night of music, this time at the seemingly most popular of rock bars here called The Wanch. At first The Wanch sounds like The Ranch, only spoken by someone trying to make fun of Chinese people. Google Autocomplete just made me realize The Wanch is a play on Wan Chai, a terrible terrible district full of Western bars, bright neon signs, and the obligatory massage parlors.
Mr. M and I have had some great success this far eating fabulous food and drinking regularly on the cheap - 20 oz beers served cold for at most 22 HKD ($2.84). This is mostly because we've been staying in North Point, a no-nonsense area that feels very Chinese but still gives easy access to the Western (i.e. good coffee a few blocks away) and the subway / ferry (i.e. absolutely critical). Back at The Wanch we walked into the sparse room and the staff setting up equipment for the open mic night. We were taken aback at the 350 HKD ($45.13) bill presented to us for two beers and two thimbles of Jameson during their advertised happy hour. I had read how expensive the vices are in this city, and this was our first real taste of drinking Gweilo style.
After soundcheck four friends took the stage - a shy middle-aged singer opening up after being bestowed a spattering of applause by just the two of us. EVERYONE'S TOO COOL TO CLAP HUH I said a little too loud as we ordered another $50 round of drinks, but encouragement might not have been the best idea as the white drummer in his 50s took the mic and started rapping like how you'd imagine your own father would rap. Mr. M and I rolled eyes and clinked glasses while the precise enunciator laid down some of what the kids are doing these days. More people started arriving, a clearly unhip Japanese guy started stretching, and a cool guy with a bad haircut blurted out to the performers WHILE THEY WERE PLAYING "How many more songs?". It was completely disrespectful and I noticed myself growing protective of Dad Rap Shy Lady. They soon exited the stage as the now-limber dude in the Lennon glasses picked up his guitar and started into his chords. He was singing entirely in Japanese, his voice expressive enough to transcend the language barrier, and as his own confidence grew his range expanded and he started rocking. the. fuck. out. His stiff hips bent and swayed into a swagger, a clear transformation happening before our eyes, and as he belted and bellowed we all grew quiet. Three songs into it and a young slick rick started up with the "Are you done yet?"s. I realized that there were only a few actual audience members here - the young British girls talking over the bands and misusing "literally" literally every five minutes, the Indian dude standing two feet in front of the singer blocking our view capturing footage on his iPhone he'll never ever watch again, a few single middle-aged men lost in their phones and/or hitting on the bar staff, and us. The rest of the crowd were impatient musicians just being shitty to each other. Which made me not at all want to listen to the rude boys, much less clap for them.
We exited the Wanch and went in search of another bar, dodging young women in velvet curtain doorways, passing businessman after businessman fixated on various forms of conquest, finding none of our people, ending up at a vacant 2nd-floor hotel bar with a view, sipping on our $12 beers. I so wanted to be back at that first night, back when there was no one like us around.
TLDR: Wan Chai sucks.
No comments:
Post a Comment