What the Funk

A few nights ago, with both roommates out of town and the few friends I have scattered about, I took it upon myself to find an interesting activity. I had read in a guide book about this live music club called Jamboree, which on Mondays has a weekly jam session called "What the Funk". I figured watching live music was probably as appropriate a thing that one could do while alone, so I set out.

For a three euro cover, I was able to enter the underground club, which felt like a bomb shelter with blaring music. I was pleased to see very few if any Americans (although plenty of tourists), and the music was, for the most part, really good. The musicians were constantly rotating, with the exception of a sax player who stayed up the entire time I was there. One of the guitarists, whom I thought to be the best, reminded me uncannily of Rabbi Franzel from my synagogue at home (Ethan, that wasn't you, was it?).

The place was pretty small, but I was truly shocked when, during a brief intermission, a guy standing a few people from me called up to the stage and accused the sax player of hogging the solos and playing too much. I only caught a bit of the exchange that flowed between Spanish and Catalan, but the sax player actually listened to the guy and the exchange had a peaceful, albeit argumentative tone. I couldn't believe the performer actually gave a complaining audience member the time of day.

After midnight the music got a little more intense, the girl next to me hit my elbow with the lit end of her cigarette, and German teenagers started dancing crazily getting all up in my space. I left the club, but was proud of making the most of a lonely night, the last I had in my old apartment on Carrer Ausiás Marc.