Published: May 1, 2008

Everyone’s having a good time in the local watering hole, throwing back the beers, bobbing their heads to the music that blasts from the jukebox, feeling good in the dim lighting that makes everyone look attractive.

Then it happens. Some dude walks away from the jukebox, a dollar short with a big grin on his face. Everyone suddenly looks at each other as if to say “Oh my God you guys… is this what I think it is?!” And it is. An organ-like instrument starts to play a tune; one with a build-up that makes you half-expect Rocky to come jogging in, fists pumping in the air. Then there’s that strange, unidentifiable noise that comes in over the organ; the one that sounds like a frog attempting to sing, ooh-wah-ooh wah-ooh-wah-ooh wah-ooh-wah-ooh… and a few moments later, you hear some badass mumble “Once upon a time, not so long ago”. That badass is Bon Jovi, and everybody loves him. Like a scene from a concert, the bar goes nuts, and all the drunken patrons start pumping their fists the way Rocky would’ve done had he entered on cue. All of them except for me, suddenly sober as I retreat to the corner in preparation for the chaos that is about to ensue. In a matter of seconds, I have no doubt that this stereotypical bar crowd will be belting out the lyrics to “Livin’ On A Prayer” with overwhelming dramatics.

I’ve never liked Bon Jovi’s music very much. I’d go so far as to say that I hate it, but hate is a strong word, and I try to restrict my usage of it to descriptions of maggots, mucous, and the olives I always have to pick off my veggie slice from Vito’s Pizza. Nevertheless, somewhere along the line, the generation I grew up with developed a love affair with the music stylings of this Jersey Boy, cultivating a particular weakness for the song “Livin’ On A Prayer.”  I can’t seem to escape it. Moments of high-risk, however, tend to come during social situations when alcohol is involved and everyone is feeling particularly jubilant. It is at these times when it seems almost inevitable that someone will either start to sing this song and get the crowd to follow suit, or the song will start blasting through the speakers as a result of a tempting jukebox or obnoxious DJ. Dodging the song is not an option, as the crowd that forms will create unavoidable obstacles, forbidding you from escaping to the bathroom or out the door to hang out with the smokers.

From its very first lines, “Tommy used to work on the docks,” the effects of the song’s cheesiness kick right in. Bon Jovi’s tough guy attitude seems to rub off on everyone almost immediately, as each waste-case in the bar starts singing along while bobbing their heads back and forth to the beat —resembling a group chickens—and curling their eyes into a squint. Bon Jovi, and therefore everyone else in the bar, continues to sing the verse over the heavy drumbeat, and that stupid frog croaking keeps chiming in whenever it damn well pleases. By now, all the friends you came with are already singing the song; that cute guy you spotted when you walked in is singing it too; the old men who come every night have one hand tapping the bar while the other feeds them their beer; and a string of excited smiles can even be seen behind the counter, as all the bartenders get in the groove while pouring out a line of shots. The song has spread like a bad case of the flu, and I’m trying desperately not to be the next victim.

The worst has yet to come though. Without any warning, the song’s first verse goes directly into the chorus, where we have our most agonizing part of the four-minute song. At this point, a group of people has inevitably formed a circle, so that they can all share in this thrilling occasion. The build-up is intense. The song, up until now, has been a mere warm-up for what lies ahead. “We’ve gotta hold on to what we’ve got!” Some sweaty drunk grabs me and shouts the line in my face without any trace of a melody. “It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not!” That same person is now shaking his head in my face, laughing. As if this is fun for me. He apparently doesn’t notice that my teeth are clenched and my beer glass is dangerously close to shattering in my fist. “We’ve got each other, and that’s a lot for love—we’ll give it a shot!” Uh-oh.

“Whoaaaa, we’re halfway there!” The song has become one loud, obnoxious noise. People are jumping up and down in unison. And then the infamous second-whoa comes, which is by far the loudest whoa of the song, when the volume on the track tends to mysteriously lower and the crowd takes full control: “Whoaaaaaa! Livin’ on a prayer!” Someone’s clammy hand sneaks into mine. I look at the culprit, aghast, and then, “Take my hand, we’ll make it I swear!” I snatch my hand away in disgust, wiping my now-wet palm on my jeans. Somehow I have ended up in the middle of the Circle Of Drunks, and it appears that they are acting out every line of the song. My attempts to return to my private corner prove impossible, as people’s hands lock together and this whole scene becomes like a game of Red Rover. One sick, scary game of Red Rover.

If the lyrics weren’t so incredibly dramatic, maybe the song wouldn’t be so bad. If that frog croaking wasn’t so persistent, perhaps I’d enjoy the song a little more than I do now (which is not at all). But the goofy smiles on everyone’s faces, the fist pumps, and the excessive optimism that the song exudes throughout, make me sick to my stomach. I’m the last person you’ll find wearing earplugs at a concert, but the shouting and the loudness that invade my ears during this rock ballad is beyond anything I have ever encountered, and seems incredibly unnecessary. The song continues. The emotional Bon Jovi adlibs every now and then into his microphone. His guitarist does some pretentious riffs on his instrument (I’m pretty sure he has a solo at some point, but that’s usually when my overwhelming discomfort has caused me to black out). The cacophony of bar singers only roars louder when Jon Bon takes the song a step further, going up an octave in the last round of chorus-singing. Panic-stricken, I now fear I may be trampled by the mosh-pit.

The song ends in a thunderous set of whoa’s. There are high-fives, back slaps, everyone is so high on life, “What a great time!” It makes me sick. I manage to get back to my corner, shaking my head in despair and rummaging my hand through my bag for an Advil to ease my headache. Several people spilled their drinks on me in the commotion, making it look like I just ducked in from the rain. Hopefully people don’t think I wet myself from all the excitement, but then again, that may be a good strategy for keeping these crazed singers away from me.  Returning to normalcy now, some standard bar song starts up on the jukebox—just the way I like it—and people start to resume their positions throughout the bar; many of them with new friends as a result of the joyous celebration that just occurred seconds before. And like the calm after the storm, it’s over. But just as no one enjoys a tornado ripping through their dining room at dinnertime, this “Livin’ On A Prayer” ritual is slowly but surely wearing me down, and nobody will let me escape to the storm cellar.