Polk Gulch's Playland Takes Over Jack's, Our Beloved Karaoke Shithole

Jack's Club, the once beloved karaoke dive has been on the decline for some time now.  After instituting a rather sketchy cover “donation” and raising drink prices, DJ Purple, the bar's spirit animal, left for better lubricated pastures.  The bar hired some scabs, but the karaoke experience was never quite the same and the crowds rightfully trickled off.

And that's when they stopped selling mini-pitchers of Busch.

So it came to little surprise to hear over the fall that Jack's—and the entire building along with it—was sold and subsequently closed on the New Year.  Many had hoped the new owners would breathe some life into the place without changing its fucked flavor, but those hopes are looking particularly grim as UA reader Jackoff tips us off that the new owners are none other than Polk Gulch's Playland.

Playland, of course, is a bar that neither you—the dear reader—nor I have ever stepped foot in, so perhaps it's unfair to preemptively write-off whatever is to come.  But considering Playland is a nightclub and “whimsical cocktail bar” that caters to the rotten Polk Gulch crowd, the future is suspect.

That said, Playland offers $200 Jameson bottle service, so I'm sure they'll fit right in.

They're Ruining Jack's Karaoke

I realize Jack's lost DJ Purple, which is about as devastating as losing Buster Posey in May, but I can't help but think the bar is intentionally trying to fuck up the magic that was Karaoke Thursdays.  The lights were so bright that I got confused and thought I was drinking in the hospital.  And their famed mini-pitchers of Busch?  No more.  It's only overpriced beer in plastic cups from here on out.

On the bright side, it was deader than a doornail in there.  You could get up as much as you wanted.


Guys and gals of The Mission, WHAT the FUCK is going on with karaoke in the hood?

It seems like it was just last year that you could be chilling with some lady you found on Craigslist, pop into Jack's for a few personal pitchers of brew and screech out some 80s love duet when the mood struck. It was fucking MAGICAL.

But now… now!… it seems that every Thursday night when I want to howl at Jack's grimy ceiling, they are CONVENIENTLY hosting some “fundraiser” to cure cancer or whatever. And there are people there too! Who are these people? Are they 94110 thru-and-thru, or are they scumbag yuppies who read bandwagon blogs and can afford to just GIVEAWAY four bucks to battered women?

It's borderline entrapment, I tell ya.

I don't buy this whole “donation” thing either. I've seen that Mission Mission asshole (who's NOT from SAN FRANCISCO) walk in all slow-motion like, giving the bouncer an assertive “I know you” slap while gliding past for free. Suspect!

Last night I had that uncontrollable urge to belt out some Talking Heads. So, yeah, I rolled the dice. But when the bouncer told me it was a four dollar donation to the homeless to get in, I spat in his face, threw an uneaten sandwich in the trash, and went to POPS and peed all over the floor.

I was NOT born in a city like San Francisco to pay a cover to drink Busch across the street from a place where frumpy old people go to die. There has GOT to be another way.

(Photo (c) Chris Brennan)