‘Wyatting’: The story of how a Robert Wyatt album was used to empty pubs
The jukebox, much like the skittle alley and the availability of pickled snacks behind the bar, is sadly a disappearing feature of the British public house. Now, I’d love to make it clear that I’m not the sort of person who is going to argue that this country has gone to the dogs because of the decline of the traditional boozer. I don’t want to bring back indoor smoking or unsubtly misogynistic signage (not that it ever left, sadly). Still, I’d argue that letting the patrons pick their own collective soundtrack to quaff a pint or five adds a touch of personality that many pubs lack.
We now live in an age of carefully curated playlists being played through a tinny PA system. While some of them are able to cater to a variety of audiences, the majority are designed to be as inoffensive as possible. Those that do still have a machine in the corner of the room, however, have been updated to have internet access, and no longer have a mechanism that pulls out one disc at a time from a small collection upon the user’s request. With that, the one saving grace of the modern jukebox is that it means the customer can select any album of their choice.
For anyone with a few loose coins in their pocket who’s desperate for some respite from hearing the fourth consecutive Bon Jovi song courtesy of the rowdy hen party on the table opposite, then congratulations, you have the freedom to pick anything you like. Perhaps the bride-to-be might fancy some Throbbing Gristle to spice up the night, or perhaps you’ve just hit the jackpot on the fruit machine, meaning you can splash £45 to play Minutemen’s Double Nickels on the Dime in its entirety. As fun as these acts of pub terrorism might seem to you, it’s probably why many establishments have opted to remove their jukeboxes from the bar entirely.
You see, you can’t trust a guy who’s licked on Tetley’s not to want to commit these crimes against their community, and publicans and customers alike found this out the hard way when they digitised their jukeboxes in the mid-2000s, allowing the mischief-makers at every local up and down the country to spend money on playing the most unwelcoming music. One person who especially liked to cause carnage through his selections was London-based English teacher Carl Neville, who believed that the perfect album to elicit reactions of disgust, confusion and wanting to head to the next pub was Robert Wyatt’s 1991 album Dondestan.
Wyatt’s music has always veered towards the avant-garde, and anyone with a sense of respect for their fellow drinkers would know that it’s best to avoid playing his existential jazz-rock anywhere outside of Canterbury, but Neville was hellbent on unleashing his tyranny over the capital’s watering holes. However, what might have started as a small-scale social experiment-cum-prank for him soon snowballed into a nationwide campaign of jukebox sabotage, and thus, a trend known as ‘Wyatting’ began to pop up everywhere from Falmouth to Falkirk.
Many likened the concept to the theories of German philosopher and musicologist Theodor W. Adorno, who believed that the subversion of what was considered ‘pop music’ could be used to destroy capitalist structures. But ultimately, what good would a small amount of musical snootiness do if it were to only lead to the closure of recreation centres and meeting places such as pubs. It’s one thing to use music to try and tear down corporate structures, but it’s another thing entirely to use it to divide people and suppress their fun.
News of the phenomenon even reached the man himself, who had his own opinion on the act. “I think it’s really funny,” the songwriter confessed. “I’m very honoured at the idea of becoming a verb.” While he wasn’t so sure about participating himself, saying that he doesn’t “like disconcerting people”, it was an even more controversial concept to Wyatt’s wife, Alfreda Benge. “It’s so unlike Robert,” Benge argued, “because he’s so appreciative of the strengths of pop music. So that, I think, is a real unfairness. The man who coined it, I should like to punch him in the nose.”
So, next time you’re in a pub and considering exposing the loutish pricks on the pool table to the work of Rahsaan Roland Kirk, just think – do you want to get glassed, do you want your actions to lead to the eventual closure of your local, or do you want to enjoy a Friday night pint and a pack of pork scratchings in relative peace? The jazz can wait – drink up and brace yourself for more Bon Jovi.
