Who knew a book could make you want to get out even less than the title suggests? In 2023, Jeremy Atherton Lin's Gay Bar: Why We Went Out embarked on an ambitious journey through time, geography, and cultural history. He took readers from the glitzy nightlife of San Francisco to the niche bars in London and L.A., tracing the evolution of gay bars and their significance. But just like the name suggests, you might want to think twice before you go clinking glasses with this one.
First off, let's look at the premise. The book wants to dramatize the decline of gay bars as pivotal spaces for social life and identity. Sounds good, a trip through the good old days, right? But good luck finding the nostalgia you're hoping for. The narrative is so cluttered with oversaturated personal anecdotes and biased reflections that you might lose sight of what it's supposed to represent. Instead of catching waves of the cultural revolution, you might end up getting sand in your eyes.
Notably, Atherton Lin navigates the complex world of identity politics. One might say he backflips off diving boards to think he’s making a splash. Yes, our society has changed, and yes, bars have closed - but does this mean we assign grandiose political significance to everywhere you could order a cocktail? It's answers like these where the book stumbles. It portrays gay bars as nearly mythical arenas of personal and political transformation, leaving one wondering if the author had perhaps consumed one too many of their overpriced drinks.
Now, don't get me wrong - the lights, the music, and the atmosphere often resonate with freedom and joy. But when painted in the hysterical terms our author chooses, you start to feel you're being sold a mirage. Rather than encouraging reflection, it reads like an over-romanticized eulogy with more emphasis on his micro-level experiences than on any universally enlightening commentary.
Another point of contention: the book desperately tries to equate the closure of these bars with a societal downfall. As though nightspots are the last bastion of civil rights and human expression. While mournful tributes play to sympathies, they also solicit unchecked assumptions. Aren’t we merely witnessing a shift in how people interact socially due to technology and evolving cultural trends? Nostalgia aside, not every place that serves a mojito has to bear the cross for unfair evolving consumer habits.
Let us not overlook the writing style. The prose, although vivid, is equally exhausting. Drenched in symbolic mumbo-jumbo, the narrative can often feel like it’s trapped in its own reflective bubble, watching it drip with self-important narratives. Candid and chaotic, Lin barely takes a breath as he spins from flashing lights to deeper tones with abandon. Sometimes, less is more; saying everything ends up saying nothing.
Readers will find a rather dauntless approach to having their views on tradition and modernity burbled together into a predictable chorus of dissatisfaction. Why? Because every exploration feels carefully cherry-picked to fit the narrative of decline. Not many people enjoy eating a narrative spoonfed that tastes like a rubber chicken dinner. We can examine how places define us or what is lost when institutions disappear, but let’s not act like the existence of one less martini-serving venue is tantamount to a cultural apocalypse.
The proliferation of progressive arguments is either beguiling or bewildering. It unwittingly leaves a reader asking: is this about gay bars or about the author’s unexamined assumptions about what these spaces mean now? Pitting the values of the past against today's supposed inadequacies may sound good, but it’s less satisfying when the argument dances around its main points like a novice ballerina with two left feet.
Atherton Lin wraps his tale by seemingly invoking nostalgia as a sacred, unimpeachable sentiment. Yet, using it as a tool to pass a judgment on societal changes sounds more like lamenting over a forgotten monopoly than a compelling call for understanding. While his expressive attempts might aim high, they couldn’t quite shake off being dragged down by pedestrian assumptions.
Will every reader find frustrations with Gay Bar: Why We Went Out? Probably not. But if you're ready to uncork a torrent of meandering musings about nostalgia while batting away dubious stances about social spaces, this book might just be the pick for you. But if you’re like many others, looking for authenticity over performative lamentation, consider before you step out into this particular bar.