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One minute I was looking for the quiz, the next I was bellowing 'South Australia' with eleven strangers and a man called Dave. An investigation into how sea shanties quietly took over Britain's coastal pubs, and how I stopped laughing about it.
Armed with a bag of 50ps and a spreadsheet of rumours, I went looking for the last working vinyl jukeboxes in British pubs. What I found was landlords who treat a 1962 Seeburg like a family member, and locals who still believe choosing a song in public is a form of conversation.
'Dad rock' is a myth invented by people who don't own a Vauxhall Zafira. The real canon of British car music lives in the boot — sun-bleached Now albums, a Chris de Burgh hits collection and one unlabelled disc that's all sea shanties. I conducted the research. The findings are damning.
Everyone in the car gets their own playlist now, and everyone in the car is alone. Frank Popp pours one out for the kitchen radio, the Top 40 countdown and the noble art of the passenger-seat DJ.
There was a time when the second track on a record was a lawless wilderness — a place where The Smiths recorded jazz poems and Blur put a bagpipe on things. Frank Popp mourns the algorithm-approved monoculture and asks whether Bandcamp is quietly rebuilding the hidden gem.