“…we will fight to save this place. The army came during the curfew time and wanted us to close. We told them no way…”
The Joy Bar, the last of Krabi’s once numerous live folk bars, is going to be forced to close it’s doors, on the 16th of this month, June 2014.
This day of writing is the 9th. In seven days, Krabi will see the end of an era.
(Top photo: live gypsy music at The Joy Bar. Krabi, Thailand. In 7 days this venue could be bulldozed.)
The Joy Bar has been operating ten years, but the folk scene in Krabi goes back a lot further than that. The music is known locally as Sea Gypsy. It is raw, heartfelt and rythmic. There’s an almost punk feel to this music. It is played by musicians for their friends. It’s a garage venue.
The Joy Bar is part of a genuinely underground culture. The music scene in Krabi is being blogged about but it hasn’t even hit Wikipedia yet, and yet it is about to be extinguished. Like indigenous culture in so many small communities around the world, it is just dissapearing. Why? Because the people who own the land want to build hotels, and guest houses and upscale retail outlets, and make Krabi into another Pukhet; gaudy, exclusive and branded.
Woon, The Joy Bars skipper and spokesman, received a letter seven weeks ago, stating that the venue was to be evicted. Since then there have been vandalism attacks on the Joy Bar which locals attribute to the developers goons.
I found The Joy Bar by listening to the advice of my landlady at my guest house. Boa seemed to know how to have a good time, so I listened to her. What I found was a venue.
The Joy Bar exudes the kind of unaffected cool that Snoop Lion has in buckets. It’s a corner place, with no front walls. The beer is cold, and fairly priced. The management treat you like you’re part of the family, and you hear people playing with music together, rather than performing. It’s jam nights and bands 7 nights a week. They play reggae and gypsy music and honkytonk in the same set. The farangs line up with the locals, and the only thing that counts more than the music is getting higher and being happy.
(Above: The Joy Bar.)
This is a beautiful thing. The people are beautiful, the music is beautiful, and the atmosphere is like a music festival of 25 people. The crowd includes tourists, tattoo artists, musos, bikeys and of course, gypsies.
Woon: “you really can’t save the bar. Because the government is the landlord, and they say we have to go.”
The government of Thailand owns the land, but the real pressure, Woon tells me, to push Joy Bar out, is coming from property developers, who have the goverment’s ear.
I ask Woon if he is contesting the action to kick Joy Bar out. He tells me no.
“With the court system here, by the time this case can come to court it takes more than three years, maybe. They give us sixty days. The developers do whatever they want. The government has not got a good reason to want us out. They just want to make more money. There are people in the government who can receive some benefit if this happens. But this is our home. We live here.”
There is a home crowd of local people here who all know each other. But there are also expats and backpackers in the venue. There are people sitting at the tables who come here every night.
Allan tells me he is on a two week holiday, and since he found Joy Bar he’s been in here every night.
Noreen has lived in Krabi six years, and says she spends five nights a week in the venue. It is a community hub, she tells me. Unique is a word I hear from the punters, and everyone comments on the warmth of the atmosphere. No-one wants to see this turn into another karaoke bar.
The community behind The Joy Bar is defiant by nature. Thailand is currently under martial law, following the coup in May. Ten o’clock curfews have forced Krabi’s music scene to almost shut down. One venue has been open late every night, as usual, though.
Woon: “we will fight to save this place. The army came during the curfew time and wanted us to close. We told them no way. Krabi needs music.”
I actually witnessed this event two weeks ago, on my first night in the bar. The jeep pulled up out front. The manager went out to the street, leaned into the jeep and talked to the soldiers. It was 1100 – an hour past curfew. The jeep drove away, the manager came back and rolled another spliff and the party continued.
Woon is full of optimism.
“If they come here and tear this place down, they’re fucked. The people here will rise up.”
There will be a riot? I ask him.
“That’s right.” He smiles.
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