There used to exist the perfect bar. It was on a sidestreet off Amsterdam’s main square, simply sitting there, waiting to be stumbled on. For years I used to go back there, sure each time that it wouldn’t dissapoint, until that dreadful winter evening when I turned up after an evening flight from Dublin, only to find that, for whatever reason, the place had gone leaving boarded windows and faded advertising posters in its place.

For the perfect bar, there’s also the perfect evening. It’s summer, and the air is warm but not stifling. The streets are busy with locals and tourists alike. You need to be on your toes in this city, to avoid being run down by a determined bicyclist whose only obligation to your safety is a nonchalant bell ring.

You walk into the bar, with a friend, ready to meet other friends. Soon you’ll have the whole bar almost to yourself given that it seats at best twenty people. Almost, because it’s important to leave space to possibility, to new arrivals and new avenues for the night to take.

The door, such as it is, remains open allowing a constant contact with the street – a shaft of light spilling in to the dim recesses of this long and shallow bar. You drink strong and sweet Duvel, unhurriedly, savouring the smell and texture, while beside you a friend starts rolling. The bar-man is friendly but unobtrusive – fiercely practical.

Towards the back there’s a pinball machine with lights flashing enough to give a sense of movement in this still space, but no-one in this perfect bar will ever be so out-of-place as to actually play a game here.

Then, as you start to feel that giddy tightening of your stomach, moments after your first drag, the only thing missing is the music – but no fear, there’s a jukebox filled with genius, right behind you. Sly Stone is there, beside Thin Lizzy. REM jostles for space with Solomon Burke, and for later in the night we can choose between Jimmy Cliff, Janis Joplin, or the Pixies. But right now there’s only one song you want to hear, because every perfect night needs a start somewhere:

Ladies and Gentlemen, Going Down to Liverpool by the Bangles.

That pounding bass drum, chiming guitars and those roller-coaster vocals. Forget that it’s the bangles, forget that it’s a song originally written by the Waves (as in Katrina and the Waves) forget everything, and sip your beer while tapping your toes against the foot-rests of your bar stool, in this perfect bar. Everything else can wait.

Don’t break the spell here – click on play, and close your eyes, cause this video will ruin everything
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dWC2-MFwWr8