One of the peachiest moments in a life of unrepentant tavern-dwelling was my introduction to P.J. Clarke’s on Third Avenue. Here was a bar from central casting – Billy Wilder mocked it up, after a fashion, in The Lost Weekend – and the dollop of cream on this peach was the jukebox.

P.J. Clarke’s was described to me by one regular as ‘a midtown saloon for the tasselled-loafer set’. It remains the glory of Manhattan, which will never run short of places to hang one’s hat. And its jukebox had plenty of hits, but not the obvious ones.

Americans love their jukeys. One of the most generous belonged to Sterch’s, in Oak Park, Chicago, where a couple of bucks bought a dozen plays. Chicago is a famous music town, so you didn’t struggle to find something decent. Sadly, Sterch’s closed two years ago. In another Chicago bar, on Rush Street, I came across ‘Dear Mr Fantasy’ by Traffic. We-ll!

Finding the unexpected disc is the joy of a proper jukey. Any bar can offer so-called ‘classics’ from an approved list, many of which leave you cold. ‘River Deep, Mountain High’ and ‘Nights in........

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