Sing! Doctor's orders.

In the same bar where I met the man of my nightmares, I was fortunate to experience something quite incredible. While our roaring onesided discussion was happening, a futbol game was also going on on the TV high in the corner of the tiny, atmospheric bar. This bar is tucked into a corner, just before an archway over a narrow part of the road. It has the feeling of being in a very old, cave-like building, perhaps like the house in Olvera. There are barrels of wine stacked against a wall, legs of Jamon hanging, and a deep glass display case with comida casera (homemade food) that looks completely different than all the other homemade food on offer. That's probably because the owner and his wife, who are about my parents' age, seem to take great care in what they are doing and have been there together both times I've gone in.
Sure enough as our amigo predicted, when the game was over, the metal door in front came down, the lights went out, and the owner stood at the bar and started to bang his fist on the counter, with his eyes closed. Then he sung at the top of his voice and with all his heart. The lights went on and the door up after that, but the procedure was repeated several times more. Once for a fandango, and the third time to sing Procuro Olvidarte. I do not know were that song comes from, but I know Mayte Martin sings it, and I have listened to her version many times over, on Youtube.
We were told by our friend who must have some sort of soul, at least enough to understand this, that our barman didn't want to be a slave and work a normal job, so he quit whatever else he was doing to open this bar, and that his doctor ordered him to sing every day.