It's hard to find a quiet pub these days, particularly in well-populated areas.
Juke boxes, canned music, giant TV screens and karaoke have conspired to render silence a precious and rare commodity.
It's not a new phenomenon, though.
Almost 100 years ago, the 1902 Licensing Act gave local authorities powers they hadn't had before - suddenly they could close places which they regarded as a nuisance or an unwholesome influence.
First targets in Bradford were the singing-rooms, a sort of mini-music hall and a precursor of today's live 'entertainment' like karaoke.
But while the attempted closures could be seen as a little drastic, they did have one long-term effect - proper concert halls and theatres started to appear.
The singing-rooms were charged with harbouring disreputable people among their customers. Anybody who remembers the back bar of the old Empress in Tyrrel Street about 40 years ago will get the idea. 'Hell's Kitchen' was a phrase often employed, and richly deserved.
At the height of the singing-room boom in the 1850s, the Bermondsey Hotel - which was where Forster Square Station, or what's left of it, now stands - was one of the best-regarded.
The landlady was Mary Dunn and the manager was Henry Pullan, who went on to found Pullan's Music Hall, a marginally more respectable establishment than most singing-rooms.
Entrance to the Bermondsey was threepence (a little over 1p) and for this you got a brass token which you could spend over the bar. The reverse of the token promised 'a grand miscellaneous concert every evening'.
If there was a big name on, the price went up. When George Leybourne, the man who popularised the song Champagne Charlie, appeared, the price went up to a bob (5p) - but there was a lucky draw giving the chance to win a £25 'brood mare'. The Bermondsey obviously had lots of room - there would have to be 500 in there just to cover the price of the raffle prize.
The Bermondsey was only one of many singing-rooms and it was their popularity which led to the building of a Bradford landmark.
Alderman Sam Smith, one of the city's earliest Mayors, had been a keen advocate of a free library for the town and had worked hard to ensure the Great Northern Railway had a station here. He was also keen to see good music provided for the masses and in 1853 St George's Hall opened.
It didn't see the end of entertainment for the masses - but it did help to push popular entertainment towards the more formal atmosphere of the variety theatre and the music hall.
The Old Crown in Ivegate and the Albert Vaults (later the Majestic) in Little Horton Lane both had their singing-rooms as well as miniature stages and green rooms.
The green room was where artists and public could mix. The public paid an extra penny for their drinks, and for this they had the dubious privilege of buying the odd glass for the entertainers as well.
The King's Head in Westgate didn't have a stage, but it could boast some top names, among them Charlie Whittle who found fame with the song Let's All Go Down the Strand and its catchy 'Ave a banana' response from the audience.
Henry Pullan opened his music hall in Brunswick Place in 1863, but the singing-rooms continued, often as 'nurseries' for the halls and variety palaces.
No amount of po-faced piety could stop people having a good time, particularly when their working lives were frequently harsh and badly-rewarded.
The little lady with the vast earnings
One of the biggest names to appear at any of Bradford's entertainment places at the time of the singing-rooms was Marie Lloyd. She was what we'd now call a megastar - the Tina Turner of her time - and could command vast earnings.
When she came to the Palace in Bradford at the turn of the century she was paid £50 a week, which was a lot more than most young women could earn in a year in domestic service. It was such an impressive sum, in fact, that a copy of the contract was displayed in the window of Bayley and Holdsworth, tobacconists in Kirkgate, as proof.
While in Bradford, wowing audiences with her greatest hits, including Oh, Mr Porter and One of the Ruins that Cromwell Knocked About a Bit, the diminutive Ms Lloyd was approached by a publican from outside the city.
He was a plainly a careful Yorkshireman, though, because he offered her a breathtaking 30 bob a week (£1.50p) plus her keep to appear at his singing-room.
As an extra inducement, he would have her name engraved in fancy letters in the singing-room mirror!
Ms Lloyd managed to keep a straight face while telling the budding impresario that she had just picked up £360 for a week's work at a southern music hall. At today's value, let's say ... around 50 grand.
Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.
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