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I went to Gershwin, and I, Tina Turner.

Gershwin is not necessarily a thing, but there are still people in this general spirit. Maybe Sondheim. At the very least, Bacharach. The point is, I went to a piano bar, and I had a certain understanding of expectations: lush, romantic music, dancing fingers fluidly on the keyboard; a trip back through time and space.

But when I took my seat at midnight on a recent Friday at the Manhattan Greenpoint, Brooklyn, hotel, there was no jazz, no swings, no American songbook, and no bells Nadette Peters can vibrato, Dionne, Celine Dionne, and Warwick vibrato or straight up sticks. There's even a pianist.

A white baby sat ceremoniously in the middle of the room. But less than an obstacle, more than 20 of them with misshapen bangs (girls), strangely configured facial hair (boys) and bulky black glasses (both sides) try not to touch as they dance to a retro soul And Tufts Polaris' contemporary pop recordings put guitars, drums, and even synthesizers in the foreground.

Open on the weekends, this novelty-chic grungy piano bar with pianos in a neighborhood of affordable rents and aspiring artists settled the debate at its peak. So, I had to wonder: Did New York City's piano bars go the way of the dodo? Beyond the Manhattan Hotel, where does life live in this genre?

A definition of a term is appropriate. There are bars that happen to have pianos, and there are piano bars where the music and maybe the opportunity to sing give it more of an established identity than what the bartender is concocting. Piano bars, in particular, seem to have shrunk in numbers over the past decade. It is my hope to identify and access that there are still some bao and bonhomie, and by that I mean not a minority of customers more of a minority of survivors.

So I hit the path directly to the main terrain of the village west, its early piano bars that embraced gay equality. Mary's Crisis, for example, makes it cramped, and - I was relieved to see - the cramped home has its main rooms wedged below street level, as you descend into it, hiding its secrets.

The piano is in the center of the room, and the piano is everything. Arrive early to get a comfortable seat. The stragglers were crushed tightly, as if some instrument was magnetic or centrifugal or - never mind, I'm hopeless with physics. Just to put it better, the piano really sucks people in.

The same song calls for it. Within seconds I find myself humming and within minutes my usual reserve of activities is the shower, car or family members I am angry with and need to punish.

“I don’t get any kicks from Champaaaaaagne,” intoned the pianist, including those around him, an Elaine Stritch appearance whose obvious enthusiasm for both Cole Porter and cocktails inspired her I.

“Mere alcoholic thriller aaaaallllll without me,” I join, as Big Little Lies and Off-Road tell the key to anything.

Although Mary's Crisis is sometimes listed as a gay bar, it's more diverse and its patrons bind themselves to oversized love musicals and their fervent belief that life is indeed a cabaret staple. What I can say with certainty is that there is absolutely no proof whatsoever of the idea that the TV phenomenon "Geely" was conceived here. Marie's Crisis is the gleekiest place you've ever seen.

And the gleekiest moment? The pianist later did a bit of begging - "Put a little something special in the bowl," he said, referring to one of the glasses on his piano, "I mean by special cash" - as he did for "The Sound of Music" segued. "So, seamless," my favorite thing.

It's an Alpine Medley by Andrews! The mountains are alive! If not only the dozens of people - but also the joists, beams and bones of the room they were - could have trembled with pleasure, it was at this point that Mary's crisis occurred.

Seconds later on the sidewalk I picked up a cigarette I didn't even have.

There is a slightly less unrestrained, though equally prosperous business at Seventh Street in the Duplex, another village mainstay on Marie's Crisis Avenue. Duplex also encourages amateur vocal participation, but with different song selections. I heard about Jimmy Buffett, the police and even the Naughty Boys.

And the males I listened to were cracking at the piano and the microphone making jokes (barely) passed by the female servers. The server made a fuss about her girlfriend with her favorite softball glove; roaring at the audience in laughter. It's a piano bar with lots of sweet treats. Shame is off the table.

For the kind of piano bar that promises an old storybook refreshment with Manhattan, my go-to is of course Bemelmans Bar, at the Carlyle Hotel on the Upper East Side. In the evening, usually until around 8:30, there is a solo pianist, and later there is often a piano trio and anchors, unlike other bars I visited, cover - 25 RMB.

Bemelmans is as gorgeous as ever, with its tufts of leather banquettes, its tiny shades that shimmer on nearly every table lamp, and its mural of a whimsical scene in Central Park by Ludwig Bemelmans, the illustrator of the Madeleine books.

In the evening I went to a trio that played mostly wordless jazz, although the pianist, Loston Harris, added singing of "Myself in the Mood for Love." The mood was put on a martini Ni, where, appropriately enough, I order drinks at Bemelmans most often.

Heard about it the other day when I returned to chat with Tommy Rawls, who has tended to the Bemelmans bar since the Mesozoic - or, rather, 1968. He's 70 now, and when I ask him what, if any, big changes have happened in his half-century, he can think of the only one. Until about the 1980s, his martinis were mostly gin. From that point on, he said, vodka took over.

I also returned to the Manhattan Hotel, so named because it was on Manhattan Avenue. Although only a year old, it can pass 100, and with a bar or restaurant - the Manhattan Hotel is both - that's a compliment. Molding and glass display cases above the bar, sleigh-shaped wooden banquettes, antique theater-style seats, and a large chandelier hanging above baby moss: these look like the most incredible long haul ever from your flea market dreams. The proprietors, Brooke Baxter, 32, and Rolyn Hu, 33, have great taste.

This time I was there on a Thursday night at about 9 o'clock, and a pianist named Tribaldo was playing at a table of young people eating or drinking. He made dozens of ragettes around Tom platform. He will last until the 11th, with frequent deadlines.

The customer I spoke to said that the piano was indeed a temptation that proved to be a pleasure: a soothing curiosity. When Scott Joplin started Mr. Waldo's "The Entertainer," I said, to some of them: "You know this movie, that's where the theme comes from, right? Right?" I had a blank look in my eyes. It was determined that it was "a lie within a lie." The child had no one for the past few days. So little respect for history, Paul Newman.

Ethan Katz-Bassett, 31, an intern in Manhattan who just moved from Seattle to Google's New York office, said creating live piano music "comes naturally to everyone" "Focus or Talk" thus made the Manhattan hotel, where he had visited, "an easy place for a man to go"

The comment reminded me that in every piano bar I liked his people. Noticed, but seemingly unaccompanied by the self-appointment, thanks to the piano and distraction it creates awareness. The music drives them out of themselves. And the piano is like a village lawn, as paths effortlessly cross it, and anyone can linger.

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