But in the capital of besieged Lebanon, once the top nightclub destination in the Middle East, the choice of music is very deliberate -- a message of defiance shared by the dozens of Lebanese patrons pressed into one of the handful of trendy bars still open on this weekend night.

"It's a form a resistance. We want to show that we can still go out and live like before, show that the bombings will never annihilate us," says Tony Kairouz, a 32-year-old who looks like he's stepped out of an Italian summer fashion shoot.

"The war's not our problem. I'm a human being, I want to live normally. We have to breathe, you know?" adds his glamorous, almond-eyed girlfriend sitting next to him, Mary Hanna, 26.

The bar they are in, the Dragonfly, and the three or four establishments around it form a pocket of illusion in Beirut's Gemmayzeh district that everything is normal.

Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall" succeeds Queen, followed by the Rolling Stones' "Satisfaction". Beer and cocktails are delivered by a white-coated waiter amid laughter and light-hearted chatter.

In another of the bars, a television shows the destruction being meted out daily, but the sound is off, and the customers are ignoring it, bopping to the pop music and knocking back chilled vodka.

But the rest of the street is deserted. Taxi drivers standing around outside shake their heads, muttering that two weeks ago, just before the Israeli offensive, this place was a bustling chaos of flashy cars and brazen, moneyed youths looking for a good time. Tourism was booming. Beirut was carving out its place alongside Ibiza and Miami as a red-hot partying capital.

Now that dynamism has been wiped out. Almost.

With no other way of responding to Israeli bombs, a hard core of young Beirutis -- those who can shake off their parents' strident demands to remain in the safety of their homes -- are intent on showing they will not be cowed.

"It's their sole form of expression in what's going on. I mean, look around and think to yourself: this is a warzone after all. And they are going out regardless," says Nida, an expatriate Lebanese who had come from France to help get his elderly parents out of the country.

A barman, Eli Issa, adds that with most of the Israeli attacks taking place in the Shiite-dominated southern suburbs of Beirut, Lebanese felt relatively secure in the Christian district of Gemmayzeh, just four kilometres (two miles) distant but thus far untouched.

"They feel safe here," he says.

Along Beirut's Mediterranean waterfront on Sunday, lined with cafes and palm trees, it is certainly quiet, but far from gloomy.

A jogger sweats his way along the esplanade. A swish and modern resort complex complete with private beach, lounge chairs, a crystal-blue pool and waiters is being used by a few people -- all relatives of military personnel.

Families stop their cars to get out and admire a grotto carved by the sea. Restaurants with sundrenched water views set up tables for afternoon diners.

In one of the cheaper establishments, a couple of old men -- refugees from Tyre, in the blitzed south of the country -- talk at a table over cups of strong Arabic coffee, the sea framed behind them.

"We had to get away from the television. It's 24-hour stress," said one, Ahmad Hijazi, 60.

"Staying in, all we do is look at the television or keep the radio next to the ear," he said, adding that, after 12 days of bombardments, Lebanon's population is tired of being constantly on edge.

"We're no longer afraid," he said.

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