Karaoke Underground
I've just returned from my ten year high school reunion back home. The entire event was disturbingly predictable. Bloated ex-football players I was too scared to talk to, eerie boob jobs swathed in expensive cocktail dresses and bad barbecue that left the entire group choking the bar. I drank as many diet Cokes as I could stomach then left, grateful the next reunion isn't for another 10 years.
There was a bright spot in the weekend. A small group of my friends went to a karaoke bar at the edge of the city. As a karaoke virgin, I was nervous. The bar was on a quiet street and the parking lot almost empty. Inside, there were only men. They sat quietly at picnic tables, facing the front of the room where a microphone and t.v. screen suggested a stage. The stink of alcohol was disguised by an even thicker stench of smoke and ashtrays. Our raucous group of 15 crowded the bar and dove into the binders of song choices.
My friend, Courtyne had recommended the bar. She and her husband had met here and were blind worshipers of the god of karaoke. She pointed out the other patrons and gave me brief biographical sketches. There was the group of long, haired, greasy toughs at the pool table. They were knights from Medival Times who came here periodically to shake off their thick coat of manliness. Another aging Latino named Luis sat alone wearing a powder blue polo shirt buttoned up to the neck. He was a pudgy regular who brought his own CD case of kareoke tracks and sang like an angel. A hipster in a fedora hat ran only performed Pearl Jam. I wondered if they resented my group's presence. We were the obvious outsiders, having way too much fun for our own good.
After one of Luis's songs, I approached him and gushed about how impressed I was at his kareoke genius. He gave thanked me with a huge smile. He asked me where my group was from and I told him we were from out of town. The disappointment was obvious on his soft face. "It's so nice to have people clap for us!" he said and shook my hand for a few seconds too long.
It was finally my turn at the mike. No vocal expert, I gave my enthusiastic all to "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina," in a soulful rendition that would make Madonna weep. As I howled into the microphone, I wondered if the solemn karaoke professionals in the front row resented my levity. Did they take offense at us young welps as we gaily performed Sir Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back" and twirled our rumps for the crowd? Courtyne assured me they did not and that in karaoke nobody is judged. It seemed too good to be true.
In the wee hours of the morning, I found myself apologizing the d.j. as I handed her my next song selection, The Spice Girls, "If You Wanna Be My Lover." I hardly even knew the song and my performance was a study in pathetic. Luis gave me a sad smile and put his handly gently on his thick case of treasured CDs. This was not my world. As I fell behind on the ridiculous lyrics and my friends turned back to the bar, the shame that Diet Cokes can't hide washed over me. I promised myself I'd return. Better, stronger, faster. The one rule of karaoke is not to judge anyone - except yourself. And if you have to ask, then yes, you stink.
There was a bright spot in the weekend. A small group of my friends went to a karaoke bar at the edge of the city. As a karaoke virgin, I was nervous. The bar was on a quiet street and the parking lot almost empty. Inside, there were only men. They sat quietly at picnic tables, facing the front of the room where a microphone and t.v. screen suggested a stage. The stink of alcohol was disguised by an even thicker stench of smoke and ashtrays. Our raucous group of 15 crowded the bar and dove into the binders of song choices.
My friend, Courtyne had recommended the bar. She and her husband had met here and were blind worshipers of the god of karaoke. She pointed out the other patrons and gave me brief biographical sketches. There was the group of long, haired, greasy toughs at the pool table. They were knights from Medival Times who came here periodically to shake off their thick coat of manliness. Another aging Latino named Luis sat alone wearing a powder blue polo shirt buttoned up to the neck. He was a pudgy regular who brought his own CD case of kareoke tracks and sang like an angel. A hipster in a fedora hat ran only performed Pearl Jam. I wondered if they resented my group's presence. We were the obvious outsiders, having way too much fun for our own good.
After one of Luis's songs, I approached him and gushed about how impressed I was at his kareoke genius. He gave thanked me with a huge smile. He asked me where my group was from and I told him we were from out of town. The disappointment was obvious on his soft face. "It's so nice to have people clap for us!" he said and shook my hand for a few seconds too long.
It was finally my turn at the mike. No vocal expert, I gave my enthusiastic all to "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina," in a soulful rendition that would make Madonna weep. As I howled into the microphone, I wondered if the solemn karaoke professionals in the front row resented my levity. Did they take offense at us young welps as we gaily performed Sir Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back" and twirled our rumps for the crowd? Courtyne assured me they did not and that in karaoke nobody is judged. It seemed too good to be true.
In the wee hours of the morning, I found myself apologizing the d.j. as I handed her my next song selection, The Spice Girls, "If You Wanna Be My Lover." I hardly even knew the song and my performance was a study in pathetic. Luis gave me a sad smile and put his handly gently on his thick case of treasured CDs. This was not my world. As I fell behind on the ridiculous lyrics and my friends turned back to the bar, the shame that Diet Cokes can't hide washed over me. I promised myself I'd return. Better, stronger, faster. The one rule of karaoke is not to judge anyone - except yourself. And if you have to ask, then yes, you stink.
Comments
hugs,
kibler
I'm in somewhat of a bad mood today so it's probably best to ask me how things went a few days from now. The karaoke, however, is as advertised. I loved it!
If, for example, you are in a karaoke lounge in Mexico with a predominantly African-American crowd do not sing anything by the Dixie Chicks. The guy who picks Lou Rawls will have a much better response no matter how much life you put into "Goodbye Earl."
;)
I opted out of my 10-year reunion. I've kept in touch with most of the high school friends I care to. And I didn't have an awful high school experience, but it was a time I was glad to get behind me. Why do I need to revisit it?