| |
|
|
When bad karaoke happens to good people
BY STEVE ALMOND
|
|
|
|
|
I would like to take a few minutes to discuss a topic of vital importance to all socially concerned Americans. I am referring, of course, to bad karaoke. Now: I am sure there are some of you hard cases out there who feel that this phrase — bad karaoke — is a redundancy. But I am here to tell you that there is plenty of good karaoke out there, in the bars and lounges of this great nation — though, if I were you, I would avoid Portland, Oregon. I say this because I recently visited Portland, and specifically a tiki bar, known as the Alibi, on the north side of town. My friend Joye assured me that the Alibi was the place to be in north Portland on a Thursday night, not exactly the kind of tag line on which to build a multinational franchise, but you take what you can get when in the nonessential states. Thursday night, as it turns out, is karaoke night at the Alibi, which meant there were a couple dozen folks stuffed in the smoky back room. They were a drunken and cocksure lot, sprawled all over their chairs and given to hooting. At the front of the room, in a little booth-type thing, were a couple of brightly made-up women, both of whom seemed to be named Jenna. These were the karaoke DJs. Above them was a little TV screen where the lyrics to each song were displayed. The standard set-up, in other words. There were two women performing "(I’m Gonna Be) 500 Miles," a song I had hoped more or less to avoid for the remainder of my life. These women were wearing shirts that showed off their bellies, which — along with their song selection — initially made it difficult for me to focus on their singing abilities. But eventually, it dawned on me that they were really fucking good. They were sort of camping the whole thing up, pretending to march when it came to the chorus. And yet they both had lovely voices, altos, and the tall blond one, she was actually harmonizing on the refrain. It was one of those moments of half-intended beauty, half ironic, sure, but utterly heroic in the blur of a late weeknight. I settled into my seat, feeling certain that I was in for a treat. The next singer was a skinny guy named Daren. He was dressed in a Western-style shirt, and he grinned sheepishly as the opening strains of "Sometimes When We Touch" tinkled out of the speakers. There is an unwritten rule in karaoke that holds that the campier the selection, the lower the threshold for success. It’s sort of like Olympic diving — the degree of difficulty matters. But Daren just wouldn’t even try. He was too embarrassed, and then he let the words get ahead of him, and began trying to sort of dance his way out of it. And then he just stood there, failing. The Jennas faded the music out. Okay, I figured — that was a mulligan. The next guy up was a chubster with denim shorts and the shaved-head-and-goatee combo pack. His name was Dave. Dave had the swagger of a karaoke pro. He handled the portable mike with casual assurance. And his selection seemed to promise a good time: "Tainted Love." And then Dave started to sing and the sound was like nothing I’d ever heard before, nothing human. To call his voice flat seems inadequate. It was more than this. It was tuneless. He appeared to understand the need to move his voice up in the octave range, but rather than doing so, he merely became louder. His larynx seemed incapable of producing actual notes. I’m not entirely sure he had a larynx. Now listen: I need to make one thing clear. I am an incredibly generous listener, when it comes to karaoke, because I believe that almost everyone in this culture has their own karaoke yearnings. We all want to be rock stars or lounge singers, we all want to give voice to the music inside of us. We all have our Aretha moments in the shower. And this is a beautiful thing. I’m in favor of anything in this chicken-shit, consumerist culture that allows us non-famous schlubs to tap into our creative impulses. And I admire anyone with the stones to get up in front of strangers and sing. You don’t even have to sing well, as far as I’m concerned. Just make the effort and you get my vote. But this Dave character, what was so painful about him, is that he was so obviously mangling the song, and yet he seemed to feel he was nailing it. He kept doing these soul-brother fist clenches and nodding his head, like, Oh yeah, ladies, there’s enough Dave for all of you. He had, in other words, overplayed his hand rather dramatically. Because, even though karaoke is a kind of amateur night, it still involves an audience. You’ve chosen to get up in front of people and, by rather obvious logic, you are asking for their attention. This implies a certain duty. Namely, the duty not to suck, and, if you are sucking, to exit stage left, like Daren. Otherwise, you slip into that nasty realm known as self-indulgence. It got worse. A couple of sassy chicks — who had spent much of the evening mocking the rest of the crew from the back of the room — attempted "Uptown Girl." They didn’t make it through the second verse. Dave’s pal Henry did a whispered, atonal version of "Sexual Healing." It was at this point that the two black couples in the room fled. Here’s how bad it got: I actually signed up to do a song ("The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" by the Band.) I felt some kind of duty. I needed to show these people that karaoke was a privilege, not a right, that they needed to honor the songs they were covering, by making at least a token effort to adhere to the melody. But I am, after all, only one man. There were six people ahead of me on the list, including — I couldn’t help but notice — Dave. He had signed up to sing "Islands in the Stream" as a duet, with Henry. Steve Almond, who is not available for private parties, can be reached at sbalmond@earthlink.net
|
