It took me a few minutes to find the next singer.
I could see the words to one of my favorite Tracy
Chapman songs moving on the screen and could
barely make out someone mumbling along with them
in a flat tone, but no one was standing on the "stage." Searching
for the source of the disembodied voice, I followed
the microphone cord along the floor to where
it disappeared behind a veil of blond hair. The
girl singing, if murmuring can be considered
singing, sat with her back to the room. I wondered
why, if she was as shy as she seemed, she would
want to sing in the first place. Well, I thought,
if you're going to break out of your shell,
this is a good place to do it. Sitting off to
the side with people going about their drinking
and socializing as if you don't exist is
the next step up from singing in the shower.
There were no Karaokians at Champs. Scanning
the room, I could not find one person who had
brought his or her own discs. When Chelsea performed
her next song, "Me and Bobby McGee" by Janis
Joplin, people paid attention. Outgoing and full
of attitude, she was a natural performer, and
she drew in the otherwise oblivious audience.
She was the best karaoke singer I'd seen
thus far.
One of my favorite things about karaoke is how
it indirectly forces us to pay attention to song
lyrics -- something about seeing the words as
I listen to someone sing them lends depth and
meaning to what was previously just a catchy
tune.
A twentysomething guy with short, bleached-blond
hair took off his jacket to reveal chiseled biceps.
His rock-hard abs and a large tattoo across his
chest that read "Clairemont" were visible beneath
the thin white cotton of his wife-beater. His
black shorts were riding low, and his white socks
were pulled up over his shins.
Gripping the mike tightly in his fist, the young
thug tried, unsuccessfully, to keep up with words
he obviously didn't know. Then the chorus
came, and in the classic rapper stance -- one
fist pumping high in the air and the other cupping
the mike -- he shouted the words: "So hold me
when I'm here, love me when I'm wrong,
hold me when I'm scared, and love me when
I'm gone. Everything I am, and everything
in me, wants to be the one you wanted me to be.
I'll never let you down, even if I could,
give up everything, if only for your good!"
Suddenly I had the urge to hug him. He's
not a thug at all, I thought. He's just a
vulnerable kid singing the same old love song
to a different tune. After he bumbled his way
through another unknown verse and belted out
the chorus a few more times, the song was over
and the vulnerable thug said, "Yeah, I suck," into
the microphone and returned to the bar where
his friend, who could have been his twin brother,
was nursing a Heineken.
Mike had a beer in his hand and a smile on his
face. This place was more like the Orchard than
I'd thought -- everyone here seemed to be
having fun, and more importantly, no one was
taking himself too seriously.
Karaoke Korean Style
I wanted to have fun too, but I lacked the confidence
that drugs, liquor, and exotic dancers had given
me in the past. I looked through songbooks everywhere
I went, but I could not get up the nerve to throw
my name into the rotation. Mike has a recording
studio at his house. One day I went there with
Linda, who was trying to persuade me to perform
with her.
At Mike's studio, I learned that I am incapable
of singing Queen or George Michael -- my voice
kept cracking on the high notes. But then I stumbled
onto a song in one of Mike's old books that
I knew very well -- "I Don't Know How to
Love Him," a ballad from the musical Jesus
Christ Superstar. I've never seen the
show live, but I grew up listening to the soundtrack.
Mike cued it up. Linda grabbed the second microphone
to sing along. But I knew the song much better
than she. I knew it the way one knows the contours
of a lover's body. Every intake of breath,
every syllable stressed, every vocal sigh --
it's impossible to know how many times I
stood in the middle of my room with this song
playing on my stereo, drawing all of the energy
in my body up through my vocal cords until it
filled the air around me. I'm not saying
I was good. I'm saying it felt good.
And once I was able to forget Mike and Linda,
I lost myself in the familiar old tune.
"Hey, that was great!" said Mike. "See, you
just needed to warm up a little." I felt less
nervous, more relaxed, as though I could bring
myself to have fun with my friends without that
fear of feeling stupid.
I searched for a venue to which I could drag
some of my peeps. The Lamplighter didn't
make the cut. I used to go there a lot, but I
was looking for good old-fashioned fun, and screeching
drunk girls being hit on by dopey drunk boys
just wasn't the scene. I heard that Scolari's
Office was hosting its version of karaoke on
Wednesdays, but I wanted a relaxing atmosphere
rather than one filled with angst-ridden punks
and hipsters.
Wasn't there any place we could go without
having to encounter strange faces in the audience?
My friend Grace, a Korean-American, saved the
day when she suggested we try one of the Korean
karaoke joints on Convoy Street, where we could
get a "private room." A quick Google search led
me to Arirang DJ Karaoke, and I booked a room
for eight for the following weekend.
Saturday night we gathered on the strip mall
sidewalk in front of Arirang. After checking
in with the manager, we were escorted through
a dingy bar/restaurant whose decor would make
Roberto's look like a four-star establishment.
At the back of the building we were shown to
our room. Only, it wasn't a room, it was
a storage closet. Literally. In two corners,
cases of beer were stacked to the ceiling. In
a third corner was the television and karaoke
equipment, complete with a colorful, electric
disco light display, and near the fourth corner
was the door. Eight of us wedged ourselves around
the small square table. Bottles of plum wine
were ordered and downed, along with sake and
imported beer. I didn't mind the fact that
the plum wine tasted like Robitussin; the medicinal
effect both warmed and comforted.
The "VIP Room," as our storage closet was referred
to by restaurant employees, seemed to be the
only one of its kind in the place. The front
room was mostly empty, save for one interracial
couple and a group of Korean men smoking cigarettes
undisturbed while they watched music videos playing
on a karaoke screen. Ensconced in our private
nook (so small that even a real estate agent
would be hard-pressed to call it "cozy"), we
passed around the folder containing the list
of songs available, but not one of us wanted
to be the first to sing.
The only way to break the ice was to share the
shame -- Jennifer and I sang Madonna's "Like
a Prayer" together, inciting jeers from our companions.
At first I was horrified; were we really that
bad? Then I realized it was the incredible echo
effect in the small room that was driving everyone
but Jennifer and me insane.
We summoned an employee to show us how to adjust
the electronic boxes in the corner. Three of
us had to wiggle our way out of the VIP room
in order for the Korean man to reach the machinery.
Before he could extricate himself from the miniature
obstacle course, Jennifer grabbed his arm and
asked, "How do you say 'sex' in Korean?"
Grace looked horrified. She began speaking rapidly
to the man in Korean, apologizing for her friend's
brazenness. Then, to Jennifer, who has been harassing
Grace for years for the answer to this question,
she said, "That is totally, completely culturally
inappropriate a thousand times over! Even wondering
about it would be totally, utterly shameful and
disappointing to our families. My parents never
even told me how to say it!"
