First-time karaoke singers almost always insist upon getting drunk before getting onstage. “Not until my umpteenth beer/cosmo/Jäger shot,” they will tell you in strident tones. It’s approximately the same reaction you would get if you invited them to poke an enraged bear with a short stick. Because in a way, even though it does not involve being mauled by a wild animal, to the first-timer karaoke feels physically dangerous.
Partly it’s because you know getting onstage means people will look at you. If a single person is looking at you, fine, because you can look right back at them. See how they like it. But when more than one person, when a crowd looks at you, and particularly when you are expected to justify that attention in some fashion -- looking becomes watching. And being watched is terrifying. You know that even if you look back at one of the people watching you, this still leaves two or ten or a hundred other people still un-looked-back-at. In essence, they see you but you do not see them. We are built so that this gives us the jeebies.
Alcohol supposedly gives us the bravery to face the jeebies head-on. Unfortunately, it also takes away things like motor control and lucidity of speech, both of which you tend to want more of onstage rather than less. To walk the liquid-courage-to-clumsiness tightrope is a balancing act.
But that first time really is kind of a bitch, and it seems overly demanding to expect people to go through it with wholly unassailed sobriety. If you’re anything like me, the first time you get up to sing karaoke your throat goes Sahara dry despite your quickly-downed, insisted-upon second beer just because it’s the least convenient thing to happen right before you are expected to put your voice through a microphone. The microphone does for voices what the microscope does for blood-borne diseases.
If you’re anything like me, you’re also concerned about not looking like a colossal squib of a human being in front of the brand-new older and wiser coworkers from your brand-new first-post-graduation job, even though these coworkers have gotten you into this mess in the first place (“It’s my birthday, Alicia, you have to sing something!”). You were careful to pick a song with a leisurely rhythm -- Dusty Springfield’s “Son of a Preacher Man” -- where conveniently the nervous glaciation of your limbs could be mistaken for hip sangfroid. You know the secret to being before an audience is ignoring the audience (because you worry you are not one of those performers who can magically cradle an audience in the warm cozy palm of their hand).
And now they’re calling your name and you get up there and for one all-white second you go totally blank on how the song starts, and then the song does start and you remember it all again.
So you close your eyes, and you start to sing, and now that's your voice coming out of that speaker. And you want to actually be able to hear more of it against the background of the music, so you sing a little louder.
The swingy Motown rhythm is incredibly easy to slip into, and before you get to the first chorus you are starting to kind of have fun with the way you have to listen for timing and pitch and watch the words on the screen and make them mean something as you sing them and breathe at all the right times and make sure you’re not too loud or too soft or blowing those machine-gun puffs of air into the head of the microphone.
By the time you hit the wistful bridge of the song -- How well do I remember / the look that was in his eyes -- you have relaxed enough to really put some trumpet into your voice. You can also see your coworkers’ eyes all round with surprise because you’re not at all the kind of person they expect to have a trumpet in them even a little bit. You’re miles past the jeebies now, and you hoist open all the windows in your soul and close your eyes and belt out the big finish and all at once the song is over and the applause hits you and it flows in those open windows like a cool breeze on a hot day and you wonder what on earth you are going to sing next --
I know that there are people who never try it, or who make one attempt but remain unimpressed and unaddicted, like with cocaine. But for the rest of us, that first hit -- of karaoke, I mean -- worms its evil way into the marrow. Ultimately, that initial fear turns out to be not so much the fear of being looked at, but rather the fear of being seen through. All your faults and secrets are there with you on stage, and they feel terrifyingly visible. However, on a karaoke stage you are safe from too penetrating a gaze, since the song that you are singing is not really or not entirely yours. This is an important difference from, for example, open-mic night performances, where the singer is performing something they have labored to construct. With karaoke, you do not produce a song: you temporarily inhabit one. The songs in the book belong to everybody in the audience as well as the present singer. At least if you are a fraud at singing Aerosmith, you have some excuse.
Most of what the performer does onstage is to say at length to the audience: I love this song, don’t you? Because here is the real secret to karaoke: you must love something about your song. Love sincerely (Norah Jones) or abashedly (Hall & Oates) or defiantly (Pat Benatar). Love the way the melody feels in your throat, love the words you clothe in the breath from your lungs, love the way your whole body -- voice and heart and limbs -- becomes an instrument upon which your song is played. Love, if nothing else, the effect your song can have upon the listening crowd: give them something new, or better yet something that has slipped their mind, something they have forgotten they love too. Nothing buoys the heart like a cheering karaoke audience when the singer has picked a song they also love.
This is how karaoke destroys the loneliness of anonymity without foisting the burdens of specialness upon the singer. No matter how well someone sings, at the end of the song they are going to hand the microphone to somebody else. The normally rigid boundary between on- and offstage is here a permeable membrane, and the effect is a climate of approbation not unlike that of the grade school Christmas pageant, only with drinking and swears. Our cast: the heartbreakingly earnest middle-aged man singing 80’s soft rock love ballads, the reckless punk kid with a mohawk who secretly wants to be Billy Idol, the thirty-something woman who has spent most of her life trying conquer an inherent shyness, the college kids finally released from the horrors of midterm exams, the siren, the charmer, the would-be rapper, and the suave older gentleman who sings Sinatra as naturally as breathing. Performer and audience here are not fixed definitions, but roles that can be slipped into or out of as necessary.
This is why the audience will always clap: as long as the singer remains onstage for the length of the song, they have succeeded. We have not bought a ticket for this, and we do not expect training or talent, though we may be delighted by either. All that we require is an effort in good faith. Karaoke may be the world’s only form of art based on good intentions.
Showing posts with label karaoke. Show all posts
Showing posts with label karaoke. Show all posts
Monday, September 14, 2009
Monday, January 14, 2008
I've Always Wondered ...
Because I am incapable of enjoying any activity without indulging in the overanalysis of same, I have been researching academic criticism on karaoke as a social and cultural phenomenon. My latest discovery is a brief essay by one Casey Man Kong Lum entitled: "The Karaoke Dilemma: on the interaction between collectivism and individualism in the karaoke space."
The piece is interesting, though full of sentences like the following, found on page 173: "The dual role that people are expected to play in the karaoke space helps to facilitate an obligatory bonding among the participants." (Because we academics have to make sure to use long dry words like 'obligatory' when talking about fun things, so people can tell we are taking those fun things very very seriously.) The author's thesis is fairly plain and well-argued: Asian culture, with its emphasis on the group (be it family, company, or broader society) is more inclined to favor karaoke than what he calls Anglo-American culture with its emphasis on self-distinction and individuality.
Karaoke, of course, is both an individual and a collective activity; singers are individuals onstage, but group members when they melt back into the amorphous mass known as the audience (which can be very amorphous indeed). CMKL argues that the individualized aspects of the pastime provide a literal and metaphorical voice for people in group-centered cultures, giving them a sense of freedom and release. For Anglo-Americans, on the other hand, karaoke invades the peculiarly American notion of having privacy in a public space: in this case, a bar, where getting up to sing might in some sense 'expose'* the performer to the critical gaze of the audience. In shopping malls and restaurants and other public places, we try not to make eye contact or talk to strangers; we preserve the illusion of being alone even in the midst of a crowd. Maybe this is also why Christmas shopping is so evil to us -- we can't possibly preserve the illusion of solitude in such cramped conditions. However, the logic behind these twin points -- the crux of the argument, really -- seems suspect. It almost suggests that collectivist cultures long to escape that collectivism, while individualist cultures cling to their individuality. Seems a little bit like a value judgment on collectivism vs. individualism.
My favorite point is when the author talks about the peculiarly American karaoke habit of getting an entire group up onstage to sing. CMKL puts describes this tactic as: "an attempt to use the group on stage to shield the individual performers from the public scrutiny of the audience members, some of whom are likely to be strangers to the performers" (175). This is, in my experience, exactly right, and justifies both the custom of the Everybody Song (getting anyone at all up for a song of the KJ's mischievous choice), and my absolute hatred for anyone who gets up to sing with more than three people.
This essay therefore also justifies my even more vitriolic hatred toward those groups who flood to the edge of the stage to watch and photograph their friends while they perform. It turns the karaoke bar into their own private fun center and excludes everyone else. Makes us feel unloved. Narcissistic bastards.
*I initially typed 'explose,' which I really think oughta be a word. Explose: to expose someone in a catastrophic, damaging fashion.
The piece is interesting, though full of sentences like the following, found on page 173: "The dual role that people are expected to play in the karaoke space helps to facilitate an obligatory bonding among the participants." (Because we academics have to make sure to use long dry words like 'obligatory' when talking about fun things, so people can tell we are taking those fun things very very seriously.) The author's thesis is fairly plain and well-argued: Asian culture, with its emphasis on the group (be it family, company, or broader society) is more inclined to favor karaoke than what he calls Anglo-American culture with its emphasis on self-distinction and individuality.
Karaoke, of course, is both an individual and a collective activity; singers are individuals onstage, but group members when they melt back into the amorphous mass known as the audience (which can be very amorphous indeed). CMKL argues that the individualized aspects of the pastime provide a literal and metaphorical voice for people in group-centered cultures, giving them a sense of freedom and release. For Anglo-Americans, on the other hand, karaoke invades the peculiarly American notion of having privacy in a public space: in this case, a bar, where getting up to sing might in some sense 'expose'* the performer to the critical gaze of the audience. In shopping malls and restaurants and other public places, we try not to make eye contact or talk to strangers; we preserve the illusion of being alone even in the midst of a crowd. Maybe this is also why Christmas shopping is so evil to us -- we can't possibly preserve the illusion of solitude in such cramped conditions. However, the logic behind these twin points -- the crux of the argument, really -- seems suspect. It almost suggests that collectivist cultures long to escape that collectivism, while individualist cultures cling to their individuality. Seems a little bit like a value judgment on collectivism vs. individualism.
My favorite point is when the author talks about the peculiarly American karaoke habit of getting an entire group up onstage to sing. CMKL puts describes this tactic as: "an attempt to use the group on stage to shield the individual performers from the public scrutiny of the audience members, some of whom are likely to be strangers to the performers" (175). This is, in my experience, exactly right, and justifies both the custom of the Everybody Song (getting anyone at all up for a song of the KJ's mischievous choice), and my absolute hatred for anyone who gets up to sing with more than three people.
This essay therefore also justifies my even more vitriolic hatred toward those groups who flood to the edge of the stage to watch and photograph their friends while they perform. It turns the karaoke bar into their own private fun center and excludes everyone else. Makes us feel unloved. Narcissistic bastards.
*I initially typed 'explose,' which I really think oughta be a word. Explose: to expose someone in a catastrophic, damaging fashion.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Exit -- Singing!
Let's face it: my current unbridled enthusiasm for karaoke singing puzzles even me. I've long since passed my choirgirl years, and anyway in choir one voice is rarely distinguished. Mine certainly never was. The times that saw me singing solo in the past were few and far between (a gay bar in Pasco, Washington, the erstwhile Liquid Lounge at the EMP in Seattle) and while I had enjoyed it, the wait-to-sing ratio was fairly high, and to have that many people watch you singing alone on your first few forays brings out the old nerves like nothing else I know. And nerves + singing = crap.
Part of it does seem to be slightly competitive -- given a mic and a screen with the lyrics, how close can your voice get to Janis Joplin's? At the same time, hey, nobody seriously expects me to be Janis Joplin -- it's karaoke, for crying out loud. Mere adequacy is considered overachieving.
Maybe that's the appeal: high potential for success with no penalty for being second- or even third-rate. That's the same reason I played on the drama department's intramural softball team three years running in college: we were so collectively bad that no one single individual could possibly be charged with ruining it for everybody, no matter how poorly one played. Every dropped fly and bobbled grounder was par for the course, while every caught ball and solid hit was cause for celebration.
Also, games with the Screaming Makitas (namesake rusty backstage electric drills which we used to build and strike sets) and karaoke can both be enjoyed while drinking -- the softball team's best and most practiced move was as follows:
1. Catch ball in left-hand mitt
2. Crouch
3. Place beer on ground with right hand
4. Emerge from crouch while pulling ball from left-hand mitt with right hand
5. Throw ball
When thoroughly practiced -- and we did drill this one -- this smooth maneuver was almost poetic in its graceful debauchery. Had Roman emperors played softball, this would have been in their playbook. Other intramural teams, though their score might double ours, were reluctantly impressed.
For the record, unlike softball, karaoke comes pretty naturally to me: I have a decent enough voice, and usually the wisdom not to afflict my audience with either lengthy, dull songs (I'm talking to you, Pink Floyd) or awkward, annoying ones (performing "Summer Lovin'" is, I believe, grounds for execution). But then, the hardest part of karaoke isn't the singing. That's just the most noticeable bit. Actually, the hardest part is the song choice. Not only range, vocal quality, volume, and mood must be considered: you also have a responsibility to your audience, to pick something with at least a minimal entertainment value for the listener who could care less who you are or where you trained or how much you've had to drink. Because this is not your insulated single-occupant bathroom shower on a late-slept Sunday morning: this is a bar with other people who came out to entertain and be entertained, and if you don't respect that it tends to show. Like the guy who thought it would be a good idea to knock back twenty Irish car bombs and then sing "Baby Got Back" despite never having learned all the words. Sir, you are a douchebag of the highest caliber, and if ever given the opportunity I will exchange all the whiskey in those car bombs for tequila, and then we'll see how you feel come morning. That pounding in your temples and the fuzziness on your tongue? It's called regret.
***
Karaoke tends to toy with the notion of celebrity. An example: Cher's "Believe" an artfully digitized product of one of those famous people with whom society has something of a love-hate relationship. We mock her, but we know her name. And when someone who looks kind of like Cher sings a terrible, catchy as hell song by Cher to which everyone has a reaction, be it affection or loathing -- well, there aren't many who can't get behind that at least a little bit. Think about it: you see the song choice on the monitor is "In the Ghetto." Wouldn't you prefer that guy with the wavy black hair sneering into his sideburns than the guy in the t-shirt with cutoff sleeves, his blond hair spiky and bleached to within an inch of its life? Wouldn't you rather that second guy sing "White Wedding" instead? Believe me, I've seen a Billy Idol lookalike sing Billy Idol, and it's a pleasure everyone should have at least once in their lifetime. It means that right there in front of you is a person who at least has a vague, instinctive handle on relationship between actuality and appearances.
Then again, having that Billy Idol lookalike sing "Hound Dog" or "Heartbreak Hotel" would be pretty good, too. There's always something to be said for playing with expectations. A good song choice is nearly always a good song choice regardless of the vocalist.
Singing a song that's as famous for the performer as for the performance also strangely reclaims popular music for the masses. Take that, Bon Jovi, it's our song now! And good karaoke songs almost have to be from the genre of popular (or at least semipopular) music. A song only you know is usually dull as dirt for anyone else to listen to, unless you're the absolute be-all and end-all, vocally. And even then, no guarantees.
It's an added complexity that a good song is not necessarily a good karaoke song, and vice versa. Examples of good songs that are terrible karaoke songs: "Orange Blossom Special" (all those musical breaks!), "Baba O'Reilly" (same), and just about every rap song ever recorded. (Because even when people think they know how it goes, they rarely do.) Examples of terrible songs that are good karaoke songs: "Believe," "Everything I Do (I Do It For You)," and anything by Wilson Phillips. Examples that fit both circles of our Venn diagram: "Son of a Preacher Man," "London Calling," "I Will Survive," "I Believe in a Thing Called Love," "The Gambler," "Space Oddity," and "Fat Bottomed Girls." But by far the title for Best Karaoke Song in America today is split between two contenders: "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and "Don't Stop Believin.'" Not only are these songs common in karaoke books, well-known, catchy, nostalgic, and easy to sing -- they are top karaoke songs because everybody on earth will sing along with either one. The entire bar. No matter if they're drunk or sober or tired or grumpy or whether they intend to get up onstage themselves. It's an amazing experience of unity and cohesion, small groups of total strangers coming together briefly for a common, albeit ridiculous, purpose.
***
Anyone who's a karaoke regular inevitably develops a signature song or two. My friend Colin has "Sweet Caroline" down to an art form, and Binah can lock down "Brian Wilson" and "Walking in Memphis" with the best of them. In the past I have tended to default to "Bobbie McGee" because it's a showstopper and singing it as loud and as well as I can is something of a rush, provided I've had at least one good solid drink (even Janis couldn't sing Janis sober). Norah Jones' "Don't Know Why" has been getting a lot of play as well, because it is a song with the perfect ratio of effort (zero) to quality (lots). However, my current fanaticism for the karaoke art has led me more and more into new and uncharted territory. I tire of singing the same old things; instead, I have been branching out into songs that make me nervous (Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas") or which I love but am not sure I can sing (Frankie Valli's "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You", "If You've Got It, Flaunt It" from the Producers) or which I've had to badger the host to get into the book (Indigo Girls' "Galileo") or which I've just plain never seen anywhere before ("Mr. Cellophane"). Not all of these have been wild, runaway successes, but the risks have paid off enough to keep me trying.
The signature song and/or repertoire is not necessarily a motto, but they do tend to indicate certain things about a personality that might otherwise be unutterable. For instance, the list of songs I've heard Colin do more than once: "Wicked Game," "Sweet Caroline," "Mmm Mmm Mmm," "Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon," and "Melt With You." Binah: "Brian Wilson," "Faith," "Walking in Memphis." Teman: "Sympathy With the Devil," "The Gambler," and "London Calling." Charles: "Benny and the Jets," "Sledgehammer," "Kissing a Fool," "Mama," and "Believe." Me: "Son of a Preacher Man," "Galileo," "Bobby McGee," "Don't Know Why," "Long As I Can See the Light," and "Should I Stay Or Should I Go?" Themes develop with alarming rapidity, and one's musical knowledge and tastes are exposed to other regulars, who may or may not feel compelled to judge you on that basis.
If a regular patron at a karaoke bar has a regular song they perform, the other regulars almost entirely -- in, say, roughly 99% of cases -- will deliberately not sing that song (though exceptions can be made in the case of a regular's absence, or in a pair of regulars who trade turns on a particular song). It's considered poaching, and poaching of course is considered bad form. It doesn't matter if you do it better; it doesn't matter if you do it worse. It is simply not done.
At least, it's not done by those in the know. The quickest way for a regular to find out that another singer is a newbie is to hear them poach a regular's standard tune. I recall one time at an erstwhile karaoke night I heard some tone-deaf drunk guys -- and oh, the bane that is the tone-deaf drunk guy with poor song choice capabilities -- poach David Allan Coe's "You Never Even Called Me By My Name," usually performed late in the evening by a regular known affectionately as Big Al. Now, for one thing, Big Al sings this song beautifully, in a rich full velvet voice. For another, I'd never heard it until I started coming to karaoke, but thanks to Big Al it is now one of my favorite songs, one which causes everyone else in the bar to sing along. There are backup lyrics and everything. So to have this newbie, this rube, this asshole, show up and crap all over one of my favorite karaoke numbers in the most egregiously unentertaining way possible ... Well, it gets my dander up.
But now, I have to go sing. Further bulletins as events warrant.
Part of it does seem to be slightly competitive -- given a mic and a screen with the lyrics, how close can your voice get to Janis Joplin's? At the same time, hey, nobody seriously expects me to be Janis Joplin -- it's karaoke, for crying out loud. Mere adequacy is considered overachieving.
Maybe that's the appeal: high potential for success with no penalty for being second- or even third-rate. That's the same reason I played on the drama department's intramural softball team three years running in college: we were so collectively bad that no one single individual could possibly be charged with ruining it for everybody, no matter how poorly one played. Every dropped fly and bobbled grounder was par for the course, while every caught ball and solid hit was cause for celebration.
Also, games with the Screaming Makitas (namesake rusty backstage electric drills which we used to build and strike sets) and karaoke can both be enjoyed while drinking -- the softball team's best and most practiced move was as follows:
1. Catch ball in left-hand mitt
2. Crouch
3. Place beer on ground with right hand
4. Emerge from crouch while pulling ball from left-hand mitt with right hand
5. Throw ball
When thoroughly practiced -- and we did drill this one -- this smooth maneuver was almost poetic in its graceful debauchery. Had Roman emperors played softball, this would have been in their playbook. Other intramural teams, though their score might double ours, were reluctantly impressed.
For the record, unlike softball, karaoke comes pretty naturally to me: I have a decent enough voice, and usually the wisdom not to afflict my audience with either lengthy, dull songs (I'm talking to you, Pink Floyd) or awkward, annoying ones (performing "Summer Lovin'" is, I believe, grounds for execution). But then, the hardest part of karaoke isn't the singing. That's just the most noticeable bit. Actually, the hardest part is the song choice. Not only range, vocal quality, volume, and mood must be considered: you also have a responsibility to your audience, to pick something with at least a minimal entertainment value for the listener who could care less who you are or where you trained or how much you've had to drink. Because this is not your insulated single-occupant bathroom shower on a late-slept Sunday morning: this is a bar with other people who came out to entertain and be entertained, and if you don't respect that it tends to show. Like the guy who thought it would be a good idea to knock back twenty Irish car bombs and then sing "Baby Got Back" despite never having learned all the words. Sir, you are a douchebag of the highest caliber, and if ever given the opportunity I will exchange all the whiskey in those car bombs for tequila, and then we'll see how you feel come morning. That pounding in your temples and the fuzziness on your tongue? It's called regret.
***
Karaoke tends to toy with the notion of celebrity. An example: Cher's "Believe" an artfully digitized product of one of those famous people with whom society has something of a love-hate relationship. We mock her, but we know her name. And when someone who looks kind of like Cher sings a terrible, catchy as hell song by Cher to which everyone has a reaction, be it affection or loathing -- well, there aren't many who can't get behind that at least a little bit. Think about it: you see the song choice on the monitor is "In the Ghetto." Wouldn't you prefer that guy with the wavy black hair sneering into his sideburns than the guy in the t-shirt with cutoff sleeves, his blond hair spiky and bleached to within an inch of its life? Wouldn't you rather that second guy sing "White Wedding" instead? Believe me, I've seen a Billy Idol lookalike sing Billy Idol, and it's a pleasure everyone should have at least once in their lifetime. It means that right there in front of you is a person who at least has a vague, instinctive handle on relationship between actuality and appearances.
Then again, having that Billy Idol lookalike sing "Hound Dog" or "Heartbreak Hotel" would be pretty good, too. There's always something to be said for playing with expectations. A good song choice is nearly always a good song choice regardless of the vocalist.
Singing a song that's as famous for the performer as for the performance also strangely reclaims popular music for the masses. Take that, Bon Jovi, it's our song now! And good karaoke songs almost have to be from the genre of popular (or at least semipopular) music. A song only you know is usually dull as dirt for anyone else to listen to, unless you're the absolute be-all and end-all, vocally. And even then, no guarantees.
It's an added complexity that a good song is not necessarily a good karaoke song, and vice versa. Examples of good songs that are terrible karaoke songs: "Orange Blossom Special" (all those musical breaks!), "Baba O'Reilly" (same), and just about every rap song ever recorded. (Because even when people think they know how it goes, they rarely do.) Examples of terrible songs that are good karaoke songs: "Believe," "Everything I Do (I Do It For You)," and anything by Wilson Phillips. Examples that fit both circles of our Venn diagram: "Son of a Preacher Man," "London Calling," "I Will Survive," "I Believe in a Thing Called Love," "The Gambler," "Space Oddity," and "Fat Bottomed Girls." But by far the title for Best Karaoke Song in America today is split between two contenders: "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and "Don't Stop Believin.'" Not only are these songs common in karaoke books, well-known, catchy, nostalgic, and easy to sing -- they are top karaoke songs because everybody on earth will sing along with either one. The entire bar. No matter if they're drunk or sober or tired or grumpy or whether they intend to get up onstage themselves. It's an amazing experience of unity and cohesion, small groups of total strangers coming together briefly for a common, albeit ridiculous, purpose.
***
Anyone who's a karaoke regular inevitably develops a signature song or two. My friend Colin has "Sweet Caroline" down to an art form, and Binah can lock down "Brian Wilson" and "Walking in Memphis" with the best of them. In the past I have tended to default to "Bobbie McGee" because it's a showstopper and singing it as loud and as well as I can is something of a rush, provided I've had at least one good solid drink (even Janis couldn't sing Janis sober). Norah Jones' "Don't Know Why" has been getting a lot of play as well, because it is a song with the perfect ratio of effort (zero) to quality (lots). However, my current fanaticism for the karaoke art has led me more and more into new and uncharted territory. I tire of singing the same old things; instead, I have been branching out into songs that make me nervous (Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas") or which I love but am not sure I can sing (Frankie Valli's "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You", "If You've Got It, Flaunt It" from the Producers) or which I've had to badger the host to get into the book (Indigo Girls' "Galileo") or which I've just plain never seen anywhere before ("Mr. Cellophane"). Not all of these have been wild, runaway successes, but the risks have paid off enough to keep me trying.
The signature song and/or repertoire is not necessarily a motto, but they do tend to indicate certain things about a personality that might otherwise be unutterable. For instance, the list of songs I've heard Colin do more than once: "Wicked Game," "Sweet Caroline," "Mmm Mmm Mmm," "Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon," and "Melt With You." Binah: "Brian Wilson," "Faith," "Walking in Memphis." Teman: "Sympathy With the Devil," "The Gambler," and "London Calling." Charles: "Benny and the Jets," "Sledgehammer," "Kissing a Fool," "Mama," and "Believe." Me: "Son of a Preacher Man," "Galileo," "Bobby McGee," "Don't Know Why," "Long As I Can See the Light," and "Should I Stay Or Should I Go?" Themes develop with alarming rapidity, and one's musical knowledge and tastes are exposed to other regulars, who may or may not feel compelled to judge you on that basis.
If a regular patron at a karaoke bar has a regular song they perform, the other regulars almost entirely -- in, say, roughly 99% of cases -- will deliberately not sing that song (though exceptions can be made in the case of a regular's absence, or in a pair of regulars who trade turns on a particular song). It's considered poaching, and poaching of course is considered bad form. It doesn't matter if you do it better; it doesn't matter if you do it worse. It is simply not done.
At least, it's not done by those in the know. The quickest way for a regular to find out that another singer is a newbie is to hear them poach a regular's standard tune. I recall one time at an erstwhile karaoke night I heard some tone-deaf drunk guys -- and oh, the bane that is the tone-deaf drunk guy with poor song choice capabilities -- poach David Allan Coe's "You Never Even Called Me By My Name," usually performed late in the evening by a regular known affectionately as Big Al. Now, for one thing, Big Al sings this song beautifully, in a rich full velvet voice. For another, I'd never heard it until I started coming to karaoke, but thanks to Big Al it is now one of my favorite songs, one which causes everyone else in the bar to sing along. There are backup lyrics and everything. So to have this newbie, this rube, this asshole, show up and crap all over one of my favorite karaoke numbers in the most egregiously unentertaining way possible ... Well, it gets my dander up.
But now, I have to go sing. Further bulletins as events warrant.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
