Voices carry. And then some.
In 2017, I started going to a local dive bar with my wife’s nephew, Danny, to watch hockey, and later also with his brother Andy and their friends.
First time in my life that I hung out regularly at a bar.
One night, Danny pointed to the adjoining room and mentioned that karaoke was happening, as it did every Thursday night. He had always hoped I might get up there and give it a try. I said it wasn’t likely.
Outside of a wedding in Poland and a couple of parties with friends and family, I had never sung karaoke publicly, and as a church music director who did plenty of singing on the job, I didn’t want to take work home with me. Karaoke was a “no.”
Then, one night, that changed.
It was the day Chris Cornell died and it happened to be a Thursday. I was feeling really down about the news and decided to prepare the Audioslave song “Like a Stone” to sing that night as a tribute to him.
It doesn’t need to be stated that noble intentions aside, diving into karaoke night with a Chris Cornell song is either bold, not carefully considered, or just stupid.
Or all of the above.
Danny and Andy were there and I told them I was going to sing. There was a problem. The deejay did not have the song.
Oh, great. Now what was I going to do? I still wanted to sing, so what song to choose? For some reason, the first thing that came to mind was “Superstar” by the Carpenters.
I knew the song well, and though it was sung in a woman’s range, I figured it would work for me, being that Karen typically sang in the lower realms.
As the song started, I panicked and decided to just drop it down an octave from Karen. Being that it was already low, it was now near the bottom of my range and sounded a bit like a poor attempt at Barry White. Nevertheless, I made it through and the guys thought I did pretty well.
That was the beginning of three years as a karaoke regular at that bar.
During that time, I sang about 130 different songs, met a number of fascinating people, and got a bunch of my own friends and family members to come as well. My brother Greg would come often and really found his karaoke groove. It was great to see.
One friend who had never sung in public got up and nailed a Gordon Lightfoot song, only to be overcome by nerves afterward, shaking uncontrollably, realizing after the fact what he just done. We had to tell him it was over and he could relax.
I began keeping a journal, and the stories of things that would occur on a nightly basis began to pile up.
What was most amazing to me was that on any given night, you would have incredible singers that could easily be doing it somewhere for a living (a few actually were) mixed right in with:
- The odd fellow singing AC/DC in the voice of Donald Duck
- The drunken horde of millennials atonally shouting out “Party In The U.S.A.”
- The angry looking guy in the American flag t-shirt holding an entire pitcher of PBR in his hand, warbling his way through “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”
- The stoner singing “C is for Cookie” by Cookie Monster
- Or the crazy little dude that would get up and just do a sexy dance during other peoples’ songs, including mine once.
From the moment I walked in the door and was hit with the familiar, funky smell of the place, I loved all of it – the colorful characters, the friends, the strangers, and the strangers that became friends.
Then the deejay was suddenly fired by new ownership.
It came as a shock. When Nikki was there, I knew I was in good hands. I came to trust her running the show. Now it all changed on a dime. Two guys replaced her. I gave them a try, and didn’t dislike them, but everything was different and it didn’t feel like home anymore. There were lots of new people I had never seen before, and some of the regulars were already disappearing. I stopped going. Within a month, Covid-19 hit, and all the bars were shuttered. No karaoke anywhere.
Once things opened up again, the old place had changed names, remodeled and was no longer a dive bar, and no longer recognizable.
I had no desire to go back there. I would meet Danny at a different bar, where the new karaoke guys had relocated. I started singing again, though it was sporadic. My brother Greg joined me, and sometimes other friends and family as well.
The memories of the offbeat community that had formed at the previous place would haunt me when I would walk into a different bar with different regulars. Eventually we stopped going there as well.
For a couple of years, karaoke was out of my life.
I told myself it was probably for the best. A portion of my lower range was shot, and it seemed that somehow my voice had become damaged. The only new addition to my musical life had been karaoke, so I suspected trying to keep up with the likes of Dennis DeYoung and Roger Daltrey one too many times was the culprit.
Then last year, Greg asked me if I wanted to join him for karaoke at a bar near his house. I said yes. We both really enjoyed singing again, and it was nice just to hang out together, something we hadn’t done often since we stopped doing karaoke. We didn’t become regulars, but we did return on more than one occasion, and decided that we liked the deejay and the people there.
And despite the fact that there were Brussels sprouts on the menu, Greg liked the food.
Stepping away from it for awhile gave me a chance to take a harder look at what was going on the first time around.
At the old place, I had become consumed with karaoke, spending great amounts of time and energy picking just the right song, practicing, and keeping a log with ratings as to how I did.
With some exceptions, many nights I would become preoccupied with what people in the bar thought of my performance. If I didn’t get positive feedback from strangers, I would come home feeling empty inside. I would even get that feeling after a night of receiving affirmation, like no matter how well I sang, what was the point of any of it.
Then there were nights when I would be so blown away by the talent, that I would get almost depressed about it, comparing myself to others.
What was wrong with me?
I had just had an enjoyable evening out with friends. It should have been a nice diversion from the daily grind, but instead it was one more thing over which to fret and obsess. The obvious phrase “it’s just karaoke” should have resonated throughout my being, but I was way past that.
After going to the new place with Greg a handful of times, I realized that something had changed for me compared to my prior karaoke experience.
I found that I could appreciate a great singer without feeling bad about myself. I found myself consistently valuing spending time with my brother and catching up on life more than what song I was going to sing and what people thought of me. In short, I was more comfortable in my own skin, which affected how I was responding to my surroundings.
I would still prepare songs in advance but was less beset by it all. For my 60th birthday, members of my family and I met at the new joint for dinner and karaoke. It was truly a wonderful time with family first and foremost and the karaoke just made it that much more fun and epic.
Hearing Greg sing “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe”, his go-to song, was definitely a highlight.
As of this writing, two days ago, Greg invited me out for karaoke and I decided it was time to get some of the old gang back together to experience the new place. What would I sing?
I decided one of the songs would be “Light My Fire” by The Doors. I knew it was a risk.
As I mentioned in a recent TNOCS article, my range goes up to about a G4 on a good day, and that song ends on a full-voiced, whiskey-soaked scream/howl on an A4, a step out of my range. I knew I could only practice it once or twice, or I would seriously trash my voice, something I need in my professional life, so there was no guarantee the note would be there.
Was I going back to my old ways of trying to do too much? Something told me no, and that I should just go for it.
I would either stick the landing or I would completely self-combust in public. I told myself that the worst that could happen is that I would be reminded that yes, “it’s just karaoke” and the world would not come to an end.
It turned out to be a dream come true.
That final note was there in all of its glory, as if I were 17 again in my living room erupting at the end along with Jim Morrison. The bar exploded in enthusiasm and people were shaking my hand and complimenting me. My brother and my friends were all smiles, and aghast, having never heard me take it to quite that level before. Something primal had been released. It felt unbelievably great, and I took a moment to thoroughly enjoy it before turning my attention to Greg, who was up next.
What was different now was that I didn’t need to live for that moment and could see it for what it was. A great night out at karaoke with friends.
For my second song of the evening, I chose “There is a Light that Never Goes Out”, something that I was quite sure no one at my table would know, and maybe nobody period. Add to it that the chorus of the song is as follows-
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten-ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure – the privilege is mine
Not a crowd pleaser. Not even close.
I didn’t care.
I love that song so much that I just wanted to sing it and I wasn’t concerned what anyone else would think, though I apologized to the table in advance before going up there. Admittedly, it felt awkward when I was actually doing it, knowing I had the potential to make the whole bar contemplate dying a violent death, which is not what people are looking for in a night out, but it felt great to sing it anyway.
Afterward, a guy came up to me and asked if that was the Smiths and I said that indeed it was. He said, “man, Morrissey’s lyrics are so depressing, but so great.” I concurred.
To conclude, I consider this change in attitude I have experienced to be a grace, and I have no idea if it will remain.
If I find myself slipping back into old insecurities and losing sight of reality, I can always go back and read this and remember.
I no longer keep a karaoke journal, so this is my way of expressing my honest thoughts and emotions on the subject, and I have to say it feels good to get them out there. In the end, yes, it’s just karaoke. For me, it’s also life. Thank you for sharing in the journey with me.
This is pretty much everything I’ve sung. I may have forgotten a few.
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This was a great piece, RB. Having only done karaoke once (for an article our features section did on trying the thing we’ve wanted to do but feared), I concur with your description of the heady mix of feelings that happens before, during and after those four or so minutes.
I think there’s a common element with what we do here. By sharing about our lives — highlights, challenges and whatever insights we manage to glean from them all — we put a piece of ourselves out there. The trick is learning not to put too much stock in whether we’re liked or complimented but just finding the satisfaction in sharing our stories and telling our truths.
That’s my .02 before breakfast. Have a great day.
Your .02 cents is worth it’s weight in gold, friend!
I watched a Jimmy Carr video on YouTube last week and something he said has stuck with me: “Comparison is the thief of joy.”
It’s a great lesson and I’m really glad you got there. You still haven’t talked me into singing karaoke though. 😋
Very good quote
Take the plunge, v-dog!