Karaoke Krimes

You self-confident people have all the fun - always smiling, with lots of healthy-looking hair, using your fingers like pretend pistols as you point, chuckle and say, “Hey there, buddy!” because you have no idea what my name is, and buddy will work just fine. Well, my name is Tim, and I could use a little more self-confidence. But how? Extra smiling seems creepy, and the only place I’m growing hair at my age is on my ears; I could call more people “buddy,” but buddy’s really a dog’s name. After some thought, I decided the fastest way to earn more of this elusive character trait was to spend a night in public, singing for a bunch of strangers. And nothing says “strangers” and “singing,” like karaoke, so I invited a few friends and headed to the local bar to check it out.

Karaoke’s origins are disputed – some claim it was a bunch of besotted Japanese salarymen filling in for a missing performer; others say it was a Japanese bar singer who coaxed the drunken patrons to join him in singing; and others contend it started during Japan’s feudal era when the Samurai would drink boxes of sake and sing to relieve their stress from carrying around such heavy swords in their pajamas.

My wife and I meet our Massachusetts friends Erika and Kojo in the basement pub of Chen Yang Li in Bow. There were no more than ten people on this Thursday night, and most of them are focused on basketball and not on Rick the KJ in the corner. Rick runs “Rick’s Good Time Karaoke” where it’s suggested on his song request forms that we “Come be the star that you are!”

In the interests of full disclosure, I’ll share that I’ve arrived with a few beers already in my belly – the history of this activity stresses alcohol as a key element, and earlier in the week, my co-worker Kelly explained in Rule Four of Kelly’s Five Rules of Quality Karaoke that, “The only way to get up there and do karaoke is to do it drunk!” Kelly knows a lot about karaoke, enough for me to commit her Five Rules to memory. I get myself a cold draft, find a table for my wife and friends and prep for a night of self-confident singing.

The bar has the feel of a cantina at a forced labor camp. One couple picks over a plate of chicken wings while a guy in a red hat gives us a look that says, “Don’t even think about singing.” I grab a binder of song choices from Rick’s gear, and Erika and I pour over the pages. Neither Kojo nor my wife will be singing - they’ve our designated drivers tonight, which is a good thing based on how fast that beer just went down.

As I select my first song, Kelly’s Rule One comes to mind: “Pick a song you really love and know all the words.” The song binder is massive – choosing between Mel Tillis, Motorhead and the Monkees is harder than you think. While I keep looking, Erika bounds up front, and Rick announces, “Let’s hear it for Erika!” Other than us, no one gives Erika a second thought, but with the first sounds of her voice, everything changes. “I’ve been cheated, been mistreated. When will I be loved?” Erika sings, and everyone in the bar stops to listen. As she continues, it’s as if Linda Ronstadt herself came in for mu shu takeout, heard a commotion and grabbed the mic. Erika’s voice is full, sweet and sultry, and when she sings, “It happens every time!” the crowd is hers and hers alone. The song moves into the instrumental break, and I’m so mesmerized by my friend’s beautiful voice that I don’t remember Kelly’s Rule Three (“Never, ever speak the words ‘Instrumental Break’ when they flash on the screen. It’s not funny.”) No need to because Erika is gently swaying to the rhythm while we wait in rapt anticipation for the finale. She delivers, and the crowd loves it. Rick’s smiling, and Mr. Red Hat is hooting, giving Erika a high five as she sits down. Everyone applauds.

The pressure! The crowd will be expecting brilliance after that debut, and I hustle up front. I’ve chosen Lynrd Skynrd’s rollicking tribute to the flirtatious coward in all men - “Gimme Three Steps.” After thirty years of singing that song to myself, I know the words and belt it out, using hand gestures to emphasize phrases like, “And he was looking for you-know-who,” and “Wait a minute mister, I didn’t even kiss her, don’t want no trouble with you,” and the crowd at least seems unoffended. I finish to tepid but noticeable applause. I can feel the confidence flowing a bit, or maybe that’s the hops and barley. Either way, this is fun.

Erika’s up again, choosing Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats.” The crowd hangs on every note from her throaty, precise voice, and when she croons, “I might’ve saved a little trouble for the next girl,” the smiles on the faces of two women closest to Erika, both deep into matching goblets of white wine, are huge. As Erika sits, another woman walks over and says, “That was beautiful. Did you see my man split for the bathroom when you started singing that one? Ha!” Erika’s voice – so good it forces cheating men to run for cover.

I’m up next and take a risk, choosing “Hit Me with Your Best Shot,” a Pat Benatar staple. I thought about “Hell is for Children,” but remember Kelly’s Rule Two: “Karaoke is much more fun when the audience knows the song.” I can see one of the Chardonnay Twins laugh as I begin. It’s better than expected, although my voice sounds more like Alvin the Chipmunk going through puberty than Pat Benatar in her heyday. But Alvin never sang lines like, “Before I put another notch in my lipstick case, you better make sure you put me in my place.” The crowd approves, and the Chardonnay Twins love every minute of it - even Mr. Red Hat throws me a high five. Maybe I wasn’t so bad after all.

This really is fun. Granted, catching lawn darts is lots of laughs after six quick beers, but something tells me I’m OK at this. I decide the best way to win the crowd over and nail this self-confidence thing is to duet with Erika! This fulfills Kelly’s Rule Five – “A team effort is a good thing,” and we choose Elton John’s and Kiki Dee’s, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.” We walk arm in arm to the front, and I’m ready to blow ‘em all away. But right out of the gate, I can’t find the tune, and my voice sounds like Peter Brady during his “Time to Change” phase while Erika’s performance demands everyone in the room strikes the mere memory of Kiki Dee’s now-pedestrian voice from our minds forever. We continue, and I hear something in the sparse crowd. Just before we finish, I realize Mr. Red Hat is shouting at me. “You stink! Stop singing. You’re ruining it!” he yells, leaning over as we walk by, saying to my wife, “That guy was lousy but the lady was awesome!” Wow – heckled by one seventh of the crowd. I’m not sure if Kelly has a secret Rule Six, but I’m betting “Expect to get heckled in front of your wife and friends,” is not it.

We sit down and think about heading home when the taller of the Chardonnay Twins ambles by, the wine edging over the lip of her glass and announces to Erika, “You have a voice of pure gold. You got to do something with it. I’ve seen every episode of American Idol, and you are way better than every one of them.” Erika is gracious, brushing off the compliments, but Chardonnay Sister One persists. “What are you doing in Concord, New Hampshire? You are too good for this place. Promise me you’ll do something with your voice. Promise me,” she says, touching Erika’s arm. Erika promises, and Chardonnay Sister One stumbles away, content her role as local dream catcher is complete.I sit and watch this unfold, realizing my voice, on the other hand, is not too good for Concord (or Bow, Penacook or Hooksett, for that matter), and I’m OK with it. This self-confidence thing is gonna take some time, and I’ve got just the right song list to get me there. But next time, I’m going solo, avoiding Elton John and doubling up on the beers. I’m pretty confident about that.