Godless Karaoke
I was looking forward to a fun Friday night out singing karaoke away from
the confines of my apartment when an accident on the 210 dimmed my enthusiasm.
Thanks to the stop-and-go grind of the congested traffic, my clutch foot was
starting to tire. When I finally exited the freeway to get to the party, I made
a few wrong turns before finally figuring out my way. I almost turned around
and went home several times. When I arrived after an hour and twenty minutes of
driving, disappointment set in.
There were too many guys there. They were sitting down and chatting with each other, standing up and chatting with each other, or playing pool in the next room in concentrated silence. There was no loud laughter. There were hardly any smiles. There was no one exuberant enough to grab the center of attention. There were just a bunch of aimless people waiting for their lives to begin.
It didn't help the karaoke machine wasn't communicating properly with the rec room's stereo equipment. It didn't help everybody kept looking through the song selection book, but nobody could find any they were familiar with. It didn't help that the space that could have held over a hundred people was practically empty. It didn't help the lights were too bright. It didn't help even though there was plenty of alcohol, barely any of it was being consumed. This didn't feel like a karaoke party. This felt like a wake.
The only saving grace was when the pizza showed up. Everyone finally had a purpose as the slices quickly disappeared, though the organizer had ordered too much. As a result, there were plenty of leftovers by the end of the night.
Twenty-three people had signed up for the party. Of the sixteen who made it out, only five women were present. I had been expecting more women to show, including a fun friend who had been disappointed I wasn't on the guest list at first. Three of the five I had already met before. One had invited me out to see the 'Fright Night' remake a few months back and we somewhat bonded over a mutual interest in seeing 'The Muppets' movie. We had some familiarity with each other, though our chemistry was awkward at best. I spoke at length with another about an extraordinary dance performance video on YouTube a friend from Hawaii had linked to on Facebook a couple of months ago. And the last, I simply did the usual small talk about work or lack thereof.
I struck up conversation with one fellow who could have passed off as a punk rocker had this been the late 70s. "What do you do?" I asked.
"I'm a musician."
"Oh, what kind?"
"I like theatrical rock. You know, like Tom Waits."
"Ah, cool. So what's your hook?" I asked.
Most musicians I've met who want to make it in the business usually have that one extra something that brings audiences in. One friend used 70s glam as his hook. One all-female band I met dressed up in clothes from the 30s and sung in a buoyant style reminiscent of an era long gone. Another friend used Joan Jett as her style influence. They all did it because they found music fun.
"I hate that word. I hate the word 'hook.'"
Uh-oh. He's one of THOSE, I thought.
"I'm here to save rock from itself by bringing much-needed sincerity to it."
Great. That’s just what rock needs, a self-appointed savior. He went on with a display of how many big words he could use to describe his musical prowess. I didn't feel the need to encourage such pompousness. So I equaled it with a bit of my own and mentally exited the conversation.
By the time the karaoke machine was up and running, I was now at the pool table in the next room. The party had already been going two-and-a-half hours by that point, with only an hour-and-a-half remaining. After 20 minutes of playing, the woman I went to see 'Fright Night' requested I do a duet with her. She refused to tell me what it was. "You have to tell me what we're singing. I have to know before I do it." I had been hoping for something uplifting and fun. I got what I wanted. Sort of.
"Manamana!" she said excitedly. My curious enthusiasm quickly faded because I was hoping for something I could actually, well, SING. When she realized I wasn't as enthused about it as she was, her countenance changed to match my disappointment. I felt bad for her. Fortunately for me, the karaoke machine was acting up again. We waited, and waited, and waited. After several minutes of awkward silence, I gave up and headed for the comfort of the pool table.
A few minutes later, she joined me shortly after the warbly wails of sad songs could be heard echoing throughout the rooms.
"This is just awful. I mean, I expected the singing to be bad, but not THIS bad," she said.
I slowly nodded in agreement as I set up my next shot. From the sound of it, there wasn't any showboating or grandstanding; Just a lot of really flat singing. Don't get me wrong. I completely expected bad singing. After all, it was a karaoke party. But the song selections were uninspired thanks to the limited selection book and nobody could carry a note to save their lives. We really needed someone to come in and bring down the house. Whoever that was, it wasn't going to be me. Not this night.
There were too many guys there. They were sitting down and chatting with each other, standing up and chatting with each other, or playing pool in the next room in concentrated silence. There was no loud laughter. There were hardly any smiles. There was no one exuberant enough to grab the center of attention. There were just a bunch of aimless people waiting for their lives to begin.
It didn't help the karaoke machine wasn't communicating properly with the rec room's stereo equipment. It didn't help everybody kept looking through the song selection book, but nobody could find any they were familiar with. It didn't help that the space that could have held over a hundred people was practically empty. It didn't help the lights were too bright. It didn't help even though there was plenty of alcohol, barely any of it was being consumed. This didn't feel like a karaoke party. This felt like a wake.
The only saving grace was when the pizza showed up. Everyone finally had a purpose as the slices quickly disappeared, though the organizer had ordered too much. As a result, there were plenty of leftovers by the end of the night.
Twenty-three people had signed up for the party. Of the sixteen who made it out, only five women were present. I had been expecting more women to show, including a fun friend who had been disappointed I wasn't on the guest list at first. Three of the five I had already met before. One had invited me out to see the 'Fright Night' remake a few months back and we somewhat bonded over a mutual interest in seeing 'The Muppets' movie. We had some familiarity with each other, though our chemistry was awkward at best. I spoke at length with another about an extraordinary dance performance video on YouTube a friend from Hawaii had linked to on Facebook a couple of months ago. And the last, I simply did the usual small talk about work or lack thereof.
I struck up conversation with one fellow who could have passed off as a punk rocker had this been the late 70s. "What do you do?" I asked.
"I'm a musician."
"Oh, what kind?"
"I like theatrical rock. You know, like Tom Waits."
"Ah, cool. So what's your hook?" I asked.
Most musicians I've met who want to make it in the business usually have that one extra something that brings audiences in. One friend used 70s glam as his hook. One all-female band I met dressed up in clothes from the 30s and sung in a buoyant style reminiscent of an era long gone. Another friend used Joan Jett as her style influence. They all did it because they found music fun.
"I hate that word. I hate the word 'hook.'"
Uh-oh. He's one of THOSE, I thought.
"I'm here to save rock from itself by bringing much-needed sincerity to it."
Great. That’s just what rock needs, a self-appointed savior. He went on with a display of how many big words he could use to describe his musical prowess. I didn't feel the need to encourage such pompousness. So I equaled it with a bit of my own and mentally exited the conversation.
By the time the karaoke machine was up and running, I was now at the pool table in the next room. The party had already been going two-and-a-half hours by that point, with only an hour-and-a-half remaining. After 20 minutes of playing, the woman I went to see 'Fright Night' requested I do a duet with her. She refused to tell me what it was. "You have to tell me what we're singing. I have to know before I do it." I had been hoping for something uplifting and fun. I got what I wanted. Sort of.
"Manamana!" she said excitedly. My curious enthusiasm quickly faded because I was hoping for something I could actually, well, SING. When she realized I wasn't as enthused about it as she was, her countenance changed to match my disappointment. I felt bad for her. Fortunately for me, the karaoke machine was acting up again. We waited, and waited, and waited. After several minutes of awkward silence, I gave up and headed for the comfort of the pool table.
A few minutes later, she joined me shortly after the warbly wails of sad songs could be heard echoing throughout the rooms.
"This is just awful. I mean, I expected the singing to be bad, but not THIS bad," she said.
I slowly nodded in agreement as I set up my next shot. From the sound of it, there wasn't any showboating or grandstanding; Just a lot of really flat singing. Don't get me wrong. I completely expected bad singing. After all, it was a karaoke party. But the song selections were uninspired thanks to the limited selection book and nobody could carry a note to save their lives. We really needed someone to come in and bring down the house. Whoever that was, it wasn't going to be me. Not this night.
Labels: friendship, party
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