“Ladies and gentlemen!” boomed the KJ’s voice from his setup in the corner. (“KJ,” in case you’re too uncool to know, is short for “karaoke-jockey.”) “Welcome to Club Karaoke! Okay, all you Elvises and Arethas out there, let’s get started! First off, please welcome, doing his version of ‘Get Down Tonight,’ Bert Plopkin!”
From my seat at the bar of Mission Hills’ Lamplighter bar, I applauded as loudly as I dared. I wasn’t too sure about karaoke etiquette.
Bert Plopkin, a balding, unassuming office type who appeared satisfied to have some time ago allowed his gym membership to expire, stepped onto the small stage. Microphone in hand, he limply stood staring into the blue glow of a monitor mounted on a stand before him, where the appearance of the crucial lyrics to “Get Down Tonight” was imminent. On the wall to his right, in view of the rest of the bar, was another, larger monitor, ready to display the same lyrics. If Bert flubbed his reading of “Get Down Tonight,” we’d know it.
Suddenly the whirling, stringy opening of K.C. & the Sunshine Band’s famous disco hit filled the room, instantly transporting me back to a time when I was positive that in twenty-five years I’d have something better to do with my time than this. I was torn between wanting to look at the monitor on the wall — of wanting to see the words to “Get Down Tonight” — and wanting to watch Bert do something most people would only consider doing in the shower.
And then Bert was singing! (The first words to “Get Down Tonight,” I am here to report, are “Baby, baby!” — not, as I had been assertively singing for a quarter of a century, “Bango, bango!”) Suddenly, Bert was K.C.– or at the very least K.C. if he had had a job, like, selling copiers. And that’s exactly where K.C. would have ended up if Bert had been there to snatch the Disco King crown from his head. Singing with utmost exuberance and abandon, and filling in the music-only parts with dance steps reminiscent of how impossible it was to even walk in disco shoes, Bert’s rousing call to “Get Down Tonight” was a testimony to what it was about disco in the first place that compelled so many of us to drop out of high school and start taking drugs.
I, for one, applauded loudly at the song’s end. Etiquette be damned. Bert rocked.
Next on the stage was The Artist Formerly Known as Louise. Eschewing the fickle trends of fashion, Louise wore an ’80’s-era ensemble consisting of a white “peasant’s” shirt and a pair of Jordache-style blue jeans, the seams of which were apparently capable of miracles. In keeping with Bert’s precedent, Louise also chose a rousing disco number: “I Will Survive,” by Gloria Gaynor. As soon as the song started, Louise launched into a truly unique, daringly interpretive dancing style. It was immediately clear that one of the keys to this hip-swinging, arm-flailing disco mama’s survival lay in her inadvertently maiming those around her. Cool! Stayin’ alive! Along with her flair for erratic body movements, Louise regaled us with a voice that left little doubt but that it sounded absolutely fabulous in her head. When this enthralling songstress was through, I don’t think there was a person in the bar who wasn’t entirely convinced that, like Louise, they too had what it took to successfully weather even the most devastating emotional trauma.
The next performer was Bob Something. Bob brought us right up to almost-modern times by choosing for his number “Baby Got Back,” by Sir Mix-A-Lot. Bob’s rendition of this endearing rap classic, while heartfelt and even inspired, suffered from the unfortunate effects of Bob not being a speed reader. And as many a would-be sing-alonger has discovered, rap waits for no man. Many times the lyrics to this song rolled by at a speed that would have left Evelyn Wood babbling. At times Bob was forced to improvise. He got most of the “Baby got back” parts right — but where Sir Mix-A-Lot, for instance, sings the poetic, “My anaconda don’t want none/unless you got buns, hon,” Bob, at that point completely lost, improvised with “My auntie Honda don’t have none/unless some hot cross buns.” As he sheepishly slunk off the stage, Bob seemed pretty disappointed with his performance. I personally felt that if he wanted it, a successful career as Sir Mixed-Up-A-Lot awaited him. I was going to approach him with this idea, but got too caught up in the excitement of the next act.
This was The Bartender’s Girlfriend, doing her rendition of Madonna’s “Material Girl.” If anyone had predicted that I would ever consider Madonna a gifted vocalist, I would have pitied that pathetic prognosticator before beating him about the head with a stick. But the wonders of karaoke! The crowd, desperately desiring to drown out this Madonna mangler but not wanting to hurt her feelings, began to loudly sing along with the song, a stratagem at once supportive and self-preserving. But the bartender’s girlfriend had significant trouble keeping up with some of the rhythm patterns of this apparently complex song. This left us, the bellowing audience, wondering whether we should sing along with the song as it was originally recorded, or should instead try to follow the singer’s lead. About three-quarters of us chose to sing along with the radios in our head, creating in the room a dissonance which the bartender’s girlfriend did not fail to notice. Taking up the challenge, she did the same thing the real Madonna does when the attention of her fans starts to wander: she started screaming the song at us. This assault, combined with the less than endearing lyrics of the song itself, proved too much for many of the audience members, who, still mindful of the performer’s feelings, began to vent their disgruntlement by hurling bar nuts at the hapless bartender. This seemed to satisfy the more demonstrative among us, and, happily, also appeared to bring the singer some measure of satisfaction. Another karaoke tragedy avoided.
Next up was Larry Colburn. Looking sharp in his “Man, I Can’t Believe My Mom Quit Doing My Freakin’ Laundry” outfit, Larry chose as his number Creedence Clearwater’s Revival’s “Born on the Bayou.” Those of you familiar with this song know that a great part of its appeal lies in John Fogerty’s improvised, bayou-inflected grunts and growls. Those of you who know Larry know that a great part of his appeal lies in his being the ultimate California stoner dude. So, for instance, where Fogerty sings, “Born on the bayou, huh, huh, huh,” Larry sang, “Born on the bayou, heh, heh, heh.” It changed the whole flavor of the song, from Tortured Earthy Guy Communing With Marshes to Torched Earth Guy Communicating With Martians. Also, whereas many performers tend to flounder during the all-music parts of their songs, Larry really came into his own when it was time to whip out his trusty air guitar. In fact it seemed clear that the primary reason Larry chose “Born on the Bayou” in the first place was because of its extended guitar solo. Compared to Larry, Jimi Hendrix played while snoozing in a Barcelounger. What emotion! What passion! What hair! When the song was over, we were all convinced: Larry had minimal brain cells left. But the ones that were left were definitely in the imagination part of his brain.
And who, really, needs more than that?