Karaoke Night

By Vince Basehart

March 21 -- One evening the Lens, and his good friend Al, are sipping beer, talking investments as we tend to do.

We are at a table in one of the “Irish pubs” you find in Santa Monica, so Irish it's like a container ship of Lucky Charms exploded during a St. Patrick’s Day parade. Green booths. Dartboards. Three leaf clovers. Signs advertising Harp and Guinness. A poster over the men’s' urinals warns about driving after too many black and tans.

There are a few others patrons around, college kids mostly. An older couple sits at a booth finishing some fish 'n' chips.

After our waitress brings another, as we consider the percentage of foreign stocks one should keep in one’s portfolio, the opening strains of Michael Jackson's "Rock With You" begins to blare very nearby.

Unbeknownst to us, someone has plugged in a karaoke machine. A microphone and amp are built directly into it, and the large speaker is just a few feet from my head.

It's karaoke night.

A handsome black man sings the ‘80s hit, making it his own but staying true to the Sequined-Gloved One. He is talented and at ease, a semi-pro. He knows what to do with himself during the instrumental part.

We realize the place has for the most part cleared out: the older couple, the college kids, are all gone. The long bar is now populated by a dozen or so men who seem to have slipped in just before the first song, each nervously sitting on their stools in anticipation of their turn. But for the waitress, there isn’t a single female in the place.

The first singer finishes to applause, and a sweating, chunky young man walks into the spotlight which illuminates a dark paneled wall and a framed picture of North Ireland hero Bobby Sands. He’s gripping a pint of Guinness in one hand; in the other he is gripping the microphone like it’s trying to get away from him.

Like the first guy, he has no need to read the words reeling off the screen in front of him.

But out of nerves, his voice trembles with the first lyrics of "Ring of Fire.” His cherubic face and kinky hair do not seem related to the gravelly base he imparts to the song, growling the chorus and swaying side to side.

Al and I are the only audience per se, sitting frozen by manners at our table a mere couple of arms’ length from the singer. The man seems to be crooning to us, for us. It’s very uncomfortable.

Man after courageous man gathers up the steel to sing his heart out in public. There does not, unfortunately, seem to be a lot of humor among them. They are tense. They are taking this quite seriously, as if auditioning for record contracts.

I chew the inside of my cheek to control myself, as a man howls Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman” inches from my face, his own face contorted with the passion of the song.

Al need only raise one eyebrow at me and I nearly snort beer through my nose. But I pray not to laugh. It would be hurtful; the singers would think I was laughing at them.

Just as another, equally earnest singer takes on “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” Al decides to twist the knife, making the most subtle of faces that only I can perceive.

“American Pie.” “Precious and Few (Are the Moments We Two Can Share).” “Stayin’ Alive.” On they go, song after song, leaning heavily on ‘60s and ‘70s pop hits until we are squirming in our seats.

The semi-pro comes up again and nails Foreigner’s “Cold As Ice.” It’s either the beer or the familiar music or the need to relieve our own awkwardness, but we sing along and whoop it up afterwards, and sing along to each song thereafter. It’s like camp. The guys coming up are finally relaxed and sing better for it.

We realize now the whole place is livelier, enjoying themselves, and singing and having fun. There is camaraderie there. It could be a timeless old tavern filled with revelers.

No need to hold in laughter any more. Like the men holding the mics, we feel the pathos in the songs. We close the place, these strangers, Al and me. The last song is “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.”