Don’t Stop Believin’

I mentioned in my last post that a part of me wishes I could sing. It’s not that I can’t sing at all; my senior year of high school, I was an alto in the choir and I can carry a tune without too much difficulty. That little part of me that wishes I had a killer voice, however, is the same little slice that also loves karaoke.

When I lived down in The Ranch with Jenn and Phil, I had a decent amount of exposure to karaoke. Phil had Karaoke Revolution (from the makers of Dance Dance Revolution) for his PlayStation, and much to Jenn’s chagrin, Phil and I played that game, and sometimes we’d even play it during parties or when other friends came over. Next to some of Phil’s perfect scores, I’m at least in the top 5 with my rendition of Britney Spears’ Hit Me Baby (One More Time).

However, despite all the at-home-fun, we didn’t venture out to share our singing with the rest of the world very often. While I was living in The Ranch, Jenn, Phil and I went to a karaoke bar just once. Even though that was over a year ago, I will forever be reminded of that night every time I hear Welcome to the Jungle, Tiny Dancer, Total Eclipse of the Heart and It’s the End of the World As We Know It. By the third or fourth song, everyone was singing along with the person on stage. It was entertaining whether or not the person singing was actually good. And even if they weren’t, it didn’t matter, they got cheers no matter the performance.

And that’s the great thing about karaoke. You don’t have to be good, you can make a total fool of yourself and no one cares. That was the reasoning I told myself when, most recently, I found myself at a karaoke bar. A large group of us went to this little Mexican dive to sing karaoke a couple of weeks ago. I was still trying to distract myself from the previous week, and after a gin and tonic (yes, folks, I know that’s not the way to cope or distract oneself), I sang a duet with Phil’s younger sister (Bohemian Rhapsody), I was the only one besides Julse, who knew all the words. Oddly enough, I also sang that song at my high school graduation party with a group of guys because I was the only one who knew all the lyrics. Apparently, it’s my karaoke song.

After a successful performance that even got the DJ to turn on the disco ball and multi-colored stage lights, I decided to go a step further and sing a song on my own. So after another gin and tonic, and thumbing through the song catalog a couple of times, I finally found the perfect song: Punk Rock Girl by the Dead Milkmen. Okay, so not many people were going to know (and hence, be able to sing along with) an obscure punk song from (as corrected by Trout) the mid 80s, but it wasn’t a pretty sounding song either. There wasn’t much of a tune, and some of it was spoken more than sung. It wasn't supposed to sound good and people wouldn't know if I butchered it anyway; perfect. After waiting through the next round of songs and continually stealing Phil’s mug of beer, as to not lose my nerve, I finally took the stage.

It was pretty terrible. The table I was with was very supportive, but I think they were just humoring me. I think I nailed the talking/singing parts more than the singing parts, but I didn’t care too much. By that time in the night, I was warm and fuzzy enough to think that, after hearing it performed, Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ was, quite possibly the most quintessential karaoke song of all time, I kid you not. Besides, after the terrible rendition of La Bamba, a dead-on Cartman impression through In the Ghetto, and Phil and Julse’s Baby Got Back, no one was going to remember my song one way or another.

I don’t think I’ll ever take up singing lessons, but I will undoubtedly still be singing along to my radio in my car, or in my apartment at the top of my lungs not caring if anyone else is listening. Besides, I’m not that bad.