Karaoke: Something of a Sociological Survey

If you’ve never experienced Karaoke, then you’re really missing out. Well, I guess I should qualify that statement a little bit by saying that it’s the Japanese version of karaoke that you need to experience, because they do it a little different here than I suppose we do it back West. When an American thinks Karaoke they can’t help but react negatively to the offensive smell of truckstops, stale cigarettes, cheap whiskey, Journey, and public humiliation that hits their imaginative nostrils. Karaoke back home is generally performed in wide open rooms in front of (potentially) hostile, and (almost certainly) wasted audiences ready to rip you limb from limb if you can’t hit the high notes on Don’t Stop Believin. Doesn’t seem like much fun, does it? Getting up on stage in front of a bunch of people you don’t know and trying to belt out song lyrics as performed by actually talented musicians is a pretty daunting task.

Karaoke in Japan is a different story, however. Not entirely different, of course. There are two things that are common to Karaoke anywhere in the known universe: booze and Bon Jovi. There’s really no getting away from it. I’m not entirely sure who put it into the collective unconscious that Living on a Prayer is a fun song to sing, but I’ve been to Karaoke plenty of times and I don’t think I’ve ever escaped without having to listen to some drunk fuck(s) scream about being halfway to somewhere. Maybe sobriety? At any rate, there’s no use trying to fight it, because unfortunately people get upset if you try to put in A Whole New World on repeat for three hours. You’ve just gotta swallow a couple pills of South Jersey angst before you can get back to singing stuff from the Lion King or N*SYNC. The alcohol and 80s masterpieces aside, however, karaoke is a much kinder, gentler creature over here. Worried about getting up in front of a bunch of people and signing off-key? Well, say goodbye to the spotlight, because most karaoke places here are actually just warrens of corridors and private rooms, which you rent out with just your closest friends. Hmmm, when you get down to it I guess that’s the only difference, but it’s a big difference. You don’t have to worry about being heckled by drunk bums, you only have to listen to a couple songs you don’t like so much, unless of course you go with me, in which case you’ll be singing Linkin Park and Third Eye Blind all night, and, well, the rooms are generally pretty well sanitized. It rules, which is probably why people do it here at least three times a week. I wouldn’t be surprised if some Sarari-Men spend more time with the microphone than with their children.

As I suppose you might have guessed, I went to karaoke last night. It wasn’t your normal night out on the town, however. This party had a planner. His name is George, and calling him a character doesn’t quite get down to it. The first time I met him was at the Reggae Festival, actually (which you loyal readers will recall intimately). Yep, George is the big fat liar who promised us a day with Bob Marley and delivered an afternoon with the Dixie Chicks. I don’t think he cared much, because he was totally wasted. Said he’d been drinking since 3 AM when we met him at around 5 PM, which I find highly suspect because who starts drinking at 3 AM. Ah, yes, there goes the alarm, time to greet the moon with a nice pint of Sake. No, I guess that George had been drinking for about 20 hours at that point, a guess which is at least partially substantiated by the fact that he a) plopped himself down in the midst of our little group and asked my friend Luke if he “wanted some pussy,” and b) was seen doing doughnuts around the field in his mini-van shortly after.

But those little quirks aside George is actually a total baller. He lived in Seattle for some undisclosed period of time, (I want to say in Wallingford, but I’m not so sure), so he speaks great English, and he’s basically a dirty 18 year old beach bum in a 50 some-year-old Japanese man’s body. Yes, he might be 50. But he sure dresses young, and is really friendly. He organized last night’s get together for us with a bunch of other older men (one actually celebrated his 36th with us) dressed like their much younger, hipper counterparts. 5000 yen, all you can drink, all night, karaoke and good times. Sounds expensive, but not for this country. And there was a live band! A fucking Jazz trio in a karaoke room. George sang some Frank Sinatra. If you’d told me maybe four years ago that my post-graduate life would entail hanging out with drunk Japanese men old enough to have sired me, listening to them sing Rat-Pack hits I would have smacked you upside the face with my copy of the Odyssey, but life is strange. And I no longer am shocked by such turns of events. In Japanese they say arugamama, or shikataganai for things that you can’t control, and yeah, I guess that works. It’s just the way things are. Of course people drive their cars on the sidewalk and eat fermented bean curds. Arugamamada.

I managed to put down enough beers and delicious food (there was fruit, which is like gold in this country, so I probably got my fifty bucks worth in pineapples and kiwifruit) in five hours to satisfy me, and though I think we had the room until 3 somebody put on Bon Jovi again and I had to walk out around midnight, serenaded by the sultry sounds of the South Jersey shore as I disappeared into the gently winking Japanese night. Thanks George, always a pleasure.