Readers, I tasted karaoke for the first time this last week and it was sweet.
Then on Thursday I had gum surgery, which tasted quite different. More of a copper wine taste,… not so sweet.
So this week, I cannot karaoke but next week, watch out! I’ll be back. As I suspect the other karaoke addicts will also be. Now I’ve only gone once and am no expert, but it’s not hard to spot the addicts. It’s easy really, they’re the ones who take it seriously. Like the older long haired burned-out-rocker/saltspring-island-potter who I could hear practicing “Summer of ’69” in his parked car right outside the joint, (BTW sir, you knocked it out of the park, now one more time, with
feeling intonation! Or the asian graduate chemistry student, tired after a long day of research, who not only had lyrics memorized for early rap hits like Young MC’s “Bust a Move”, but also had choreographed dance moves for each number. Sitting by himself at the bar, massaging his throat with concern between numbers in preparation,… an addict.
But hey, pretty fun to see people getting into it.
And then there was the me, the just-got-a-degree-in-jazz-composition, thinks-he-should-be-able-to-sing-by-now wayward clarinetist. Not good enough to inspire applause, not bad enough to inspire laughter, but simply drunk enough to get on stage and sing “Rambin’ Rose” and “Let’s Stay Together.” I don’t know if it’s good or just the beginning of the end,… but there’s only one way to find out.