MY NIGHT OF 'EMPTY ORCHESTRA'
special bonus column!
commentary by Jamie Lee Rake
 
07 May 2004
 Volume 1 • Number 4
 
I've been a legal adult since some time in the 1980s and had, in all that while, taken a certain pride in never having involved myself in karaoke—either as a participant or spectator. 'Never even watched an entire episode of "American Idol", which, essentially, commutes as karaoke contestants vying for a recording contract, yes? (I saw some at my favorite pizza place in Princeton, Wisconsin and numerous wrap-ups on "Good Day Live"...'love me some Dorothy Lucy and Jillian Barberie...a show I normally watch with the sound off, including the aforementioned "Idol"otrous coverage.)
 
My experience with what translates from the Japanese as "empty orchestra" has changed markedly, thanks to my friend Hannah. While pursuing her dream of professionally singing original songs to an audience that thinks her to be something of a star (though she may demure from that description), she takes jobs that are the musical equivalent to being Wal-Mart check-out personnel. Among them: hostessing karaoke at a bar in Appleton named M.T. Pockets. Some weeks, that means officiating a contest among regulars when the owner wants to give away $650 ($500 for first place, $100 for second, third place $50).
 
Hannah had been good at getting regulars at the tavern to judge the thing but, seeing as they're regulars at a bar, not all of them are so...uh...shall we say, "reliable"? Yeah, that's the right word, since many who committed were probably in the process of getting schnookered when making that promise.
 
Anyway, it had been over a year since Hannah and I had hung out, and since she was working, that wasn't conducive to making up for lost time. I figured all that when she asked me to judge the finals of M.T.P.'s latest karaoke contest. I figured, too, that exposing myself to a side of life which I'd never otherwise enter—primarily due to the abundance of smoke and drunkenness—could do me some good.
 
And, to an extent, it did—if only to have my impression of bar life reaffirmed as something I happily avoid. The camaraderie and support system of peers to be found there, I have developed elsewhere and, gladly, without the risk of cirrhosis, lung cancer from secondhand smoke, or a DUI conviction. I can't begrudge people where they may safely find acceptance, but why spend that much money on drinks to get it?, I say.
 
Karaoke works perfectly as an expression of so much within the microcosmic community of a saloon. In a contest setting, there's competition, of course, but it likewise acts as a means by which friends amuse each other, pour out their hearts in ways that may be as unburdening for them to articulate as it may be for listeners to withstand, and simply to let off steam and become—however briefly—celebrities-of-sorts among people with whom they have the bar (and the friendships developed there) in common. For that rare, dedicated soul, it may be a baby step on the way to a real showbiz career.
 
I won't conclusively say that any from that last camp were among the contestants during my recent experience, but genuine talent reared its noggin among a smattering of the contestants that Sunday evening. Sometimes, more than necessary.
 
Such was the case with a fella named Jersey. As I entered the room, he was going at Jon Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead Or Alive" with fitting over-emotion. The same approach made his takes on songs by The Barenaked Ladies (who sometimes have trouble emoting, much less doing so in excess) and David Gray—pop chart entries don't get much more subtle, lately, than his "Babylon"—fare even less well.
 
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Pool-playing, nigh chain-smoking Patrick preferred a less egregious mismatch of technique and talent as his lithe frame and elastic pipes took on Wilson Pickett's "Mustang Sally" and The Cherry Poppin' Daddies' "Zoot Suit Riot" to relatively scintillating effect, but stumbled precipitously when tackling AC/DC's "Back In Black".
 
More typical were the loopily genial semi-cluelessness of attacks on The Monkees' "I'm A Believer" and The Tokens' "The Lion Sleeps Tonight", by DJ Dave. The more competent DJ Moya assayed Journey and Evanescence, as well as a Stevie Nicks-led Fleetwood Mac song before. (The "DJ" thing puzzles me, and I should ask Hannah why some karaokeans adopt the title.) Others sang with sincerity that manifested itself in varying levels of sufficiency or abject embarrassment. An Afrimerican calling himself Rico Suave ('rather wish I were kidding...)—sporting a processed 'do to rival Al Sharpton's and dressed to the nines in a heavy, double-breasted suit—came off as resident lounge lizard with spins on The Platters and Jeffrey Osbourne sapdrippers when he wasn't handling two drinks at once and one ciggie butt after another. It was easy to tell that he took pride in his act, and he made for occasional poignance.
 
Francis, on the other hand, should have been an embarrassment to himself with his apparent tone deafness and dearth of rhythmic comprehension. I got the impression, however, that he was undergoing catharsis of an intimate variety (albeit on public display) as he ran through Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine" ('seemed he had difficulty recalling how many "I know"'s are in the bridge), Kenny Rogers' "Lady", and Jim Croce's quasi-philosophical "Time In A Bottle". Dude didn't come anywhere near placing but, were an award given for guts, he'd have had it cinched.
 
Much comfier in their performing skins were Adam and Bill, cowboy-hatted good old boys who respectively tackled a couple of doofily brash Toby Keith hits and Montgomery Gentry's "Hell Yeah" and "I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrows"—a la The Soggy Bottom Boys' performance in O Brother, Where Art Thou?—down to the silly jig during the instrumental break. In turn, both country chappies motivated some stool sitters to moving, too. (Mr. Suave elicited some slow dancing action with his Osbourne cover but came in at the dead middle, come vote-tallying time. So, go figure.)
 
Fellow judges commended unto me a couple of the female participants, including the unfortunately-monikered Jo Mama, whose sow's ear-to-silk purse turn on a Jewel tune was spoiled for me by her less successful try at a Norah Jones biggie; with the right material and coaching—not to mention something more akin to the name her 'rents gave her—her blonde girlie bluesiness could take her places far beyond the confines of the Northeastern Wisconsin karaoke circuit. Spirited takes on a couple of country nuggets—including Trick pony's feisty "Pour Me"—by a shorty named Tiffany, whose reputation preceded her, were impressive enough...
 
But, to my ears, the evening's queen was Tina. Diminutive, butch, and down-home, she came off like a "Hee Haw"-bound Melissa Etheridge on a couple of country ditties from artists I didn't recognize. (One may have been The Dixie Chicks, though it had to have been an album cut; that such tracks are available came as a surprise, but less so once I considered the abundance of CD jukeboxes, nowadays). She won much of my esteem, however, with her pre-contest, gender-bent take on Travis Trot's "Modern Day Bonnie And Clyde". It was the track to that jam that first got me to notice the deficiencies of many karaoke tracks, as a vital drum fill in the original arrangement was missing from the music over which Tina did her thing. (Ditto for the manic organ chords on the accompaniment Patrick used for his Pickett joint.)
 
Taking the grand prize, though, was kitschy Larry. How else to describe a man over 60 ('looked to be, anyway) who dresses in costume and works himself into a (probably) booze-lubricated frenzy while earnestly assailing the horn dog Brit soul of Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer" and the amiably adulterous pop dancehall reggae within Shaggy & Rayvon's "It Wasn't Me" with no great concern for staying on key? He sold what he was doing all right, even if what he was selling was of dubious appeal outside the enthusiasm he imbued to his act. Had he used O-Town's wretched spate of double-entendres set to middling boy band pop, "Liquid Dreams"—which he sang before we got down to business—he may not have won that $500. Jonah, Hannah's brother and another judge, may have gotten it right when he said that Pocket's owner was glad to have given the prize to Larry because much of it would be spent right under that roof.
 
M.T. Pockets' owner, and some of my judging compadres, added insult to my perception of Larry's win as injury. The former—a man possessed of so seedy a vibe that it summoned in me a rare desire to cause someone physical harm (Hannah deserves much more than to be in the employ of this mook)—regaled us imbibers with a run though of The 2Live Crew's "Me So Horny". Making it sound more lascivious than the original, he prefaced his Caucasian debasement of booty-bass rap with a call for some boob flashing from distaff drinkers of ample mammarial asset. If memory serves, none heeded his encouragement. Score one for the ladies!
 
 
But not for my judge buddies. Jonah, his friend John, and Paul—a half-soused Briton who's such a regular (and annoyance?) that he succeeded in having the owner add him as a last-minute fifth panelist—did a number on The Beatles' "Hey Jude" that must have had Lennon's and Harrison's dust in a whirlwind. That's a long song to stink up all the way through. Call it a coincidence of divine timing via bladder pressure that found me in the restroom when they started in on it. The last of our bunch, Steve—a right personable jock type—may have been outside or at the bar, probably spitting out the ickiness of his chewin' tobacky. Paul was even funnier when he made a massacre of Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" earlier in the night; and though I, at first, resented his insinuation into work I was taking seriously, I made friendly peace with him by the time I left.
 
To get some fresh air, untainted by nicotine and the aura of distilled grain, you got it right that I was glad to bid my adieus. I'm always pleased to help a pretty, talented friend and get an education in a demimonde I'd darken under no other circumstances, but I can't see myself playing a bush league Simon Cowell, again, any time soon. Those whose talents I'd be judging may be happy of that, too.
 
 
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