Ten Years in an Empty Orchestra Pit: A Relatively Sympathetic Observer's Guide to Karaoke--Pt. I
© DJL
This article was sent to me by guest contributor DJL.
Think of me as the Margaret Mead of karaoke.
Just as the famous anthropologist once immersed herself in the culture and folkways of Samoa, I have spent a decade observing a society that most Americans have only read about or seen on television, and many have striven mightily to avoid. I have witnessed the karaoke culture and its rituals in some twenty-five states, a couple of foreign countries, and one Pacific island (Guam, not Samoa). I have conversed with the natives, listened to their hopes and fears, their dreams and disappointments, their sharps and flats. I have participated in their tribal ceremonies, paying homage to their gods, Elton and Garth and Olivia. I have done so not because I aspire to be one of them any more than Margaret Mead wanted to be Samoan, but because one cannot truly understand an exotic culture unless one has walked a mile in their b-b-b-boogie shoes.
My research has taken me to bowling alleys and union halls, upscale sushi bars and smoky hotel lounges, from the glamour of midtown Manhattan to the dusty truck stop towns of West Texas and North Dakota. I have seen the tribal elders quite literally sing the praises of St. Francis of Hoboken and the icon known simply as The King. I have watched the young undergo their initiation rites, their voices powerfully evoking mythical sirens named Celine, Shania, and Madonna. The devout worship in many tongues: at various times, I have heard them perform in English, Spanish, Hawaiian, German, and Tagalog. Occasionally, attempts are even made to transcend the barriers of language itself. One evening in San Bernardino, California, I watched a Japanese businessman perform an agonizingly soulful rendition of "The Gleen, Gleen, Glass of Home".
And now I am here to present my findings, the product of years of data gathering, field research, and beer hoisting. Before you tell me that you don't care, just remember that you didn't give a !@#$ about Samoa, either, until Margaret Mead came along with her tales of tropical promiscuity. I am tempted, in honor of Dr. Mead, to title this piece "Coming of Age in the Lounge of the St. Paul Holiday Inn", because I'm certain that with alcohol flowing freely (or, in many cases, quite expensively), countless karaoke evenings have concluded with unplanned amorous encounters between various would-be Captains and Tennilles. But I did not see any of this for myself, and even if
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