Ten Years in an Empty Orchestra Pit: A Relatively Sympathetic Observer's Guide to Karaoke--Pt. IV
© DJL
The first time I ever sang in public was at a small dive in West Fargo, North Dakota, known as the Silver Dollar Saloon. I really had no interest in performing, but I was goaded into it by friends who employed the tried-and-true methods of the middle school playground ("What are you, chicken?"). Finally, one of them bet me a dollar that I wouldn't do it, and it became a matter of pride. I figured that, barring a busted fuel pump, I would never again set foot in West Fargo, so what the hell. I selected the most unchallenging song I could think of (Rick Nelson's "Garden Party"), downed a couple of Grain Belt lagers, and took the stage. It was not pretty; I bungled the rhythm several times, lost track of the words on the screen while looking up at my friends, and was subject to audible ridicule from the regulars. It was hardly a life-affirming experience, but I took some comfort from the fact that in three or four months, I would be a thousand miles away, while the locals would be freezing their balls off in subzero temperatures. But it's all right now, I learned my lesson well: you see, you can't please everyone, so you better avoid singing unless your ego is reasonably secure.
As most people know, karaoke has its origins in Japan, and the word itself literally means "empty orchestra", which makes about as much sense in our language as "gettin' jiggy with it" would if translated into Japanese (or English, for that matter). Occasionally, you will hear some pretentious Anglo attempting to impress his girlfriend by mimicking the proper Asian accent, calling it "kah-rah-OH-kay", usually to the great amusement of any native Japanese speakers in the vicinity. But most performers on this side of the Pacific settle for the accepted American pronunciation, "carry-okie".
Perhaps because of its international roots, karaoke attracts quite a diverse following. I have watched African American men do spot-on impressions of Elvis Presley, and I have seen Caucasian twenty- somethings energetically rapping out Sir Mix-a-Lot's celebration of the black woman's posterior, "Baby Got Back". Once I listened with great amusement as a young man in California performed both halves of the Willie Nelson/Julio Igelsias duet, "To All the Girls I've Loved
