Humiliation is a monstrous tidal wave willing to squash you. It will demolish you. It will suck you under and bury you unceremoniously among the rotting black bones of failure. To avoid humiliation, people don’t take risks. They remain comfortably out of reach of the threat. Happy to retreat to the dry part of the beach, they mock the suffering of those who have taken the risk and failed. They become the lowly critic, bitching about quality and not participating. There are the valiant ones who try and in trying succeed, but very few are the masters of the wave.
But what is this?…a crimson daredevil, carving a flashy streak across the powerful face of humiliation’s menacing tsunami. A stripe of energy, challenging the force, blazing a fresh trail against impossible odds, controlling the monster. Here is your karaoke hero, a man who rises above embarrassment, a man who mixes his paranoia with threats and drinks them in a smoothie of power. He feeds on derisive criticism and sings. He sings with the birds. It is karaoke night somewhere and I am there.
Following, you will read about a seven-day karaoke adventure I took. I will document the setting of each venue and the color and the shape of the nights.
Night one: Bottomz UP
I had meditated on the East End beach for 20 minutes before strolling down Munjoy Hill to this popular venue. When I saw the bearded and dreadlocked Face of Underground Portland Poetry, I realized that this karaoke was going to be something special.
Bottomz UP is the venue of choice for the punk rock karaoke crowd, where people who are indifferent about their image go to showcase their image. The glowing red Buddhist shrine under the jukebox, rock-bottom beer prices and comfortable chairs invite you to relax and gear up for your performance.
DJ Cougar is the emcee for Bottomz UP karaoke. He has a binder filled with song choices and a list of rules for his event. The rules stipulate that everyone must “have fun and be encouraging” to each other. They also elaborate on how you must treat DJ Cougar’s equipment, i.e. “no mic twirling, no taking the microphone away from someone else while they are singing,” etc. Bottomz UP karaoke is so popular, that you must fill out your karaoke song request form and give it to DJ Cougar hours in advance or you might not get the chance to sing.
Death Metal is the style of choice for most of the Bottomz UP performances. People love to yell into the microphone there. Any irony there may have been about doing a death metal version of a Cyndi Lauper tune is obliterated. Everyone at Bottomz UP does death metal screaming versions of everything.
There is a Bottomz UP karaoke regular who brings an inflatable guitar, adding new air guitar dimensions to the performances.
Highlights from night one included one madman who did a psychotic, death metal version of Guns-n-Roses’ “Mr. Brownstone,” ignoring most of the lyrics and twirling the microphone. DJ Cougar told him that he will never sing again.
Karaoke virgin “Crazy Joe” did a crazy rendition of ACDC’s “Back in Black” that can’t be topped. I did Supertramp’s, “Breakfast in America.”
The sound system at Bottomz UP is piercingly loud. I stuffed chunks of toilet paper in my earholes to muffle it.
Night two: Sierra’s
I cruised out to Sierra’s in Gorham with my new karaoke partner, “Vegobandito,” who I had met at Bottomz UP the night before. The scene at Sierra’s was amazing. A woman’s group of some type was on an outing, so there was a ratio of, like, 10 30-something babes for each guy.
Most of the guys, by the way, spent most of their time standing by the bar, outfitted in baseball caps and circle beards, clutching beers in the standard 90-degree hand-in-front-of-gut way. Therefore, Vegobandito and I were able to command the pimpinest seats in the place. No one challenged our dominion of the comfortable center stage couches all night.
Most surprising at Sierra’s was that there were a lot of people dancing to every song, even the undanceable songs, spun by DJ Stormin’ Norman, a lifeless white heap of a DJ. At the completion of Vegobandito’s version of the epic “Bohemian Rhapsody,” there were women on their knees, bowing.
I was attacked at Sierra’s while taking a picture. A firecracker of a girl literally flew across the dance floor, slammed me into a pole and demanded that I give her my camera. I did not give her my camera. Incidentally, I saw my attacker working at Mr. Bagel the other day. She claimed to not remember the incident.
Night three: Old Port Tavern
I took a walk down to the Old Port Tavern with an old partner-in-crime, “Harryhole.” The OPT is that infamous subterranean drinking hall beneath the ale-soaked cobblestones. The karaoke DJ looked like Super Mario.
Harryhole ground his way through “Fat Bottomed Girls,” dedicating it to the women at the table next to us. I did a growling rap version of David Bowie’s “FAME,” which drew some applause.
My pants broke that night when I jumped the fence at Amigo’s. I tried to run home in my underwear but was apprehended by police. I was told to put my broken pants back on and I complied.
Night four: Bubba’s.
It was my birthday and I did not expect to be doing any karaoke. It was a night that I was going to clean my apartment and do laundry until some old friends called me up and took me out into the warzone. One drink became several and one bar multiplied into a half dozen.
I wound up at Bubba’s Sulky Lounge where a John Travolta look-a-like DJ was hosting karaoke for less than a dozen people. This was the most experimental karaoke night that I experienced. The karaoke at Bubba’s lasts from 5 to 9 p.m. The participants were singing country western songs that I had never heard before.
I met a girl, (Tammy? Ginger? Candy?) who turned out to be a beautiful dancer as well as a daring karaoke singer. As I reclined in one of Bubba’s luxurious chairs, Candy serenaded us with Alanis Morrisette’s “Uninvited.” A drop of dried blood fell out of a taxidermied fox on the ceiling and landed in my mouth. In tribute to this Americana influenced hallucination, I performed “I Walk the Line” by Johnny Cash.
Night five: Matthew’s
I woke up and was surprised that I didn’t have a hangover. It was because I was still drunk from night before. I had a hellacious birthday. When I went to the bathroom, I discovered a blue scrunchie around my penis. I missed work and battled rampant nausea.
I spent most of this day in agony, muttering oaths and gently recuperating. I drank a bubble tea and spent some time on the waterfront, inhaling thick salty air and absorbing peace into my head. At noon, I made a commitment to abstain from alcohol for the rest of my life. At 3 p.m., my brother used the old “hair of the dog” argument and I was soon swilling a Shipyard.
I reunited with karaoke star Vegobandito, picked up the Brazilian ultra-diva “Bamela” and embarked on a voyage to Old Orchard Beach, where Cocktails was advertising “Gong Cash Karaoke.” The Vegobandito was pumped. Bamela was pumped…and dressed like Cher. I was pumped. My brother, who had never sang karaoke before was pumped. I joked that he was about to bust his cherry-oke on stage.
The reception for the joke was lukewarm. Unfortunatly, OOB was as deserted as Chernobylville. Everything was shut tight. Tumbleweeds of desiccated fried dough blew eerily across Grand Avenue. DAMN! We spun around and cruised back to Portland, where we knew we could hit Matthew’s.
Matthew’s is on Free Street. It has a sign on the door that says, “No club colors,” which suggests the presence of gang activity. Some people think that Matthew’s is “sketchy,” but the people there seemed regular enough and I’ve never been stabbed at Matthew’s, so it’s probably safe.
Matthew’s karaoke is exactly what comes to mind when I think of karaoke; awkward, off-key singers, mostly country songs, 60-year-old DJ. There were some beautifully unbalanced duets and someone even sang, “I’m proud to be an American.” DJ Bonnie was very polite and encouraging. She garnished me with warm accolades after my slimy version of Frank Zappa’s “Dirty Love.”
Bamela dazzled the crowd with her version of Cher’s “Do You Believe,” patiently singing the twelve or so repeated choruses and expertly adding digital flatness to the parts of the song that required such manipulation. Bonnie invited us to return to Matthew’s for future competitions. We surely will.
Night six: McGillicuddy’s.
I woke this morning, dreaming of karaoke. I was on a small floating island. Karaoke lyrics scrolled across my underwear as I crooned ancient ciphers into a palm tree microphone. My island spun and tossed on the infinite volatile seascape. Miles away, Vegobandito kept his small karaoke fortress afloat against the tumultuous waves by singing.
The destination for the evening was McGillicuddy’s in Brunswick. McGillicuddy’s is advertised as an Irish Pub. There is a neon shamrock in the window, green wood paneling and Guinness available, so I guess it qualifies.
The emcee at McGillicuddy’s called herself “Mystical Entertainment.” I talked to Mystical Entertainment and she told me that Karaoke at McG’s was experiencing a rebirth after years of stasis. She had hauled the equipment up from the basement and now had a rotation of up to eight karaoke regulars.
One of the regulars was a man with Down’s Syndrome, called Elvis, who sung an incomprehensibly beautiful version of “Glory, Glory Hallelujah.” I ordered a ginger ale and scanned the binder of choices. One notable difference of Mystical Entertainment Karaoke was that the song request slip has room for up to four song choices, as opposed to only one at most of the other places. I selected “Lola” by the Kinks and Billy Joel’s “For the Longest Time.”
McGillicuddy’s karaoke was pure. The microphone was truly unpredictable and feedback pierced the room. The word screen was set up two feet from the amplifier and the words occasionally broke into pixilated boxes as the unit experienced a glitch.
I was unhappy with my performance. I had difficulty with “For the Longest Time,” due to fact that my sinuses were filled with mucus snot puddles and I am not Billy Joel. Vegobandito was a total all-star at McGillicuddy’s, earning blue ribbons for his stellar version of Hank William’s “Your Cheatin’ Heart.”
Night seven: L.H. Karaoke.
I was up until 6 a.m. today, writhing in an antihistimine produced sleeplessness. I spent the day blowing my nose raw, drinking gallons of orange juice and tea. With my body propped up by Sudafed and pleading for sleep, I locked the final karaoke target in my sights.
L.H. Karaoke Lounge is on St. John Street, across from Union Station plaza. It does not have a good reputation. Skaraoke. No one wanted to go with me. Vegobandito was out. My rolodex of Superstars yielded no one willing to sing.
Heads turned as I entered L.H. Karaoke, alone. Vietnamese businessmen enjoying fried rice and Heineken sat clustered at a corner table. The linoleum topped Karaoke stage was in the rear of this small place, under a wide screen TV. Hitching up my jeans, I sidled up to the bar and ordered a ginger ale. The young lady behind the bar giggled. She did not speak English.
“Soda,” I said.
A matronly Vietnamese woman told me to sit down and brought me a can of Pepsi. I sat at a table with blooming lupines poking out of an ikebana. To my left, a Visa placard perched on a trickling zen fountain. I sipped my $3 Pepsi and watched Shakira videos.
“You want to sing?” the woman asked me.
“Please,” I said. “I want to sing.”
She brought me a binder of songs, the karaoke request slips and a pen. Looking through the binder, I noticed something I hadn’t seen at any other karaokes; the binder also contained the restaurant’s menu.
The songs were segregated into categories. Traditional Philipino songs, Korean pop songs and American Oldies. I chose the Beatles’ “Hard Day’s Night.” I did not have to wait long for my turn, as I was the only singer in the lounge. I repressed the urge to sneeze into the microphone as the credits for “Hard Days Night” appeared on the Karaoke screen. The lounge patrons began to hoot and laugh. Swimming in yellow light, I opened my mouth, compressed my lungs with my diaphragm and launched into the number.
Sickness only enhanced the performance. With choking sinuses strangled by phlegm, my voice had a fantastic eurotrash nasal whine. The Vietnamese men laughed and shouted in Vietnamese. They slapped the table, jettisoning rice into the air. The Beatles tune was an energetic invasion, a final, surging, blissfully dangerous wave that I managed to ride. I coasted home, glad that the event was over, happy to sleep and begin a lengthy detoxification. Unfortunately, the damned Pepsi kept me awake.