If I hadn’t known better, I could have sworn I was standing in a Midwestern dive bar: to my right there was a peach-fuzzed boy wearing a tight-fitting, faded New Kids on the Block T-shirt; onstage, a man bellowed Creed’s “With Arms Wide Open.” But, no, this was Sunday night karaoke at the Silver Fox—the boy was being ironic (presumably), and the man onstage . . . well, not everyone’s going to sing “And I’m Telling You I’m Not Going.” Not that I stopped hoping someone would.

I’d arrived at the Fox anticipating the karaoke divas would be in full Dreamgirls mode—this weekend is Pride, after all, and as we’ve already reported 71 times in this issue, Jennifer Hudson will be performing. Surely she has inspired a whole new generation of karaoke singers—not to mention awaken the dormant Jennifer Holliday inside countless (older) others.

And maybe Hudson has—I’m certain of that, actually. (Just ask Lowery.) It’s just that tonight was more traditional: Mr. Creed was followed by an older gentleman singing “Mack the Knife,” then a passable rendition of Culture Club’s “Miss Me Blind” and a young gal named Laura (nearly achieving chic in a black vest) busting out her best Pink for “Get the Party Started.”

Around this time, I recognized karaoke for the devil it is: an utterly selfish act, repeated every minute of every day (as you read this, it’s karaoke time in Australia) for the benefit of no one else but the singer. The instant you step behind that mic, you become the most entertaining, charming performer who ever lived—better even, than the singer whom you are about to channel.

It’s exhilerating—especially so, perhaps, if you know darn well that you can’t carry a tune. For the next three minutes, every person in the room is going to pay attention to you, dammit. Unless they don’t, which is what happened when Laura left the stage, replaced by an unremarkable fella singing an unremarkable song. $6.50 (the cost of a pitcher of Bud Light) says he didn’t even notice.

That all changed, however, when the next dude—let’s call him Freddy—grabbed the mic (literally whipped it out of the stand) for “What You Won’t Do For Love,” a personal KOST-FM song favorite of mine. When it came to the pivotal “What you won’t do—dooo for love” (you know which one), Freddy nailed it. The night seemed to grow progressively better from that point—even the striking, Edwin McCain-loving African-American man who sang “I’ll Be” after Freddy was pretty incredible, and I’m nearly certain that’s not just because I had beer ears.

This is the beauty of karaoke: all it takes is for you to be moved just the teensiest bit by someone singing a song, and you’re hooked for the night. You become like everybody else present: singing along, dancing, not caring how absolutely ridiculous you look.

“Next!” shouted a rowdy group of drunks once McCain left the stage, making way for a group of three friends who embodied the most annoying breed of karaoke singers—the drunk asshats who don’t sing at all, but rather giggle at each other (not a surprise: New Kids on the Block guy was in this group, dancing to, you guessed it, “You Got It (The Right Stuff)”). But, hey, God bless ‘em—I once subjected the Fox to an interpretative dance rendition of “Aquarius.” At least these three had the decency not
to yank people from the audience onstage with them.

• • •

My favorite part of karaoke by far has to be the few seconds in between when the KJ calls a person’s name and when their song appears on the screen. As children, we’re taught to never stereotype other people—and I still try my best not to—so let’s just call it a guessing game when I size up a person’s appearance and predict the genre of the song they’re about to sing. Take Carlos, for example: he had on jeans and a black tee screened with a massively colorful print. I wouldn’t figure him for a Cher, and definitely not a J-Hud, either, but perhaps Gary Numan?

Wrong: if Carlos isn’t already in Pride Star, he should be, because crooning is truly his calling. His smooth and rich “Night and Day” instigated what passes at the Fox for a prom—three couples ballroom dancing in front of the stage, nuzzling and smiling, tipsy and rosy-cheeked. You could almost see a tux (with frilly bow tie) appear on top Carlos’s clothing, a paper doll outfit that disappeared as soon as the song ended.

We all don these imaginary paper doll get ups on the karaoke stage (mine most often involves Stevie Nicks’ wardrobe of boots, scarf and a top hat) and for this reason, I’ll skip past the return of Laura and her friend (who was clearly a recovering high school drama boy), as well as New Kids on the Block Boy (for “La Bamba” . . . too drunk to read? Too drunk to sing in Spanish, my friend) and on to the last man I witnessed that evening, someone I’d figured for, I don’t know, a Maroon 5 song or something.

Wrong again, but only because it was so hard to tell: dude looked like the Jolly Green Giant, except in jeans (with a white belt) and a navy blue T-shirt tucked in. On top of this I placed a paper doll turtle neck and a shabby cardigan, and switched out his full head of hair for a half-bald dome surrounded by a mangy white man ‘fro. This guy had balls, man—“Bridge Over Troubled Water” balls—and damned if he didn’t deliver the Garfunkel. With a falsetto!

It wasn’t “And I’m Telling You I’m Not Going,” but it was thrilling just the same. “This is totally his showcase song,” said my friend as the man took a deep breath—the finale was around the corner. “You don’t just bust this out.”

True. This man clearly owned Art Garfunkel—something you can’t really say in any context other than karaoke. So sing on, sir—I’ll be listening.