Former Shower Act

When was the last time you hit a karaoke bar to either warble a hit song (yes, it can be a classic rock song … I admit to it myself, and lay off) or just take in the crowd and be your own Steven Tyler et al? Really?  It’s been that long? You must attend, sit back and enjoy the nights events. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry and you just may turn some heads yourself. You may be surprised … pleasantly.

Listen, as I mentioned, I do occasionally  visit my favorite KJ (again, I’m admitting to everything today), place a few numbers in his stack of upcoming IDOL’s song slips and await my turn on the microphone. As I wait, my life partner, Tina, brings up this observation: Why is there a majority of male singers as opposed to female?

I’ve thought of this at various points during previous ‘performances’ and as I settled back into my bar stool, I looked her in her eyes and vocalized with great clarity, “because we (men) have always strived to be ROCK STARS!”

That’s truly all there is to it. We wish we were rock stars. Case closed. Done.

To most of us this is absolutely no whopping surprise. No more so than say, if The Boss decided to do ‘Born To Run’ for a change. Really? Who would’ve guessed? Of course we’d love to be a musical god. A singing, gyrating, eyes only on me spectacle for all our pleading, panting fans. Why would we aspire to be anyone or anything else? To be adored by generation after generation and really only have to jump around on a stage and attempt to sing? Are you kidding me? Absolutely the most glorious type of employment ever … bar none.

You see, since we were just youngsters we’ve had the opportunity to either hear or see the rock generation explode upon us with sights we could only dream about. The enormity of the stages, the towering stacks of speakers you feel instead of hear, the pyrotechnics that only pale somewhat to the local 4th of July celebrations, all smack dab in front of your face. Vibrations that fold your skin from the crunch of power chords emanating from flying V’s and rapid gunfire spewing out of the drum kits. It overtook us. The rhythm, the melody, the bridge, the chorus … the Rock ‘n’ frickin’ Roll is all-encompassing to those of us who lived and breathed it. We needed the music. We loved the bands. We worshiped the lead men. We put ourselves in their leather boots and they fit like Cinderella’s slipper. Oh, what a feeling.

These were, however, exactly like the children’s book. Just dreams and the clock always struck midnight. Oh sure, some of my friends did learn the ultimate craft of a four, six or twelve stringed electric guitar but for the other 99% of us … we just bought the vinyl. Maybe we could a glimpse of our heroes on “Don Kirschner’s Rock Concert” or perhaps “The Midnight Special,” possibly saw a few acts live but that was the extent. We were only fans ourselves. No rock stars here.

The thing is … those guys we looked up to, those heroes of ours … they’re still playing. Yep, still slingin. Still screaming those famous lines we know by heart. I can’t believe it! Still? What are we doing? Can’t we do that? They don’t sound that good anymore … do they?

Then it happened. It seemed so simple. Our friends across the Pacific devised a device, (hmmm) that showed those famous lyrics on a video screen, wiped out the lead voice during playback which allowed you to sing in their place. Oh man, this is the best. On any given night … I can be John or Paul or George or even Ringo. Marvelous. The excitement boils over like Mt. St. Helens on its worse day.

Tina has been listening to this extravagant explanation with rather opaque, glossed over eyes by now and, after shaking her head to regain consciousness, says, “and the part that somewhere in there you should be able to sing … where did that go?What makes you think you’re a vocalist?”

Oh you poor, poor little lass. Sing? Actually sing? Who says? Who cares? Has anyone, ever, in the history of rating male vocalists somewhere decided that Sir Mick Jagger is an exceptional singer? I doubt it. Alice Cooper? Not even close. Bruce? Pretty good. Bowie? Oh, he can sing though. Bon Scott? C’mon. For every great singer leading a group there are twenty that just get by with their stage presence and ability to stay on key. That’s it. They growl, they scream, they chant, they yell … they perform!

So, as a guy who’s most sacred wish in his entire life is to be ‘that singer’ who lives the life of Jon Bon Jovi … I, me, Reiny can and will get up there on that pseudo stage, take that microphone in my bare hands and sing! Sing out loud! Shout it at the top of my lungs to all of my glorious followers out there who have ravenously yearned for my return.

Yeah, sure.

As I finish my first song of the evening and strut over to my favorite bar stool where my gal awaits … I hear a smattering of applause. As I look out over and through the audience (who’ve mostly showed up for their favorite beverage and now looks as though they need a double), I’ve arrived at an amazing conclusion: as much as I’ve come to realize that I mostly stunk, I genuinely don’t care. I had a back up band via recorded sound and I was able to feel like a rock star for a moment. That’s all I really wanted. For just a moment in time, I was Jagger and I fulfilled a dream. That’s what we … men like me … want from the karaoke scene. Dreams are made. Dreams are real.

To believe that karaoke fulfills fantasies is true. It used to be your household shower, but that venue wasn’t for large crowds … luckily for most. The acoustics were kinda nice however, but the damn corded mic gave an incredible shock.

Never stop reaching for the stars, where ever you may be.

Reiny