The videoke of doom at the end of the world

For three minutes you can feel like Ian Brown singing about being the resurrection. Or maybe feeling supersonic like a Gallagher.

Four minutes. Tops. And then you’re back to being you  one of the walking undead, someone who needs to feed and feed and that is all, some random sap seemingly trapped in someone else’s body. But this is what pop songs do: usher in a world of unreal delights, oh-so-real torment, all in a truncated pretzel-logical package. Her name is Lola. She is a showgirl with yellow feathers in her hair. In the first stanza, she does the cha-cha without a care; by the third one, she’s gone cuckoo-cabana. Weird twist. Just like the singer’s wonky career. Donald Fagen and Water Becker should write a song about him. Barry’s Strange Range Rover of Misfortune, or something. Ah, the karaoke classics. Birds suddenly appear when you’re near, in the desert you can remember your name, and every now and then you fall apart. Say you, say me? Say that again? Naturally.

The Jujuman, Red Hot Chili Ronda, Chongkee and I stumbled upon this videoke joint that screams tackiness and feedbacking microphones. At the corner of Somewhere and Somewhere Else. Walk a bit farther and it will be the ocean with leviathans and Odysseus returning home, getting lost and getting into all sorts of epic, Homeric twaddle. The place has one of those absurd names (sounding like an English to Japanese back to English translated phrase). Like The Super Terrific Happy Hour Japanese comedy show in Seinfeld’s “The Checks” episode.

Back near the world’s end, at this karaoke club, waitresses wearing schoolgirl uniforms usher you in (from what school… the Battle Royale Academy or the Takashi Miike School of Hard Knocks?), with plastic nameplates bearing fake names. “Aira.” “Sakura.” “Hiromi.” Cute.

The place has one large living room with a bar and a slew of sofas. There are also several private areas. Room number one is our room (P500 per hour with drink-all-you-can beverages/P250 after midnight  not bad). It has the best song-list of all time filed under recording artist/band. The Sex Pistols. David Bowie. Blur. My Chemical Romance. Megadeth. Cheap Trick. GNR. The Cars. Tons of Beatle entries. More Than This is in there. Not sure if Brass in Pockets is. The more wholesome, more expensive karaoke joints in Makati and Q.C. malls can’t even hold a candle to Our Secret Place, song-wise; they mostly have Beyoncé and the Black Eyed Peas. But in our territory, you can grab a wireless microphone and make believe you’re Johnny Rotten at the Winterland Ballroom. Where else can you sing Holidays in the Sun? Or even Hyperballad?

For the better part of 2010 we were at the usual hangout up to the small hours, beer bottles and carcasses of tokwa’t baboy scattered about. We brought a lot of friends for sessions. The Escargot and lovely Reese. Our friends from the beer company. “Mister R” and “Mister R2.” Bryan and Julius from the Vomits. Everyone had a favorite: Soul to Squeeze and Black Hole Sun are at the top of the heap. Those nursing a shot glass of soju and a broken heart took on either You Ought to Know (with an emphasis on the “Are you thinking of me when you blank her” line) or  the horror, the horror  Almost Over You.

In love songs, though, no one gets over anybody.

Admit it or not, we are all part of the karaoke culture. My friend from one of the more progressive bands in Manila once complained that there was a time people would go out during their set and come back when it was time for Spongecola or Sponge Cola and Six Cycle Mind or 6CycleMind or whatever (I don’t care if I can’t spell the names of these bands properly). I guess kids love to sing along  even to rock radio crap. Not just the old farts who stab each other for the right to sing My Way.

Speaking of that lethal Sinatra song, one errant laugh from the other table or a cackle of critical nitpicking due to a bum note or mangled lyric (“And so I face the final conflict…”) in a karaoke club in the seedier part of the city, and things go the way of a Carlo J. Caparas movie: blood, blood, lots of blood and so much bullshit. Call that karaoke culture? Maybe culture of violence is the more apt phrase. Or a Golden Lion film waiting to happen. 

There is so much interest in karaoke, so much cash in churning out tracks for that infernal sing-along machine. Look at the spate of foreign singers who make a killing here in our archipelago every Valentine. Dan Hill, anyone? Even if Sometimes When We Touch was a hit a hundred years ago. The two dudes (one guy’s first name is the other guy’s surname) from Air Supply and their henchmen still show up, play All Out of Love, and leave town All Full of Cash. Gee, I guess we missed Rex Smith this year. When will Barry Manilow spend a weekend in New Manila?

Ah, dig this remembered routine from the fog that is my memory:

In a press conference a long time ago, in a restaurant far, far away, Stephen Bishop turned to Michael Johnson and David Pomeranz, and asked, shaking his head in disbelief, “You both were interviewed by a guy named ‘Germs’?!!!” Stephen also asked about the TV host (Joe Quirino) whose catchphrase was, “Please pass the mic.” After learning that J.Q. is no longer among the living, Stephen quipped, “Oh, so he already passed away.”

Those three guys have a whole caboodle of karaoke classics among them. Count Phil Collins and Michael Bolton in. They are the ringleaders of the tormented. Bluer Than Blue, On and On, If You Walked Away… their ilk is legion.

The most-requested, the most often-punched-in songs are kinda like them: with sentimental, maudlin views of a dead relationship, melodies as catchy as syphilis, slow-starting verses that cascade into big, brash, repetitive choruses (Alone, for example), and those killer, killer lines that enter our brains and alter the very fabric of our DNAs. Don’t stop believing, hold on to that feeling! If the guys from Journey didn’t exist, than the karaoke machine would’ve invented them.

The Jujuman tried singing Faithfully one night and then afterwards our circus life took a turn for the worse.

Weeks later, the karaoke club that shall remain nameless was closed down for renovations. When it resumed operations after more than a month, the modus operandi changed. Rooms became more expensive by the hour, catering to a shadier clientele, promising seedier delights. The waitresses moved to another karaoke club called  I shit you not  “The Japan.” One stage, many sofas, Mr. Shaggy in a corner sitting with shiny, unhappy girls.

Last night, we found ourselves in a bar & grill on Nakpil Street with a small karaoke room we shared with a canoodling couple. Boy and girl were celebrating their anniversary, and the boy wanted to regale the girl with love songs. Simply Jessie was one such number. Simply vomit-inducing. Your Love came next.

When it was our turn, we punched in War Pigs by Black Sabbath. And then the generals gathered in their masses.

Poor boy, poor girl.

You should have seen the total eclipse of their faces.