Kareoke Bar Crawl
by Zach Shields

K â r´ e – o ? k e [Japanese] kara – “Empty, void.” + okesutora – “Orchestra.”
n. Popular music lyrics performed to the accompaniment of a recorded instrumental track.
v. The singing of such music. NOTE: Pronunciation varies by nation and region. In the American Midwest, most often pronounced “carry-okee,” followed by an obligatory, “baby.”

True to form, this issue’s bar crawlers are magnificently overqualified for the mission at hand – i.e., the exploration of Decatur’s most infamous Amateur Night hotspots.

Millikin University senior Megan Crain is a musical theatre major with bright red tresses and vocal chords strong enough to make Neil Diamond’s seem dull. Fellow senior Lindsey Ridgeway is an actress with an impressive voice background. Both have been plane-hopping to auditions around the country in preparation for the next step in their professional stage careers.

Curly’s Bar & Grill
2683 N. Water

Visitation: Friday, February 17th, 8:56 p.m.

Apparently there’s an entire underground culture here just waiting to be uncovered by anthropologists 2,000 years from now. One tick before 9 and everything’s mellow, people just milling around, having a few laughs. At 9:01 it’s like someone hits a switch. The horde shifts to pay homage to the Great Black Machine hulking in the corner. Let’s say ADM erupts and the city is covered in molten ash (just kidding, ADM folks – stick with me on this one). Say we’re all preserved in such a state, like the ruins of Pompeii. What would archaeologists make of this? They’d be forced to believe Garth Brooks was a supreme deity in our culture.

General observations: You get a kareoke assignment, you’re banking on a few clunkers. Not so at Curly’s. The first guy to step up absolutely hammers “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.” Then he knocks “What a Wonderful World” out of the park, sounding like Satchmo’s gravelly second coming. Stunning versatility. But not much material to work with if you came expecting timid, tone-deaf individuals emboldened by cheap beer and egged on by inebriated friends.

Our Contribution to the Festivities: Megan turns heads with a spirited rendition of Martina McBride’s “When God-Fearin’ Women Get the Blues.” Startled looks of approval signal that this is something of a closely-knit crowd, slightly surprised when a non-regular takes the spotlight.

Likelihood That Someone Will Want to Strike Up a Duet: One sloppy patron is fascinated by the camera, rather like a simpler primate out in the wild. But the rest are most polite. If you can deliver “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” like Lindsey and Meg, you’ll get it back in turn. If not, you may face some heckling. As you should. It’s only sporting.

(No Longer Mel’s) Beer Shed
1964 S. Taylorville

Visitation: Friday, February 17th, 10:37 p.m.

Now it’s just The Beer Shed, owned by Gary and Susan Jasper. Mel is nowhere in sight. Rumor has it he was watching late-night TV re-runs and got this crazy idea about opening a diner.

General Observations: This is closer to what we expected. A little more like the corner bar between old Abner’s place and the north forty. Not at all pretentious. Nobody’s self-conscious.

When the CD skips a little, Judy the DJ claims it’s just her electric personality. Someone leaves their tin of Copenhagen on our table. The men’s and women’s restrooms are marked for “Pointers” and “Setters.” Everybody knows everybody, except us.
As our photographer accurately observes: “At Curly’s it seems like people go to drink and maybe sing. Here, they come to sing first, then drink.”

Right on cue, the host says “Stevie D, you’re up… ah, I’ll just bring you the mic.”

OCTF: After some initially skeptical stares, our leading ladies win them over with some Dixie Chicks stuff. Their rendition of Lee Ann Womack’s “I Hope You Dance” brings down the house and earns them instant fans. See below.

LTSWWSUD: Two friendly regulars whose son plays baseball at Millikin are taken with the duo’s talents. After discovering that Megan’s the cousin of one of his friends, they attempt to broker a union. To ensure their offspring is properly and publicly mortified, they ask us to document, for the record, that they are Mr. and Mrs. Law. When it becomes apparent that a wedding isn’t possible tonight, they laugh and request “Anything by Reba” instead.

Gregory’s Grill
1770 E. Pershing

Visitation: Saturday, February 18th, 9:42 p.m.

At last. Paydirt.

This, then, is the essence of karaoke: head thrown back, eyes clamped passionately shut, fingers gripping his massive silver belt buckle – he breaks into “That Old Time Rock n’ Roll.”

Never has an instrumental break been so merciful. We would worry he might read this, but will gamble that reading isn’t entering the equation here (if following the words on the teleprompter is any indication). Also, it’s not likely he has any but the foggiest recollections of the night in general. Rock on, Super-Drunk Guy. We admire your pluck. We’re also glad we didn’t learn your name, or there might have been some temptation to print it.

General Observations: Takes a bit to kick up, then everybody’s in. People exhibit more territorial traits here. There are two separate camps; one (loud) private party in a side room, the other group around the bar. Many in the latter circle sing from their stools.

A teacherly type offers a nice interpretation of “Chain of Fools.” A guy in a polo shirt, dress pants and orange tennis shoes follows with a not-so-nice try at “You Never Even Called Me By My Name,” by David Allen Coe, which is apparently a kareoke platinum standard.

OCTF: None. After a belligerent man belts out what we’ll euphemistically call “The Pretty Kitty Song,” we decide to sit this one out and make acerbic comments instead. Someone suggests that these performers offer a sublime opportunity to hand out a few awards. We base them on authentic Japanese kareoke terms. Without further ado…

THE GIAN
Given out to that poor soul who loves to sing, but only does so completely and hopelessly out of tune. We can respect that.

And the co-winners are: Super-Drunk Guy and Orange Tennis Shoe Man.

THE OHAKO
Named for that one “go-to” song a person exploits over and over in an attempt to show off his or her fantastic vocal talent. People are very protective of “their” songs. You can almost see them fill with bloodlust when somebody else sings their number.

And the winner is: Obnoxious Guy in Striped Shirt, whose “Sweet Child of Mine” prods us out the door and into the frigid prairie night.

Limelight prompt: Block’s Brewery hosts the occasional Open Mic opportunity on Thursdays, if you want to feel like the real thing with a live band. We salute your bravado.

Contributor Zachary Shields had an Ohako of his own in childhood. But his “La Bamba” performances never made him the next Ritchie Valens, nor did “the song” help him on his Spanish tests.