Chinese karaoke in Honolulu

Author's note: Just about four pages of a relatively silly karaoke anecdote from the six months I worked on O'ahu.

In the Winter and Fall of ’03, I worked for my good friend, Shawn Ekker, building a house in Honolulu. Obviously, there’s a longer story getting me there, but for the sake of getting to the karaoke story, the important thing is that the home owner put up five dirty carpenters for six months in a hotel just a few blocks from downtown Waikiki. Can you spell “trouble”? Okay, have a couple more drinks and then try.

Well, none of us knew anyone in Hawaii, and with good cash in our pockets and all of our bills covered, generally the Fox and Hound pub (right around the corner) for a couple rounds followed shortly after dinner. Sometimes they coincided (George made a helluva’ fish and chips, extra portions for the regulars, which we had become by this point). On one particular evening, though, I decided to try out something different. It must’ve been a weekend, because I don’t think I had seen more than one or two people during the week in the Chinese karaoke bar located between our hotel and the Fox and Hound. But after seeing customers through the tinted glass on a few weekend evenings, I decided to see whom I could con into joining me for a little adventure.

Turned out the only coworker I could convince on this particular evening was Keith. The entire crew might have even started the evening out at the pub, but only Keith seemed up for the trip to the unfamiliar.

A few words briefly about Keith. Again, just so you have a picture of the setup. A couple years older than me, Keith used to live in Southern California, where he had a pretty rough living. When he was younger, he had been in and out of trouble with the law, and grew up to run around with bikers and white supremacists for a while, but more on the business end of things. One day he decided to get away from it all, and left California. Keith doesn’t say much, so it took me awhile to learn some of the stories that I can’t repeat, but I will say that when I met Keith, while some of his past still showed, clinging to him (as it always does), he seemed to be trying to lead an honest life.

The two strongest things Keith and me shared in common this particular evening were the facts that we were the only single guys on our crew, and we both liked to tie one on occasionally. I think it just sounded a little too weird to the rest of the gang.

And to be honest, they probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much as I did. In fact, I’m not sure Keith really had that great of a time, but as a writer, I’m always searching out different, bizarre, if even a little uncomfortable fragments of life. If nothing else, I’m sure he was at least amused at my antics. But again, I’m putting the cart ahead of the horse.

I’ll start by setting the scene. A dark bar set back in one of the many strip-mall-ish sections of storefronts lining the hotel district. I can’t recall the name, though I passed it at least a hundred times. Maybe it was just a Chinese symbol. That would’ve been fitting, because I didn’t really understand eighty percent of what took place in the bar.

We opened the glass door, and it didn’t take long, even in the dark, to realize that not a single other white person occupied the bar or any of the numerous round, modern tables with identical stainless steel and frosted glass lanterns crowded together in the lounge.

I might’ve whispered, “This should be interesting,” to Keith as we searched out a table. A song played over the speakers, and a video flashed over the big screen television on the back wall of the bar, but I didn’t see anyone standing up with a microphone. It wasn’t until we sat down that I realized that it was a karaoke video, someone in the bar was singing it, and it wasn’t in English. Chinese characters scrolled across the screen (oddly enough, though, left to right), and a woman’s voice chimed in over the sound system. It took me a moment, however, to locate the singer. A pretty Asian woman sitting with a couple other girls a few tables away.

This was the first strange thing. I don’t believe I’d ever seen anyone sing karaoke from their table. Leaning against a bar, the monitor or a microphone stand? Sure. But sitting at their table? Never. Strange thing number two? When she finished, no one clapped. My first thought was, while it hadn’t sounded horrible to me, she must’ve really butchered whatever Chinese
song she sang.

The next person started their song (again remaining seated at her table), and we ordered a couple of beers. The waiter, a younger guy who spoke broken English, handed us a song book and a few slips of paper with our drinks. “You sing?” he asked us.

“I might,” I said.

“Okay, just bring me songs.”

The woman finished singing, and again, while I hadn’t understood a word, I was surprised when the bar remained silent. No applause. Strange. And a little eerie. Again I got the feeling that I had stepped onto a Kubric or Lynch movie set. Oh yeah, we were staying for at least a couple rounds. I flipped open the book and started looking for songs while someone attempted an Elvis song. This guy even stood up next to his table while he sang, but not counting myself, he was one of maybe three to do as much, and maybe one of two other songs in English.

Nobody clapped for him, either. I’ve since heard that it’s considered rude to applaud in Asian cultures (or maybe just Chinese) because it’s a form of judging another’s performance and that implies a sense of superiority or some such thing. Whatever it was, Keith and I got used to it eventually, and conversation turned to work as we continued to drink and wait for my songs (you didn’t think Keith would put in any requests, did you? Neither did I.) I didn’t have to pay too much attention (nor did I really want to, seeing as I didn’t recognize anything playing), because the song slips asked for my table number along with my requests, and when my songs came up, the bartender would bring the cordless microphone to the table. I chose to at least stand when I sang. I believe I’ve already mentioned that you get better air from the diaphragm that way.

I chose a few songs for this evening. Can’t recall the first, but I decided to try out “Purple Rain” for the first time. I sound much better with Prince’s actual help on that one, I believe. The Chinese bartender jokingly told me not to quit my day job. Or maybe he was serious. Maybe he just made it sound joking because we were tipping well.

Now I’ve already ranted on my distaste for karaoke videos (for more on this, read “Poker and Self Help Books, part one”), but it was even more comical to see the Chinese versions, especially of the American songs. But the video accompanying my last song was the topper. I picked Waylon Jenning’s “Luckenbach, Texas.” I don’t think the video production creative team knew what to do with this one, so they covered the screen completely with images of cattle. Grazing, walking, looking stupid. But not a single human being. It got to the point where I couldn’t help laughing, and soon I started substituting “cow” into the song whenever I could.

“...feudin’ like the Hatfields and McCows…”

"Let’s go to Luckenbach, Texas. Waylon, Willie and the cows.”

Well let me tell ya’, I was the funniest person I knew. I would sing “cow,” then start laughing at how hilarious I was, apologize profusely to the crowd, start singing again, throw in “cow,” and the whole thing would start over. I think Keith thought it was funny, but who knows? Again, the important thing was that I thought it was funny.

I’m lucky I made it through the whole thing, laughing as hard as I was, and I felt certain that it wouldn’t be long before the owner of the bar would put an end to my shenanigans. But the song ended. “Thank you! Goodnight!” I was still laughing and looking around, but it was as if the two white guys didn’t even exist. No acknowledgement, whatsoever. I didn’t expect applause at this point, of course, but there wasn’t even a chuckle, or even a head turned our direction. We finished our beers and left, never to return again.

I’ve also heard that karaoke is supposed to be a stress-reliever in Asian cultures, a way to blow off steam, but let me tell you, these people could use to relax just a little more. I mean, they were in Hawaii, for hell’s sake.

Vigilante Justice at the IHOP- part one of the Bloomington, IL karaoke experience

authors note: At about five pages, this is the first part of the story of the rowdiest experience on my summer tour. As with many other segments, beware glaring generalizations and stereotypes.


After leaving Madison, I made my way south into Illinois. I was heading into Bloomington to visit friends I met in Montana. Funny thing about this trip. With the exception of the visit I would make to my first girlfriend ever now living in Montreal, all of the friends I would visit on this trip would be people I met in Montana. But the Bloomington crew was special. For many reasons other than just karaoke, but I’ll stick with the theme and tell the story of the only time I was hooked from the stage.

Harold’s Club. Milltown, Montana. The building looks like it used to be some sort of small mill (fitting with the town name, I guess) and at night, the Harold’s Club sign on the side of the building is lit in a bright neon red that you can see for a mile. The best comparison I can come up with is Porky’s place in the movie of the same name. Inside Harold’s they have trophy mounts of a big horn sheep and mountain goat hung on the walls, and for pure protection I’m guessing, they’re both encased in the glass gunner shells of B-52 bombers. And while the crowd has changed since this particular story to include more college kids, at the time of this incident it was even more cowboy hats and trucker caps than the Limelight Lounge (for more on this story see the brief anecdote in “Poker and Self-Help Books-part one”), but I was still the long-hair. Luckily I was with my crew, then from Rock Creek, Montana, and I’m sure all of their own cowboy hats made up for the fact that they had a hippy in their company.

Maybe that’s why I felt safe with my choice of songs. Of course, the fact that I was drunker than two skunks probably played a part. For whatever reason, I chose to sing Led Zeppelin’s “I Can’t Quit You, Baby,” a relative obscure bluesy song off Zeppelin I. You might have heard of it, but I can pretty much guarantee that most folks at Harold’s hadn’t, and didn’t especially want to hear my slurring version serenading any woman in sight (which didn’t reach too far for me at this point. I could barely read the words on the monitor). Needless to say, about two-thirds through the song, the volume suddenly tapered off. Apparently I was done. I left the stage in a huff, to which my friends all eased my mind with comments like “I thought it was great,” and “I can’t understand why he cut you off.” Of course, about a month later, I overheard the true sentiments, like “whoa, that was bad,” and “man, was he ever drunk.”

This incident actually got me blacklisted with Tom, the owner of Solid Sound Karaoke, for almost a year. I would put in a song, and it would never come up. Soon enough, I started having friends put in my songs under fake names.

“Pablo, you’re up for the next song!” Tom would announce, and I would hop on stage triumphantly. Once you’re up there, he can’t deny you. Over the following years, I proved myself to Tom, and before leaving Missoula, I was actually one of his favorites.

So the Rock-Creek-now-Bloomington crowd was familiar with my antics, and with a preemptive email asking all friends and family to locate the nearest karaoke bar, we were primed for a good evening. I had no idea that it would eventually involve police and paramedics, but when you sign up for a night of karaoke, you hand over the reins to the fates.

It was interesting driving into Bloomington. Most of the Rock Creek clan actually grew up in this city, and over the years I had heard many stories and adventures revolving around it, so in a way it was like I was driving into my own hometown. As I crossed through the city, I tried to picture my friends as kids running through the streets, tried to picture it from their eyes back then. I was staying with Steve and Michelle Carr. You may remember Michelle from her quoted declaration in one of my earlier entries. “Nothing good happens after midnight,” she said after our night at Pheasant Lanes, but I’m still getting to that.

I had worked doing carpentry with Steve back in Montana, but not long after the birth of their second daughter, they decided they wanted to be closer to family. It had only been a couple months since their return to Illinois and I felt lucky to be a houseguest in their new home which Steve was already busy remodeling. The other friends showed up shortly after my arrival with beers in hand. Tyler Buckley arrived with his wife, Angie, and their new son, Colton (two additions to his life I had yet to meet). Davey showed up as well, maybe with Tyler. Angie would be taking Colton home for a quiet evening, so unfortunately (probably not unfortunate for her) wouldn’t be joining us. Michelle had arranged babysitting duties with her parents (another benefit of being closer to family), and was excited about the night ahead. The cards were laid out on the table, and the players departed for Pheasant Lanes Bowling Alley.

A few quick words about the participants of this evening before I go much farther. Steve… at least six and a half feet I’d guess, but not lanky. A solid house of a guy, Steve was known in Rock Creek as the Gentle Giant for his quiet disposition. Just don’t cross him when he’s had a few. Dave, or Davey… visited Rock Creek from Illinois a few times over the years. While he’s about my height, his girth equals almost two of me, and it’s mostly muscle. Tyler matches my size almost to the letter, but occasionally his mouth (or more importantly, what comes out of it) is more suited to someone of Davey’s stature. As he is strong willed and opinionated, it seems to me that few people are lukewarm on Tyler; they either really like him or they don’t, and that’s just fine by him. As for me, well my brother always said that it was my look that kept me out of fights, and luckily so, because I lack any of the experience in that arena should anyone care to take me up on it. In Rock Creek, I was the Loose Deputy. Finally there’s Michelle. The peacekeeper. The moderator. The most level-headed of the bunch…usually.

With the exception of a note that I scrawled to myself on the back of one of the song slips (we have to keep a wrangle on Dave and Tyler), these personality types really won’t come out until the IHOP after karaoke, but I wanted you to have a picture of the main players in this evening as we all piled into Tyler’s ride on our way to Pheasant Lanes. Another friend of the gang from their childhood days, Doug, met us at the bar and hung out for awhile, but was smart enough to leave early.

I’m not sure what everyone else was expecting when we arrived, but I wasn’t surprised by the crowd we found in the lounge of Pheasant Lanes (for more on this, visit any bowling alley bar on a Saturday night… especially if they have karaoke). Tyler, pretty conservative and usually dressed looking the part, probably summed it up the best for everyone else. “When I heard you were coming into town,” he said, “I had all of these great ideas of things we could do and places to go. This wasn’t one of them.” But to give him credit, he was the only other besides myself to get up and sing a couple.

A few random moments and notes I made before the evening got too rowdy:

Don’t do the new songs. One of my personal karaoke credos. Be it country or rock, I usually choose the classics. For one, the new songs are too fresh to imitate, but more important, as I believe Steve pointed out, when you hear a classic rock song it takes you back to good times and good memories, times maybe sitting around a campfire or drinking with buddies, not just to what you heard on the radio on the ride over. This credo will come into play later in my trip at Vocalz, a karaoke bar in Montreal.

Those that follow the bars for karaoke. At any karaoke night, you’ll be able to pick out the regulars. Chances are, one or both of two facts are certain. They’ll do the same songs every week. And they know the establishments where karaoke takes place on any given night of the week. Oh yeah, one more thing. They either don’t drink much, if at all, or they’re raging alcoholics. Of course, I can’t say too much here. I have my favorite songs to sing, and when I lived in Missoula, even if I didn’t always go, I always knew where I could sing if need be.

The owner sings. This is a given. The operator of the equipment will always sing. Usually (hopefully) they’re pretty talented. They love to sing, may have even been in a band, or at least wish they could be in a band. Did I mention the name of this karaoke travelogue when it ever gets published? “Man Without a Band.”

The wandering singer. Our group sat in a raised area of the lounge away from the main karaoke equipment (however, there were at least four screens around the bar where the lyrics could be seen), and I couldn’t understand why almost all of the singers in this particular lounge either wandered around or stood in random spots throughout the bar to perform. I had never seen anything like it. But when I went up to the front to do my first song, Waylon’s “Rambling Man,” I realized that this was because the usual main monitor was absent, so people chose whatever screen was closest to them. Unlike the Chinese bar in Honolulu, where there was a main monitor but nobody chose to use it. They didn’t even stand from their tables. Have I told the Honolulu story yet? That was a doozy. Maybe I’ll insert that in between part one and part two of the Bloomington story. Keep your eyes peeled.

Two of the whitest guys ever singing ‘I Like Big Butts,’ by Sir Mix-A-Lot. This always cracks me up when super white people do rap songs. Enough said. If you’ve seen it, you know what I mean. If not, again, visit any bowling alley karaoke on a Saturday night. You’ll see.

As it turned out, the gang chose Pheasant Lanes because the bartender happened to be a brother-in-law (I believe) of Michelle’s. Ahh, family. The drinks were flowing, and we weren’t paying for most of them (although he got a helluva’ tip). As the evening progressed, things got louder and rowdier. This was when I wrote my note about Tyler and Davey, Tyler being a good instigator and Davey being big enough to back it up. Still things remained mostly calm, but I knew things were getting loose as we waited for my second song, Neil Diamond’s “Holly Holy.” It seemed like I had been passed over a few times, and naturally protective of my interests, there were a few grumbles from our group wondering when my turn would come again. Even Michelle was starting to get a little rambunctious. To wrap up Part One of this segment, I’ll end with the other funny quote from the evening. Some random guy chosen before me was in the middle of butchering a song. I made some comment about how I should’ve been up there, and Steve says to me…

“We could just go up there, take the microphone from him, knock him over the head a couple times with it, and then hand it back to him.”

The image this comment invoked incited laughter for a good few minutes.