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.