Advancing a Theme
Radiohead - "Where Bluebirds Fly"
I went to a restaurant tonight and karaoked for the first time in ages. Asia Roma is located in a part of town where sanitation workers shout "asshole" every time they empty someone's garbage.
As far as karaoke sessions go, it was absolute murder -- and I mean that in the nicest possible way. My initial attitude toward singing a song was "No fucking way." Feminine persuasions softened that to an "I'll entertain the idea," and finally to a "Where's the songbook?" I always knew I would sing, I just needed to be romanced is all.
They had my very first choice, "It's a Wonderful World," with Sam Cooke listed as the performer. When they finally called my name, I walked tall to the dim stage -- only to hear the overmodulated strains of "It's a Wonderful World" by James Taylor or some shit. An idiot, I was expecting Louis Armstrong. Not the same song at all, I assure you.
And I wasn't going to sing what I thought was a James fucking Taylor song, that’s for goddamn sure. I swore and put down the microphone, dejected. I was profoundly offended.
While sneaking a quick cigarette, I decided to pick myself up off the ground, straighten my lapel, and find something else to sing. I eventually settled on "Over the Rainbow" by Judy Garland. (Hey, get off my back; it's a nice, slow song that I can capably sing.) I soon offered the room my soulful rendition -- somewhat desperately and with a couple of bum notes, I must admit, but I believe I acquitted myself quite admirably.
The audience clapped their hands. Tears were shed, and enemies crushed. One of the employees told me that he would never again poison the air with his own singing voice. I already knew that there would be no encore. You have to leave the people wanting more.
Sharing is caring. Happy birthdays. The end.
I went to a restaurant tonight and karaoked for the first time in ages. Asia Roma is located in a part of town where sanitation workers shout "asshole" every time they empty someone's garbage.
As far as karaoke sessions go, it was absolute murder -- and I mean that in the nicest possible way. My initial attitude toward singing a song was "No fucking way." Feminine persuasions softened that to an "I'll entertain the idea," and finally to a "Where's the songbook?" I always knew I would sing, I just needed to be romanced is all.
They had my very first choice, "It's a Wonderful World," with Sam Cooke listed as the performer. When they finally called my name, I walked tall to the dim stage -- only to hear the overmodulated strains of "It's a Wonderful World" by James Taylor or some shit. An idiot, I was expecting Louis Armstrong. Not the same song at all, I assure you.
And I wasn't going to sing what I thought was a James fucking Taylor song, that’s for goddamn sure. I swore and put down the microphone, dejected. I was profoundly offended.
While sneaking a quick cigarette, I decided to pick myself up off the ground, straighten my lapel, and find something else to sing. I eventually settled on "Over the Rainbow" by Judy Garland. (Hey, get off my back; it's a nice, slow song that I can capably sing.) I soon offered the room my soulful rendition -- somewhat desperately and with a couple of bum notes, I must admit, but I believe I acquitted myself quite admirably.
The audience clapped their hands. Tears were shed, and enemies crushed. One of the employees told me that he would never again poison the air with his own singing voice. I already knew that there would be no encore. You have to leave the people wanting more.
Sharing is caring. Happy birthdays. The end.
posted by colin carlson at 1:42 AM
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