Ending on a High Note

Only ubiquitous convenience stores outnumber karaoke parlors in Tokyo’s cityscape. I visit the former regularly to pick up essentials such as soft serve ice cream, clean underwear and Japanese comic book porn. Actually, not the last two.

Despite being in Japan for 10 months, tonight was my first foray into karaoke – at least the proper way, among friends – instead of with hostesses paid to sing along and pour you watery whisky.

Unlike the glittery street level parlors I pass, Utahiroba’s upstairs reception area had the neglected and dated décor of a rural bowling alley. My invited guests (plus Gregory) were led to a windowless room with clashing wallpaper and padded turquoise benches around a table. The cost covered all-you-can drink, and we quickly sent the waitress running to go fetch.

Natives Maki and Takafin kept each other company closest to the door and the telephone -- to call for more drinks not long after the first round had arrived. Team France (Delphine, Lawrence and Koya) sat together while I split up the Napoli girls because of Napoli#1’s long-standing promise to do duets with me.

Napoli#2 apparently invited Gregory, and they began to comandeer the controls to queue up songs. Two volumes the size of telephone books indexed the music library, and selection numbers were keyed into the remote. Along with the lyrics, the television screen flashed images from what I think was Chicago circa 1987.

A white chick with too much makeup and outdated hair strut through the streets in denim. Sometimes she walked around parked Oldsmobiles. Sometimes she danced in front of a graffiti mural. The worst was closeups in the park of her frizzy hair blowing in the breeze. All this to the beat of Destiny’s Child.

Perhaps stimulated by the 80s imagery, Gregory grabbed the mic and put on a show to remember, but one we're still trying to forget. Hands collectively covered ears. Mild-mannered Maki shrank against the wall. “Holding Out for a Hero” never sounded this bad.

“Onchi!” I cried across to room, eager to exercise a random but suddenly appropriate word (tone deaf) before curling up in Napoli#1’s shoulder. One eye watched Koya look for the fast-forward button.

Gregory already had our attention, but he stood up and slammed his foot on the table, knocking over an empty glass. Ice cubes skated onto the floor. He pumped his fists to the chorus, and kept rasping. The noise overwhelmed such a small compartment (but one still larger than my apartment).

Then came the gratuitous crotch grabbing. Maki blanched. How long was this song? Yelling with his foot on the table and hand on his crotch wasn’t enough. Seeking further exposure, he raised his shirt. For a split second I didn’t know what I was looking at. Something four months pregnant and carpeted in hair. He caressed his belly while momentarily abandoning the lyrics to proclaim “I’m beautiful, I’m beautiful!” It was a show-stopper. To a chorus of moans he replied, “Oh, come on, it was a coked-up Bonnie Tyler.”

After a few songs, "Livin’ on a Prayer" began. Gregory, who hadn’t let go of the mic, began singing my song. I complained to Napoli#1. First my party, and now my song were being soiled by this pregnant pig. Delphine passed me the other microphone. I cut into the chorus, but was no match to overpower his husky voice.

Still, he noticed. I glared back. My song. It’s one of the few that my limited octave range can match. I stood up and continued to sing for what was rightfully mine. Gregory backed down, and rested the mic on the wet table to grab more of some cloudy drink.

“What was that?” he groaned when my voice trailed to a whisper. “That was like some Frank Sinatra version of Bon Jovi. It’s the worst I’ve ever heard.” He insisted on a more guttural approach, like perhaps Bonnie Tyler on drugs.

Midnight was fast approaching, and with it, last trains. There wasn’t even enough time to finish the current song, which happened to be Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.” Along with Bon Jovi, it rounds out my karaoke repertoire. I jumped up, grabbed the mic and attracted audience participation. Take that, Gregory.

About three-quarters of the way through, the waitress tapped on the door. She had a collection plate. Either pay up, or time’s up. Celine and I weren’t quite finished, so good thing Maki translated that the song must go on.