I failed at karaoke today. Not the attack of nerves, too scared to sing kind of fail, and not the too loud, embarrassing yourself kind of fail, but a quieter, less unpleasant kind of fail. It just wasn’t my night. I sang, but just a little. The songs didn’t seem right for me. I wasn’t even sad about it. Most people seemed to have a good time and got what they wanted out of karaoke.
What do I want about the experience of singing in public, or semi-private? I don’t think it’s the same thing most people want from singing karaoke. I think for most people, karaoke is about nostalgia, or about sharing a familiar feeling. For me, maybe it’s about sharing an uncommon feeling. The feeling I’m looking for right now is contemplative; it’s pretty. I’m listening to Cibelle’s song “Phoenix.” Maybe it sounds like that, but in a baritone key.
Or maybe kind of singing I want right now isn’t really like karaoke. It’s more like the singing my family does when we get together: everyone singing familiar folk tunes to a guitar.
Am I becoming a curmudgeon when it comes to music? With recent songs, I found the lyrics jarring, even to songs that I knew and thought I had liked.
I’ll do karaoke again, and maybe I’ll be in the right mood. I remember when I used to do lindy hop, I had nights like this, when I should have been home with a book. I’m reading Bruce Sterling’s “Love is Strange” right now, and it keeps calling me to read it. I’d better get back to my book.