I'm new to the neighborhood and have never heard of the Vegas Lounge before, but Sal knows the place from picking up drunks there all the time. He recalls a recent incident as we walk up.
“We're twenty minutes into the ride and the guy tells me he doesn't have any money. So, I'm like ‘well, what are you going to do about it?'. He has me bring him to this grocery store; he runs in and shoplifts 20 steaks, and then has me take him to the Vegas Lounge. ‘I can sell them here and get your money' he says. He goes in, and comes out twenty minutes later with twenty bucks. The fare was like fifty bucks” We walk in silence for a beat, and then he says “I hope that guy's in here tonight, man”
And with that we enter the Vegas Lounge, a well lit suburban-looking joint that was, as the white banner outside had promised, having a karaoke night. To the strains of off-key Santana belted forth from a middle aged man staring at the floor– “in the laaaand of milk and honey”, he sings—we find ourselves a seat at the bar and order a round. For the next few hours we sit back and drink heavily and watch karaoke and this is what we see.
This was the funniest thing I saw all week, and quickly became a situation where I was laughing out loud, uncontrollably, trying futilely to hide it. First off: why the fuck would you pick this song? Presumably the person had heard the tune before, in which case he was surely aware of its lumbering tempo and somber mood, and yet still thought “Yeahhh.... that will go over great in a room full of intoxicated people!”.
Granted, the guy was clearly bombed himself, wobbling all over the place, which could have explained his poor song choice. But I don't care if you've been doing shots of rubbing alcohol since 8am: you should still know better. He couldn't claim ignorance, either; he definitely sort of knew how “MMM MMM MMM MMM” went, so it wasn't like he jabbed his finger at a random song in the binder and said “lemme do that one”.
Any familiarity he had with the tune did little good anyway, as his sense of melody and inflection and timing had plainly been decimated by the booze. It was a train wreck: as soon as he started singing, the lyrics on the TV colored up quickly, way ahead of him, forcing him to slur out the rest rapid fire to catch up before the screen changed. So it tumbled out like this: “Ooooonce? there was? This…….kid-who-got-into-an……accident?”
All of the verses were a mess like this, but I figured he'd redeem himself once the chorus hit, since that little bit of the song is perfect for someone who's tanked and fading: all you do is go “Mmm mmm mmm mmm”. Hell, you could probably find someone passed out on the floor, sprawled on their own puke, unaware karaoke was even going on, give them a kick and stick a microphone in their face and they'd still nail it. “Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmm.” It's pretty easy. But this guy just couldn't get the timing right. “Mmm ...........mmm mmm.....mmmm” he'd say, gently swaying back and forth beneath the disco ball.
Grade: A. This one was awesome.
Again! Two in a row! Why on earth would you choose a song like this? A dismal piano ballad with lyrics about pain never stopping and aching and stuff like that? Yeah, let's stand in front of scowling men doing shots of Jagermeister and belt out that one!
The person who decides to do this, a petite girl clutching a notebook, is a competent singer, a few leagues above Mr. Crash Test Dummy, but that offers little solace. She starts whispering and it is literally uncomfortable to watch, casting a very strange mood over the place. This is not drinking music, there is no doubt about that. The absence of guitar and the girl's sleek, whispered voice make background conversations obvious, so everyone quiets down out of respect and stares at their beers, nervous coughs escaping as lyrics about teardrops falling and hearts shattering slowly creep down the television screen.
I am on my second beer of the bar and fifth of the evening, but not quite at the “it's all good” world view, so it is still an embarrassing moment, where you feel sorry for the person and just wish it would end. And then, as I see the phrase “32 Bar Musical Interlude” appear on the screen and think “No fucking way”, the karaoke machine suddenly breaks, mercifully stopping mid-note, perhaps unplugged by a sympathetic friend of the singer. The bar collectively exhales, but before we know it the box is back up and running and the girl actually starts the song over. The guy manning the machine for the night tries to dissuade her, but she insists and soon the depressing piano keys clang throughout the bar yet again. Unbelievable.
Grade: D-. A notch above an F only due to the bravery it requires to get in front of a bar full of people and sing something like this. Admirable, but it only counts for so much.
My suspicion is that either the selection here at the Vegas is painfully limited (a glance at the song binder across the room reveals that it does look a bit thinner than most) or that these people are inept at choosing songs. Don't they know how this works? Wouldn't they want a tune that'll cause the whole room to cheer out at the first note? One that will cause everyone in attendance to sing along merrily, the collective roar hiding any vocal deficiencies the karaoke singer might have? But no: they keep selecting un-hummable, un-danceable, and for the most part un-recognizable tunes. I'm not sure how this works—how does one simultaneously hold the thoughts “I want to do karaoke!” and “I think the best choice is an eight minute long Radiohead song with no chorus and a four minute instrumental section!”? Puzzling.
Take this song. I mean, if you're going to pick a Metallica tune, why not go with a thrash one off of Kill ‘em All that will get people pumped up, yelling along like maniacs? Hell, a predictable one that even non-metallica fans know like Enter Sandman would be OK too. At least that would get a reaction. But Whiskey in the Jar? That's just ridiculous. (Admittedly, you could argue that a traditional version of this song would be an OK choice for a bar setting. Fine. Go ahead: make that argument. But this version doesn't cut it).
The singer of it is a skinhead who ends up performing a half dozen songs for us throughout the evening, each time interjecting lame monologues and liberally using profanities. This time he says “Is it really whiskey in the motherfuckin' jar?” during one of the solos. Later, he will turn to the crowd and say “we ARE the motherfuckin' champions!” and “Motherfuckin' piano man, y'all!” You can tell he expects everyone to whoop and holler at the spontaneous vulgarity, but conversations continue and blank stares are held. We are not motherfuckin' impressed.
Grade: D. Boring song, annoying execution. He does get points for enthusiasm, though, cocking back his head as he belts out “Musha rain dum-a-do-dum-a-da, yeah!!!”
I must admit, I was expecting a different scene here at the Vegas. I figured it would be more downbeat and surly, with the lurking possibility of physical confrontation or at the very least low-grade hostility manifested in scowls and mutterings. But it's turned out to be a pleasant bar, and the chasm of age difference between the varied groups doesn't seem that obvious. Looking around, you could easily picture the older blue collar folks being pissed and surly that their local watering hole has been taken over by rowdy college kids roaring crappy songs. Likewise, you could imagine the younger crowd here smirking at their elders, and viewing the whole place as a joke or a novelty — “Dude, we went to this dive bar last night, it was ghetto, bro”, that kind of thing. But both attitudes are pleasantly absent, as everyone here is laid back and mingles together well. A definitely friendly vibe. For example, there is a woman up front robotically butchering some Dixie Chicks song, but no one boos or heckles, and there is a polite smattering of clapping upon completion.
This is not always the case with karaoke. I remember this one time last summer when I was at the Country Bar and Grill and there was a totally hammered office-worker-looking guy there singing christmas songs. It was the middle of june, 90 degrees out at 7pm, and there he was, santa cap plopped haphazardly on his head, grinning widely as he crooned, oddly and off-time, “Haaave... yourself? a merry? little christ—mas” The song ended, he handed the mic back and said “Merry Christmas, everybody”, looking completely earnest. I got a chuckle out of it, but the rest of the bar (which consisted primarily of three frat-boy-types in their early 30s at the table behind me) seemed to be very ticked off. “It's NOT Christmas” one of them muttered angrily. Soon after that the guy massacred “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” which really ticked off the group, and for awhile the sense of an impending physical fight was palpable in the air. They actually wanted to beat up the guy over a poor rendition of CCR.
He should have ventured out to the Vegas instead—people here would clearly whoop it up at Christmas songs right now.
Grade: D+. I wasn't really paying attention, but this was pretty standard fare.
The woman sitting next to Sal is a nurse, with three kids, going through a divorce. She is looking for a man. Not in a one night stand sort of way, but more of a let's-begin-a-long-term-commitment kind of thing. The night is still sort of young, but she has found no takers so far. “Right, like I'm going to say ‘I'd love to support your three kids, lady'” Sal tells me. “I can barely support myself!”
Nevertheless, he continues the conversation as he carefully tries to extract the information he is looking for; namely, Can She Score Pharmaceuticals Through Her Job? This requires small talk, and he reports back to me on how it's going. “Our friend Dara here wishes she could sing” he says.
He peers up at the karaoke, where a middle aged woman is singing an unanimated version of some twangy country tune, and says “Man, I want to sing some Journey but I gotta be more fucked up” He pauses in thought and then his hand fishes into his pocket and pulls out a Xanax. “That should do it” he says, popping it and returning to the beer in front of him.
I realize I am a combination of these two factors when it comes to karaoke: I wish I could sing, and I need to be fucked up in order to do it. The two together would be ideal, but either by themselves would suffice. Depressingly, only the latter is a realistic option: drinking eight white russians is easier than teaching yourself proper vocal techniques, I have learned.
Sal asks if I'm going to sing anything, and I answer honestly: “Yeah, if I have 10 more beers or so I'll probably sing something”. That's about what it would take. Anything less than that and I will still view things realistically: I cannot sing, but not in a wow-this-guy's-so-bad-it's-funny way; just a middle of the road tuneless-ness that isn't any fun to listen to. I'm doing the place a favor by refraining: anything I can sing isn't going to be good, and it isn't going to so bad it becomes good. So why bother? After 10 more beers however, all bets will be off. It is already 10:55 so that does not look likely, but who knows?
Grade: D-. Eh.
Now *these* girls can sing. There's three of them, each with their own mic – one of the Vegas Lounge's cool features is multiple microphones – and after hearing a row of tuneless renditions of boring songs, they are stunning. Me and Sal watch, transfixed, as they nail harmonies and effortlessly reach all the high notes. They look at each other with complete earnestness as they sing “Time after time”, eyes wide, as if they are in 1985 and filming a video for the song. And the best part is, one of them actually looks like Cyndi Lauper.
Grade: A- Excellent singing, not an A only because Girls Just Wanna Have Fun would have been, although more obvious, a far superior choice for a karaoke bar setting. Way more upbeat, and everyone would have been singing along which would have looked pretty funny. But, then again, I guess that would have opened the door for some of the creepier characters in the shadows of the bar to hit on them (“So… you girls just want to have fun, huh?”). I guess they knew what they were doing in picking this song. An A it is.
So far, there's this same group of people that's performed gang-vocal versions of predictable choices like Stayin' Alive and Dancing Queen. Now they are doing Purple Haze, complete with the standard air guitar gestures and head bangs. Yawn. We turn our attention elsewhere.
The bartender here seems like a pretty cool guy. We ask him if the Bukowski movie filmed in Minneapolis last summer used the Vegas for anything. We know they filmed in at least a few northeast bars and this one looks like a likely candidate. He shakes his head. “I know they used Nyes and a couple other ones around here. But not this one. I like Bukowski, though”. He tells us about the time not too long ago when he loaned out all of his Bukowski book to some customer at the bar. “I never got them back!” he says, indignant as he wipes the bar in front of us clean.
Reminded, Sal retells the story of being scammed by the steak guy. The bartender actually knows who he's talking about. “Don't worry, we don't buy meat from that guy anymore” he assures us “I got really sick off some crab”.
“But does he still come in here?” Sal asks, clearly hoping to confront the guy. The bartender shakes his head “Naw, I haven't really seen him around here in awhile”.
Sal shrugs. “It's a small city” he tells me “And I was sober when I picked him up— I remember what that guy looks like”. I keep expecting the scam artist in question to suddenly enter, a gunny sack full of pork chops slung behind him, instigating a triangular argument – you ripped me off, your crab got me sick, calm down and have some pork chops – but it doesn't look like he is going to show. Perhaps it's for the better. The warm, jovial vibe here seems like an anomaly and I'm digging it.
We order another round and the bartender tells us it's on the house. Fuck yeah.
Grade: C. I don't mean to sound grumpy, but this one just seems too obvious or something, and the air guitar stuff is just stupid looking.
If you gave me a piece of paper and a pen and said “Draw me a picture of a Limp Bizkit fan”, I would probably come up with a poorly drawn version of the guy now up front singing Kid Rock. I don't mean that as a snarky insult—it is possible to enjoy Limp Bizkit and still be a decent human being in other areas—and I don't even know if this guy likes them. All I'm saying is, if you asked me to do that, that is what I would draw.
As for this song, well, it's pretty goddamn terrible. The guy sings way too loudly, like he wants to make sure everyone catches the lyrical intricacies and metaphors nestled within passages like “I might be a little small ho But I ain't no god damn midget So stick it up your ass where the sun don't shine”, and he has absolutely no stage presence either. Head down, shoulders tense, a robotic bob back and forth.
I've never heard the song before, but evidently it achieved moderate success as there are flickers of recognition buzzing throughout the bar. Like, when he shouts “You're lookin' really gay like fuckin' Billy Ray Cyrus” I spot a couple guys mouthing along.
Grade: F. Fuck this.
The alcohol served to us is beginning to do its thing; I'm starting to lose track of time—it leaps from 11:10 to 11:55 in what seems like a minute, and it's venturing into the territory where I will be in rough shape at work the next day; this is also incidentally the same territory where this bit of knowledge doesn't bother me. “It's all good! I'll just chug a bunch of coffee!” I think cheerily, dismissing the issue.
Likewise, the singers up front, who a half an hour earlier delivered a reasonable performance of Highway to Hell, are now stumbling through Whitesnake, slurring and missing words, swaying randomly to the beat. One of them is about half way on the way to being outside in the parking lot vomiting violently next to a stranger's car; the other is looking more like 75%. These levels are not in sync, so the singing is completely off, with the one guy always being two words ahead or behind of the other. It sounds like this: “Here I Go Again on My Own Again My Own The Road I only Road Know Drifter Alone The Ro-o-oad” This is good stuff.
Grade: B+ Although their timing is off, they've picked a good point in the evening: everyone is at the right level of drunkenness, just before things start to taper off or spin into violence or bitterness or blackouts or what have you. The collective mood is still good. Drunkenly delivered Whitesnake would have been unbearable three hours ago; three hours from now it could be a number of things but would probably suck. However, right now, much like that proverbial perfect pile of porridge, it's just right.
Back when I was working on my fifth beer, I was happy to realize that my initial suspicions were wrong and the Vegas didn't outright suck. Now I've hit number eight and I'm amazed by the place. I'm struck particularly by the little things I've noticed after sitting at the bar for awhile. For instance, the place fully and wholly embraces its main product, having nearly every inch of wall space covered with beer-related-items. That's it: stuff about beer, and nothing else. No menus, no NASCAR posters, no clocks or fire alarms (that I can spot at least), just beer. All of it is presented nicely, too. One faded red Budweiser poster is placed in a gigantic, regal frame that looks like it belongs “in the fuckin' sistine chapel!” as Sal puts it.
Some guy does a plainly delivered version of “I Love This Bar” and I simply shrug instead of sneering or whatever I'd usually do upon hearing that song. Fair enough: I like this bar too.
Grade: D. It's still Toby Keith.
Another thing I like about the Vegas is its comically long last call. Plenty of bars around town are vicious in this respect: “Let's clear it out!” some gigantic guy begins booming at 1:40, like it's his house and he's furious that all these strangers are hanging out smoking and using his glasses. But here, at the Vegas, the good natured bartender has been asking people, one by one, directly “last call—need anything?” for the last 30 minutes or so. I have secured two drinks since he first announced it.
At this point, it is 1:45, I'm bombed, and a guy who looks amazingly like Malcolm Mclaren is trying to get through a Prince song. “I don't know / the fucking words/ to this song” he sings as an introduction, before tunelessly destroying it. A couple of the Cyndi Lauper girls grab the remaining mics and save things a bit, but their harmonies are no match for the jagged edge of his randomly spat vocals.
Unlike the Whitesnake song, this is bad but not in a good way. “Man” Sal complains “I actually like this song. He's totally ruining it”. I can't help but wonder if maybe the guy isn't actually as drunk as he looks and is merely trying to assume the role of the “crazy, wacky guy who is wasted and does not give a fuck about you, or society for that matter”. If so, he fits the part but I have seen the role played much better many times before.
This question, of whether the guy is actually drunk or merely slipping into a pitiful role he tragically assigned himself years ago and is now unable to shed, is of interest to me. See, minutes earlier, the singer began a game of chess with a serious, studious, sober looking fellow directly across the bar from us. As the drunk (or-is-he?) dances ludicrously and sings Prince an octave too low, his opponent puts hand to goateed chin and stares at the board in utter concentration. I am fascinated by who will win. The guy currently at the board is clearly stone cold sober, so if he loses to the lunatic on stage he'll look like a pretty shitty chess player. The singer clearly has the upper hand: if he wins, he'll look like a tragic rock and roller type – people will point and whisper “can you imagine how good he'd be if he'd sober up?” – and if he loses he can laugh and knock over the chessboard and hoot “I'm fucking wasted, of course I lost!” and he'd have a point.
Me and Sal decide to up the ante by offering a free drink to whoever wins. “Hey!” we yell across the bar, but the guy doesn't hear us. Suddenly, the lights go up for last call and the match is shelved in the ensuing confusion.
Grade: F Minus. There is nothing redeemable about this. The girls help out a little bit, but that shouldn't count towards his grade. You know?
Sal is now sufficiently fucked up and closes out the evening with a well-sung version of Ring of Fire, but unfortunately forgets the intro he had been planning (“This song is about STDs”, which really would have been a funny sentiment to end the evening on). However, it's still good. One of the girls who sang Cyndi Lauper earlier joins him for the end of the tune, and the harmonies are sweet.
Last call is officially over, and people are getting pushed out steadily by the workers. We're instructed to ‘clear it out' and so everyone marches wobbly out the back doors, those of us who sang and those of who just watched. We all stand outside in the parking lot together for a minute or two, people climbing in cars, barking nonsense, lighting smokes. We're all half-hesitating, waiting for something to happen. But nothing happens. The music is over, the doors are closed, the bottles of booze tucked away, and now it's time to stumble home up the icy streets, Whitesnake stuck in our heads.
