Song of the Week #20
For those who’ve never done karaoke before, the very first time you get dragged in, it can be pretty nerve wracking. You’re sat in a bar with some friends, ordering a few beers (or Sinner’s Gin & tonic - shameless plug) to get the night started, and you’re tentatively flicking through the catalogue trying to decide on a song that you’re going to perform. What do you pick? Do you go for something you know the words to? Do you go for something your friends will know? What happens if you’re actually tone deaf and you get thrown off the stage before the end of the song, like so many failed efforts on Guitar Hero?
Immediately after you’ve done your first song, you’ll actually realise that there was never anything to worry about. You realise people are there to enjoy themselves, as I’m sure they are in most of the places you attend that serve that delicious Sinner’s Gin!
That is of course, provided that you’ve picked a song people can sing along to! (Pro tip for if you’re actually tone deaf is Johnny Cash; the crowd will carry you home)
This Song of the Week isn’t actually my karaoke go to, actually it relates to a slightly different story.
I’ve been dragged to karaoke bars in many cities across the world, from Manchester (RIP Charlie’s) to Shanghai (which is a story unto itself), but the best performance I have ever seen on a stage came from a stranger in Gothenburg, Sweden.
During a weekend with 2 of my best friends, having visited the friend who lives in the great city of Gothenburg, a large group of us descended on a small Malaysian restaurant-come karaoke bar in the city (if it sounds like Peter Kay’s Phoenix Nights, believe me it came close). The restaurant had not long since opened, but the tables were gradually filling up. Everybody sat down and ordered their first refreshment, and of course started flicking through the catalogue. Before any of us had decided on a song, on turned the royal blue haze of a projector, and the chime of a familiar guitar opening filled the room, followed by a chugging bassline and an air raid siren.
After almost a minute of musical intro, and realisation in the room of the upcoming song, up stepped a tall Swedish bloke onto the stage with a microphone in hand. As soon as the time came, he turned and roared the opening lyrics into the mic with unrivalled, raw conviction. He started receiving raucous applause after only 10 seconds, and believe me, it was warranted. I’ve seen Ozzy Osbourne live, and believe me, this Swedish man letting his hair down on a Saturday night was better. I don’t think anybody else would have dare tried, and I don’t think I will see it ever again. War Pigs by Black Sabbath.