Join Metromix Orlando's stalwart undercover operatives as we explore the dark underbelly of Orlando's karaoke scene, one dive at a time.
Tod: Let’s be clear, people. I applaud the fact Club Voyage is taking that frou-frou little accent mark off the “a” and replacing it with an umlaut, if only for one night. But what you will find there on Sundays is not karaoke. Karaoke as our forefathers intended lies somewhere on the low end of the social scale between bowling and hitting mailboxes with a baseball bat. But “Rockstar Karaoke”? Certainly only good things can come of taking drunken, misguided divas out of the dive bars and putting them in front of … a live band.
Lindsay: Yes, it certainly opened my eyes as to why I didn’t make it into Juilliard.
Tod: Screw ‘em. They don’t serve gin and tonics there.
Décor
Tod: Seems to have not changed that drastically from its previous Blue Room incarnation, not that that’s a bad thing. Snazzy lighting, bathroom attendants, and more visible thongs than a gay plumbers convention. And of course: the stage. It’s intimidating enough to see a whole stage set up for you to bomb on, but the drum kit encased in plexiglass? There must be a good reason.
Lindsay: Of course - they don’t want some drunken misguided diva to trip on a cord and crash into the drum kit in classic cartoon fashion (landing with skirt up and pantaloons exposed.) Oh, and look out for that aggressive men’s room attendant. He must have seen us sneaking into the VIP section and thought, “Hot diggitty, my chance to shine! I’d better soap their hands like I’ve never soaped anything before!”
Clientele
Tod: Your usual club trolls, mixed in with a particular post-everything species of hipster. These people are well aware of the ridiculousness of the night’s activity, but it also takes a full night of drinks to get them to sing along. The good news is, you don’t have to worry too much about your performance. Your voice is way less important than your ability to do the “Axl.”
Lindsay: Yup, I was way more intimidated by the band than the audience. Only got one foghorn of unidentified origin.
Tod: That was me trying to signal the bartenders. Sorry.
Drinks
Tod: Apparently, “rockstars” are paying $4 for a Bud Light these days. Me, I listen to the Decemberists, so I would have been perfectly happy to slum it down to the Icehouse specials … if I could have found a bartender to get me one. Lindsay: This is the worst bar staff we’ve encountered so far. Usually if there’s a whole group of them standing around with nothing to do, it’s as easy as making eye contact and doing the “I want a beer” dance. These people apparently interpreted the “I want a beer” dance as the “Don’t mind me, I’m telling that story about the time I accidentally drank a beer. Just keep doing what you’re doing” dance.
Song Selection
Tod: Extremely limited, but that’s OK. This is “Rockstar Karaoke,” after all, not Sinatra night at Club Schmooze. The pick of songs on their list is first come first served, so get there early if you don’t want to get stuck with Pat Benatar.
Lindsay: Count yourself lucky you’re not a woman, Tod. Some selections were inherently gender-neutral (Journey’s “Any Way You Want It” springs to mind), but a lot of iconic female artists were conspicuously missing. Maybe it’s just a matter of taste, but if I were in charge I would never have picked Kelly Clarkson over Janis Joplin or Stevie Nicks.
Talent
Tod: Never has the title of this column been so inappropriate. There are lyric sheets posted up on the monitors, but no scrolling teleprompter to help your timing, and you can’t really hear your own voice onstage. This means there are two types of singers here: those who have done this sort of thing before, and drunken sacrifices to the god of regret. The band rocks about as hard as three-quarters of Cori Yarckin’s backup act can, and they can be helpful with your cues, but be advised: they are the coolest cats in the room and have no problem letting you know.
Lindsay: My advice: Grovel for help from
the band and keep your yap shut otherwise. Expressions of confidence, such as
cracking jokes onstage, will earn you a one-way ticket to pain in the form of
zero cues.
