In this edition of The Nocturne, we explore the guiltiest pastime in nightlife: karaoke nights at random bars—and the strangers that go to them.
Is it me or are more of you doing exorbitant amounts of karaoke lately—or at least finally trying it for the first time? Until last year, I could count on one hand the number of times I sang songs publicly (and to a room full of random people). Notably, there was that time when a 12-year-old me was dared into entering a contest at Yorkgate Mall; that time during high school when we rented a room for a sweet 16 party at Twister in North York; and then those few treasured nights at Crews & Tangos in the Village when I first started drinking.
Within the last year, though, it feels like karaoke now has a permanent place on the table when various pockets of friends try to decide the various ways we’ll hang out. This summer, a bunch of us rented a room at Bar+ on Yonge above Dundas on a Saturday night, and there was a little Amy Winehouse moment at the Gladstone, too. Within the last two weeks or so, I went to an Elton John-themed karaoke night promoted by a PR firm as a promotional tactic for the new, semi-abstract ballet Love Lies Bleeding. And the (very) unofficial Operanation after-party? A group headed to a room at XO Karaoke on Bloor. Hip-Hop Karaoke at Revival on College? A near-religious institution for some that I’m sure you’ve heard of.
And then there’s Jason Rolland, a 23-year veteran of the Toronto karaoke scene. The disc jockey-cum-emcee is probably one of the better-known hosts of nights where you can get up on stage and do whatever you want to feel silly (or great) about yourself.
Thursday night, 11 p.m.: I’m dropping in on Rolland’s weekly gig at Grindhouse Burger Bar on King West. When I arrive, it’s dead—embarrassingly so, almost. I’ve been to a Rolland-hosted session before, earlier this year when he still did them at Tequila Sunrise on Adelaide. You’d like Rolland a lot. He’s burly and seems surly, but the man has a dry wit that will cheer you up after having to endure yet another chick butchering something out of the Adele repertoire. (“This song makes me want to kill myself,” says a smart, smart girl to my left about “Someone Like You.”)
Rolland started doing karaoke at way-old school bar Points North at Ontario Place way back when he was still performing in summer-stage shows as a featured singer. But the way he came to host his own night was a complete accident: he befriended the emcee through song each week, and eventually guest-hosted a few nights just for fun before deciding to go out on his own—an expensive feat back when cassettes were still common, and videos with words on the screen weren’t readily used or even available. “It was just pieces of paper with lyrics,” recalls Rolland, who used to pay $180 for 30 backing tracks when “laser discs” were just coming out. “You really had to know the song.” Fifteen years later, the industry has changed and he owns all his equipment, has a digital catalogue of over 49,000 songs, and he’s earned a seriously credible reputation as a full-time karaoke master (and a wedding DJ too, if you’re interested).
Midnight: The night seems to have resurrected itself. There’s a table of about 16 or so devout Rolland followers here (including one of my building-mates, and the charismatic owner of the burger joint who still charged me double the price for a double). They clap, and encourage, and yell. Seven more people walk in, leftovers from Casie Stewart’s Speakeasy (which was > HarthFest, if you’re curious). I’m browsing Rolland’s catalogue and laugh at his “banned” list: Meatloaf, Bette Midler, Michael Bolton, Josh Groban, Celine Dion, Journey’s or Glee’s “Don’t Stop Believing.” It’s interesting, indeed, how song choices usually reflect an aspirational version of the person singing them, or, as my grade-10 music teacher would say, the songs you choose are what your feelings sound like. That’s why I’m at a bar, and not reporting from a private room. In public, I’ve been known to sing stuff like the Stones’ “Satisfaction.” In private, with friends, I’m all over Rihanna and Drake’s “What My Name?” That’s the strange appeal of karaoke nights at bars: there’s nothing that makes you feel more naked and more like “the ‘you’ that you want to be” than singing with/to/for strangers. It’s a lesson in identity manipulation.
There’s a girl named Veronica singing I forget what, but she coos like Janis and howls like Florence. Aiden, a pocket size man-child, goes next with a soulDECISION song—yes! Hidden gems are abundant in karaoke—and people actually dance as he struts around the crowd like a mini-Mick Jagger. I am losing my shit at how much people are into it. That charismatic owner (Rob Pettigrew, my cyber-stalking tells me) sings BNL’s “Brian Wilson,” and, Jesus, is he ever good. And to weed out the “seriousness” of the whole thing or those pesky wannabe-diva attitudes (that’s also banned), Rolland says things like, “Hold on to the shaft, not the knob, of the mic.” And it’s fun, like, for real fun.
Considering I barely know about two or three people in here (and I came alone), I’m digging watching people I don’t know go nuts (like a dude-friend of mine who strips for his rendition of Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical” and parades up and down the aisles and sprawls out over tables). I’m especially excited when a girl—who might as well have been Parker Posey in Spring Breakdown—turns the place into a gay nightclub as she jams out Ke$ha’s “We R Who We R” while the crowd throws their arms up and encloses her in looks like a throwback to MuchMusic’s Electric Circus.
So, yes, it would appear people are still doing karaoke in spades, and loving it more than ever. “The presence is very strong in the city right now,” says Rolland. “People thought it was just a fad, and 25 years later, bar karaoke is still very much around.”
But why, I ask him.
“People are always going to want an outlet for their creativity. And you get the accountant, who is just another guy in the system, but then he sings and he’s a star for five minutes. I know that sounds cheesy, but it’s true.”
I agree: the Grindhouse crowd comprises everyone from sales managers to public relations professional, marketers, designers and servers on their day off. But do shows like Glee and X Factor and all that stuff have anything to do with the visibility of karaoke as a non-cheesy pastime? “I have seen a bit of a bump since Glee and stuff like that came out; not in the amount of business, but in the type of people that are coming,” explains Rolland. “It’s getting a lot more broader in terms of clientele and retention. Before, 10 people would walk in, and five would go, ‘Ew, karaoke. Let’s leave.’ Now, seven or eight will stay and see what’s up, since pop culture sort of dictates this isn’t really lame at all.”
Is participating in karaoke actually part of well-rounded social life now?
Sunday night, 11:35 p.m.: “Where is there a bar that does karaoke at Bathurst and College on a Sunday night?” That’s a complaint/concern from one of my friends as we descend upon Rolland’s second regular night of singsong at the Little Italy-adjacent Toby’s Famous Eatery. I’ve never been one to frequent this (or any) stretch of College, and the street traffic feels like a scary omen of what we’ll expect. Tonight, Rannie Turingan, a “social documentarian” (read: photographer) that everyone knows and loves, is subbing in for Rolland (who, I assume, is probably busy playing another private gig). The crowd at Toby’s is… eclectic. It’s too bright to wash out the audience, and there’s no real stage (so people walk through your “spotlight” en route to the washroom). In fact, my first words to Turingan are, “How is anyone comfortable enough to sing here?” But, just as the first song finishes, the diners applaud enthusiastically. If we’re comparing this to Grindhouse (which we are, because it’s two sides of the same coin, and the same company), the whole vibe is completely dissimilar. On Thursday, there were sequined Ugg boots; tonight, there’s a Transformers belt buckle. Need I say more?
The Toby’s crowd is mostly college kids and their cliques. And the anonymous feeling almost feels better. There are hair colours, lots of them—a My Little Pony blue ponytail, Nicki Minaj pink, a Christmas red pixie cut. And labret piercings—at least four of them. The bouncer carded me, and he’s eating chicken wings at a table like it’s just another day on the job. Just then, a group of four girls, and one guy—no older than 20, I’m sure—begin to sing “Stop” by the Spice Girls. It’s a group effort—complete with the best amateur Mel C I have ever seen. Even the bouncer is bobbing along now as their performance gains momentum and choreography. And people are singing along, myself included. It was like that scene from the Sex and the City sequel; a terrifying thought in theory, but fun in practice. If they can do it sober, than so can I. (I talked to one of the girls after, and it turns out she was “totes sloshed.” On a Sunday? Is that awesome—or just a by-product of being born in ’91?)
12:30 a.m: Any doubt I had about this place—and its crowd—is dissipating with each performance. (There are also $10 three-shot bar-rail pitchers.) Come to think of it, if I lived nearby and was a poor student, I’d be here every Sunday for the cheap eats and the free entertainment too. Duh. A toque-donning Master’s student (I’m guessing, and teasing) begins Eminem’s “Without Me,” and now that bouncer is actually rapping along loudly and dancing around. And a silver-haired gentle soul perches on a barstool with Stevie Wonder’s “For Once In My Life.” And what makes karaoke fun, I have decided, is when you take that vow of “for better or for worse” upon entering into the agreement that you’ll put up with whatever, or whoever, hits that stage. Case in point: someone doing a Chad Kroeger number. (“They’re butchering a perfectly good song,” I hear behind me. Isn’t that the cutest oxymoron you’ve ever heard?) It’s also moments like this that make you say, “If they can go, so can I.” I mean, let’s face it: when you’ve sung at places like the Gladstone and Crews & Tangos (not exactly the Apollo), you can take on anything.
So I got my best twang ready, grabbed a girl and finished my weekend adventure of karaoke by singing Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine.” Yes—it was amazing, and fun, and funny; audience participation, a cowboy hat, two shots of tequila, and a do-si-do. And yes—there is video of it that may or may not ever appear online. So, whatcha doin’ tonight? Toby’s is open for another round with Rolland. If I can do it, so can you.
You can catch the karaoke stylings of Jason Rolland every Thursday (and last Friday of the month) at Grindhouse Burger Bar, and every Sunday and Monday at Toby’s Famous Eatery. Find out more at Jasonrolland.com.
