Turn Around Bright Eyes by Rob Sheffield Read Free Book Online Page B

grumpiest brat I ever have to spend twenty minutes being polite to. But Christ, I have to admit he’s hot. I see why they say a little prayer for you, Rupert.)
    2002: I learn about the existence of home karaoke machines. You mean, you can sing all night and not leave the house? Or even put your pants on? Apparently, that’s what they do in L.A. I hear this bombshell from Jimmy Kimmel when I interview him for Rolling Stone . “The friends all come over,” he tells me. “If I get drunk, I just pass out and somebody drags me upstairs. When I really mean business, I whip out the Neil Diamond. That’s when the clothes come off and everybody goes home. You can’t just sing those songs. You have to live those songs.”
    2013: Somewhere in your town, tonight, right about now, there is a karaoke dump that stays open far too late. These two songs are getting sung. One of them is revving up right this minute; the other is just a few minutes away. Find that place. Breathe in the air. It’s where those songs belong, and it’s probably where you belong, too. Journey and the Jove, on repeat. They offer sanctuary to us all.

SEVEN
    9:52 p.m.:
Crazy in Love
    Dirty secret: I know a guy who sings karaoke for cash. He’s a pro, working out of a bar in a mobbed-up corner of Brooklyn. I wouldn’t believe him if I hadn’t seen him with my own eyes, but this guy is good. The bar he inhabits has a twice-weekly karaoke night, with a slightly posh clientele, the kind of folks who would rather be in an upscale wine haven. These patrons have rehearsed their pronunciation of “rioja.” Some night they need a little encouragement to stop chatting about Homeland and artisanal cheese and make it rain at two bucks per song. So the bar owners secretly hire my friend, let’s call him J.J., to help break the ice. He sits at the bar, looking like just another mild-mannered customer. But when the room gets quiet, that’s the cue for J.J. to go to work. He gets paid to do the wild thing.
    I have watched him on the job many times, and I have never seen him fail. He has two proven routines, both classics of eighties booty-hop: Salt-N-Pepa’s “Push It” and J. J. Fad’s “Supersonic.” But his knockout is Beyoncé’s “Crazy in Love.” This wiggly dude busts out his pom-pom moves, and you can see why his pockets got the mumps. Watching him work the mike makes you want to be part of the fun. He isn’t a great singer, but that’s how he reminds people there aren’t any quality standards when it comes to karaoke. He makes you think, “Hey, it’s easy.” Then he sits down. He’s good, which is why we’re all broke and he’s so paid.
    How much do the owners pay him? Forty bucks cash, plus his bar tab, plus all the clams and french fries he can eat.
    I am kind of obsessed with his hustle, since I had no idea there was any such thing as a k-pro. It requires covert-op skills, as well as a weapons-grade ability to demolish inhibitions. In fact, J.J. puts the “bitch” in “leave your inhibitions at the door.” Nobody would suspect he’s working undercover. When he lets me spy on him, I have to keep remembering not to high-five him.
    Sometimes he makes me wonder, “Who else is a pro? How many people in this bar are secretly pros? Maybe I’m the only amateur here tonight, the only mark getting shilled? What if my whole life is an elaborately staged prank where I’m the only person I know who isn’t on the payroll of some secret Matrix -style karaoke conspiracy?”
    But watching J.J. also makes me wonder about the amateur aesthetic in general. That’s the essence of karaoke if anything is: never for money, always for love. In the many years I’ve been interviewing performers for Rolling Stone , one of my go-to questions is “What’s your karaoke jam?” Nobody ever has to think about it. They name a song right away, or start singing it, or confess they get too shy—that seems to be surprisingly common for actors and comedians, which