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Five friends wandered the entertainment district of Chicago's north side one warmer summer night, going from club to club, checking out the various musical venues. We couldn't decide between blues, rock, or alternative, when fate speared my brain on its fickle finger with the neon sign "KARAOKE."

Karaoke was new at the time, a Japanese import that was just catching on in the US. I had never worked up the guts to stand up in front of a crowd as a solo singer. That night changed that.

Oh, I'm a passable singer, in a deep baritone akin to Billy Idol or Elvis. A deep mellow voice, ill-suited for most love songs, but wired for sound when power ballads were concerned. I'd sung just a couple of years earlier before for the President of the United States of America as part of a ensemble. But a solo? Never.

Each member of our little group were technology freaks, and our curiosity was piqued about karaoke. Besides, there was a table right near the door, no cover charge, big enough so we could all fit. So we sat and ordered a round from the friendly waitress.

Then the caterwauling started. It was one of the most awful sounds I have ever heard. And it was coming from a human throat.

Maybe I exaggerate. But this girl was tone deaf. I mean, she couldn't find a note if it was glued to her nose. And her friends were cheering her on.

Apparently I wasn't alone in my fear of getting up in front of a crowd, and remember, this was all still new stuff. But every other song, we were being 'treated' to the same tone deaf girl, whose vocals were getting even worse as she tossed back shot after shot.

Finally, I'd had enough. I pulled the boys together in the center of the table during her next number, and we hatched our plan.

I found the guy controlling the music, made my request on behalf of the Bouncing Czech Singers, and maneuvered my way back to the table.

The crowd roared with laughter when we were announced, and laughed even more when all five of us took the stage. Then our musical selection started.

We were all fans of punk. I'm talking the acid-raw brand of punk, the kind where the Pogo and Slam dancing, and mosh pits originated. The boys began bouncing frenetically behind me, and I belted out my best screamed rendition of "Cats in the Cradle" at high speed and high volume.

We bowed to our standing ovation, and returned to our table, refusing further requests. But the bug had bitten me as a result of that reception.

I've been doing a bit of lounge singing ala karaoke for 25 years now.

Learn more about this author, W Thomas Payne.
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