Nobody’s Too Cool

Sunshine, the surly and careworn barmaid at Smog Cutter, brays above the drunken din, “Shawn and Christ, get over here. You’re up.” The questionably named Sunshine doubles as a karaoke hostess when she’s not razzing the regulars at this watering hole-cum-karaoke bar on a sketchy stretch of Virgil Avenue south of Los Feliz. It’s Sunday night’s usual mix of slouchy Silver Lake boys and girls in their 20s mingling with the regulars--Vietnam vets and serious drinkers--most signing up to sing.

Tonight’s next, um, performers (actually named Shawn and Chris) sit at their bar stools, microphones in hand. In the best karaoke tradition, they’re ready to stumble, smirk and sing their way through David Bowie’s “Under Pressure,” a rendition that barely resembles anything Bowie had in mind. But this crowd doesn’t care--Shawn, Chris and everyone else in sight is having a great time.

Smog Cutter is far from unusual in a metropolis dense with karaoke bars. Yes, other cities have karaoke, but in no other major urban center is it as prevalent, as popular, as hip. Since its American debut right here in Los Angeles 20 years ago, karaoke has morphed into this decade’s answer to happy hour. From Koreatown to the Westside, from uber-trendy Moomba in West Hollywood to the super-seedy Smog Cutter, karaoke transcends social strata, bringing enough warmth to the bar scene to melt the frost off a chilled martini glass. The club scene can be an ugly place, filled with cliques of beautiful people glaring at one another. Karaoke cuts through that. And in this town, where image often triumphs over anything else, karaoke’s humanizing qualities might just be downright necessary.

L.A. offers a brand of karaoke to cater to almost every crowd--young and cutting-edge, middle-aged and wistful.

Some places, such as the Brass Monkey in Koreatown, Dimples in Burbank and many primarily Asian venues have karaoke every night. Others, such as Barney’s Beanery on Santa Monica Boulevard, Zen in Silver Lake and Liquid Kitty on the Westside dedicate just one or two nights a week to the craze. But more nightspots are adopting the Japanese import, and more people are discovering karaoke’s therapeutic thrill of letting off some steam.

It’s a simple formula: Take a bar, add karaoke, and walls come down, image maintenance is momentarily forgotten, stress is relieved, strangers bond as they prepare to rip through an emotional ballad or simply share the joy of singing along to a familiar song with an entire roomful of strangers.

Smog Cutter, a long, small hole in the wall, is one of L.A.’s more visceral karaoke scenes. There’s no stage here. You just stand in the middle of the room, or sit at your stool, and sing a song from the big book after slipping the hostess a piece of paper with your name, the song title and its number, and maybe a small tip as a gesture, but not an obligation.

Most karaoke bars show the song lyrics on large TV screens, but Smog Cutter includes schmaltzy videos that usually have no relevance to the song--blowsy blonds in sheer shirts and leggings pouting in front of a mirror to the tune of, say, Sinatra’s “My Way.”

It turns out that there are actually two Chrises at Smog Cutter this evening--one African American Chris and one blond-haired, blue-eyed Chris. Sunshine wastes no time in pointing this out, proving that Smog Cutter is no palace of political correctness.

“Chocolate and Vanilla Chris, come up here,” she wails. She then coerces the Chrises to sing an impromptu rendition of “Ebony and Ivory.” Genius.

Shawn McDougal, friend of one of the Chrises, says, “People come here to get out of their boxes. It’s a little community that’s created because of a sense of freedom and fun.”

This sense-of-community phrase is thrown around a lot at karaoke bars. Dr. Choi Choi, an L.A.-based psychiatrist, is not surprised. “There’s a community feeling created by karaoke that a lot of American bars, especially ones in L.A., lack,” Choi says. “In Europe, the pubs have that community feeling naturally. Here, many bars are filled with TV screens and people don’t always talk to one another.”

For Stephen Ingle, 33, an independent filmmaker who lives in the Hollywood Hills, karaoke bars are an alternative to “snooty, overpriced places where you have to be on a list or stand in the line of shame waiting to get in.”

The paradox, of course, is in such an image-conscious town, why are so many people prepared to make fools of themselves? The entertainment industry has given L.A. a rich talent pool, so at least theoretically there are fewer fools ... well, singing fools at least. On any given night behind the microphone, four out of every five singers can at least carry a tune. At most bars, professional singers rub shoulders with those whose previous best performances have been in the car or the shower. That its crowds embrace the bad as enthusiastically as the good is one of karaoke’s enduring appeals.

“Everyone forgets about the cool image they have to portray at other clubs,” says Darren Cohen, 28, a real estate analyst from West Hollywood. “It breaks everyone down to their basic elements and they can relate as human beings.”

From Cameron Diaz in “My Best Friend’s Wedding” to Andy Garcia in “Black Rain” and, of course, Gwyneth Paltrow and Huey Lewis in “Duets,” movies were good to karaoke in the ‘90s.

Karaoke has been a business here since 1983, when Santa Monica-based Sing Young began importing home machines to the U.S. But it didn’t really take off until machines migrated to bars. Even now, the home machines are “not as popular as going out,” says McCoy Mao, general manager of Sing Young, still a top L.A. distributor.

Sing Young may have been the first to import the machines, but Dimples, a Burbank karaoke institution, claims to be the first karaoke bar in America. The brainchild of owner Sal Ferraro, it began with an eight-track “singing machine” and sheets of song lyrics, in 1982. With its proximity to Warner Bros., NBC and Universal, Dimples seems to attract more than a few aspiring actors and fallen stars. But it’s the super-surreal perks that make Dimples worth a visit: an applause machine and an enormous video screen reflecting the singer’s image--very humbling if you’ve been staring too long at your airbrushed head shot.

Also, there are props. Cowboy hats for belting out “Rocky Mountain High,” a Mexican sombrero for more fiery numbers, a small guitar for those who want to feel like Elvis. And for first-time singers, there’s an audiocassette of their performance--a very tinny recording, but a great gimmick.

The Farmers Market weekly karaoke night, another local institution, is a much more stripped-down version than at Dimples. No gimmicks, no props, just really great singers, many in their 50s, 60s and up. On this night, Diana, a sixtysomething woman in a plastic silver dress with a zipper up the front and mesh sleeves, sings the swing song “Jump Jive and Wail.” A man in his 50s blasts out a version of “I Feel Good” that’s as good as the original and then finishes with a full split on the floor.

There are some younger people, but they watch. Liz Hackett, a 27-year-old writer from Hollywood, says, “There’s a slightly more poignant quality here than at other karaoke places. The younger people come here for the same reason they go to the Kibitz Room at Canter’s--for the kitsch value.”

The Asian venues--in Koreatown, Little Tokyo and Chinatown--have long favored the private karaoke experience as opposed to the Americanized barroom rousing sing-along. I headed out with five friends to Vaskia in Koreatown, where we found a mix of clientele that made it clear the karaoke scene there is hardly a secret anymore.

Vaskia has about 20 private rooms (in Korean they’re called no-rae-bangs, which translates as “singing rooms”). Ours is cozy and intimate, just enough room for six to share the zebra-print velvet couches.

There’s a huge songbook, with only a few pages of English songs. Luckily, they’re classics, and after warming up with some Korean liquor called soju, we’re ready.

There’s no host here, just an automated machine and a remote control. After each person sings, the karaoke machine judges your performance, giving scores that seem to range from 82 to 100, a nice touch for those who crave instant gratification. I never thought six people singing in a room could be so much fun.

In West L.A., there is a growing enclave, with three Japanese-style karaoke studios on the corner of Sawtelle and Olympic boulevards. It’s what Ralph Koyamo, owner of Karaoke Bleu, calls “Little Tokyo of the Westside.” To the Japanese, karaoke is “what baseball and apple pie are to Americans,” according to Koyamo. Karaoke Bleu is the most Westernized of the lot, he says, a bar rather than private rooms.

Karaoke isn’t the focus of attention here. People chat through performances, and after you sing, there’s no cheering audience. But as Antonia Roeller, 23, a UCLA film student points out, “this is the most authentic experience of being a lounge singer, because people carry on drinking and talking, totally oblivious to the fact that you’re singing.”

In L.A., even the stars crave a moment under the karaoke spotlight. Actually, stars and star makers--the publicists, producers, agents, lawyers, development execs, makeup artists, stylists.

Wendy Parker is a karaoke hostess, a karaoke diva, in fact, who, along with her partner Johnny See, caters to this particular niche. Their Los Angeles-based company, JVS, provides karaoke hosting services to several bars around town, including Dublin’s on the Sunset Strip, Liquid Kitty, Jillian’s at Universal CityWalk, Moomba and, until recently, J. Sloan’s on Melrose Avenue. Parker also does private parties--Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt have used her services, as did GQ magazine for its recent party at the Sunset Room.

But, Parker says, it was her stint at Miyagi’s, that West Hollywood circus on the Sunset Strip, that made her realize karaoke was alive and well in L.A.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Jamie Foxx was there all the time. Chris Tucker, John Popper from Blues Traveler, Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears, ‘N Sync, the Backstreet Boys. Sometimes they’d sing off each other.” Miyagi’s, which took a 10-month hiatus from the karaoke carnival, expects to start up again later this month.

But it’s at the Brass Monkey where you’ll find all of the different karaoke scenes in L.A. converging. Located in Koreatown, it’s the epitome of an eclectic crowd. Eastside locals mix with camp drag queens, who share microphones with TV stars, while Asian American torch singers slap the backs of African American soul singers. The Brass Monkey truly is a karaoke melting pot.

If you don’t book a table in advance and arrive by 9 p.m., you probably won’t be able to sit in the cozy, nonglitzy wood-paneled cavern. If you don’t arrive by 10, you probably won’t be able to sing. But by that time of night, it’s not really about the singing, it’s about the energy, an infectious feverish party-like buzz you can’t escape.

On this Friday night, there are more than a few familiar faces. Some cast members from the WB’s “Angel” have come to let off steam, including J. August Richards, who nails a rousing version of ‘N Sync’s “Bye Bye Bye.” The high point though, is when Marcella Detroit, formerly of the band Shakespeare’s Sister, treats the room to her hit song “Stay.”

There’s also the Brass Monkey’s own celebrity/godfather, 74-year-old Art Himmel, who delivers spine-trembling operatic renditions of Sinatra’s “My Way.” He’s a fixture here and can often be seen swanning about, hugging and kissing pretty young things, sitting at tables of twentysomethings.

By midnight, it doesn’t matter who you are or what you sound like. Sleek, long-legged model-actress look-alikes bump and grind against heavyset college girls, buff Hollywood boys, middle-aged co-workers, all screaming and dancing along to Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family.” This sort of energy, found in varying intensities around the city, suggests karaoke not only is thriving, but it also hasn’t peaked. Brass Monkey’s weekend host Chris Whitt, for one, is convinced karaoke is only getting more popular. There are new karaoke nights launching each month and new venues opening regularly.

One of those is Boardwalk 11, on the Westside, in what was formerly Stevie Joe’s Supper Club. The owners, Stephen and Hirome Spears, come with something of a karaoke pedigree--Spears is the son of Brass Monkey owner Alan Spears. It’s too soon to tell if Boardwalk 11 will have the same magic, but Martin Moakler, 26, an actor from Hollywood who loves the Brass Monkey, was here to check it out. “I sang a few slow songs.... I did a few guilty-pleasure numbers, even some show tunes, and it was really fun.”

Late in the evening, I find myself on stage, singing Faith Hill’s “You’re Still the One.” An attractive woman in her 50s punches the air and shouts, “You go, girl!” This is the kind of impromptu sharing with strangers that karaoke inspires. Afterward, she pulls me aside and says I remind her of her daughter, who has just moved to the East Coast.

She tells me she used to sing on Broadway, and with her daughter gone, she’s come to Boardwalk 11 to cheer herself up. Will she sing for us tonight? “Oh, I don’t know, honey,” she says and sighs. “I come here for the healing, and I can get that from singing or listening, just being here.”

Like so many other Angelenos, she has found that karaoke can take the sting out of a lonely night, create a community out of strangers or give a struggling singer a few moments in the spotlight. Forget yoga, reiki, psychics and masseurs. For some, karaoke is the only healing they need.

*

Julia Gaynor is a Los Angeles-based freelance writer.