Karaoke

Tokyo at 4 am is a strange creature. In places like Akihabara and Asakusa drunk Japanese businessmen stagger around, laughing and killing time for the metro to open at 0500. Cabs bustle back and forth, luring people with the promise of an early ride home at exorbitant prices. Other places are dead, not even dogs wander the empty streets and the background city noise is the only noise. The street outside Smash Hits Karaoke Bar is one of these.

Six hours earlier, Barbara, Ryan, Rob, Rasmus and I set out on our adventure. Smash Hits is one of five karaoke bars that Lonely Planet recommends. It's got mostly English songs (Though we learned when we got there that there are songs available in over twelve languages), gives you two drinks with cover, which is an expensive 3500 Yen, and there is unlimited Karaoke time.

A sketchy looking stairwell leads down to the bar, which is much smaller than we thought it would be, though that expectation has held true for all of Japan so far. Ryan, a self-admitted Karaoke addict, bounds up to the dj and puts in his request. I glance skeptically over the songs list, kicking myself for coming. I can't carry a tune in a bucket, and rhythm is for marching. Then I remember that I'm six thousand miles away from anything I know well. Time to harden up.

Ryan's name is called. He practically jumps onto stage and utterly kills "My Way." by Frank Sinatra. I glance down at the song list and a name pops up at me. Suddenly I am in. I scribble down my choice and Barbara runs it down to the DJ with hers. Hoping for some courage or some rhythm or something I slam my drink and tap my fingers nervously. Two songs later, I'm up.

I run up the stage, flash a smile and all of a sudden I'm totally confident. I've been taught to be, and when I'm not, to fake it convincingly. I tap the mic. "Mic check one two, one two." The crowd laughs. And my smile gets bigger.

The opening lines of "Friday I'm in Love" by The Cure begin to play.

Two hours later we own the bar. Ryan and Barbara are the best singers out of the two of us, and do a duet that earns them high fives and applause.  Rob is not as good as them but whips out his LA Spanish and raps. Rasmus and I make up for our lack of any and all skill with volume and enthusiasm. We've done several group songs are now known as "Tokyo Hostel". I feel like I'm in a band.

Maybe I am.
Our direct competition is a group of what have to be Germans, and some Gaijin Americans led by a sallow eyed woman who is either high or crazy. Ours is the only international alliance, and our dominance shows in our versatility.

High woman has taken a shine to Ryan, who mutters darkly about her at our table. His irritation is hilarious to the rest of the group, his accent making every swear and idiom into a joke of it's own. "I'm just gonna tell 'er to piss off next time I'm up there."

And he does. When his name is called he jumps up on stage and instead of picking up any of the three other mics demands hers. She looks confused. I can't fully hear them, but I catch something about it being his set and he doesn't want her on stage.

She steps down just as his set starts. Our group cheers. This woman has been screeching along with our songs for the last hour.

You could not pay me to mess with Ryan. He's got an air of barely restrained violence about him and a cool confidence that makes it seem natural. When he laughs it is deep and rowdy. His most drunk ever story involves throwing three tvs and a microwave out of a fourth story window. At the same time, he is thoughtful and quiet. He worries about his country's ability to handle it's failing welfare system and is fiercely proud of Scotland. I wonder if all Scotsmen are like this.

Barbara and I jump up on stage and give our rendition of 99 Red Balloons. The Germans jump up to join us and we don't stop them. This is their song.

High Woman's group is losing cohesion. After a strong first couple of songs, their voices are fading and they do fewer and fewer songs. We continue to dominate.

It is somewhere around 2 am. The Germans leave shortly after my rendition of "Alejandro". I've been picking songs based on how well I have them memorized. Which leads to some weird choices. "Call me Maybe" being one of them. God help me. It's pop radio's fault. I resolve to invest in a satellite radio for Daisy, my twenty four year old Dodge Dakota.

We shut down the bar at 0300 with Mrs. Robinson, all five of us up on stage. Our rivals are on their way out. As we dismount the stage the bartender claps. The DJ shakes my hand. We have won tonight. Emerging onto the dead streets of Tokyo I am euphoric from nerves, exhilaration and exhaustion. I cannot believe Barbara is even standing. She got in from Germany less than 36 hours ago. The short, dark haired former Berliner has the skinny/strong build common to people that work out. She and I share an affection for climbing, though she is more experienced than I.

It is 0330. After munching on Japanese McDonald's (because it's 330 am in Tokyo, why the hell not?) we make our way around the city looking for something to do until 5 am when the subway opens.

Half an hour later we find ourselves at a 24 hour convenience store. Rasmus and Ryan have bought cigarettes and are smoking when we notice something of an anomaly. A car is parked down the street. The classic lines and unique hood ornament allow me to instantly identify it it.

A restored Ford model car from the 1940's. I don't know the exact model, an I'm not that into cars, but I know the machine standing in front of me is a piece of history. The owner walks out in a suit and hat, noticing us staring. He speaks perfect English and identifies the car's manufacture date as 1941.

What this shady looking dude with an antique car was doing at a convenience store at 4 am in the morning I will never know. But it was the cap on our night. Exhausted, we raise a taxi and pay an exorbitant amount to get back to our hostel. We don't care. We won tonight.

-Doug