throne in his red beret, military fatigues, and white platform go-go boots, with a giant microphone next to him as if it’s the royal scepter, except it’s bigger than the throne.
From the earliest days of hip-hop, holding the mic was a sacred responsibility. No MC has ever worshipped it like Rakim, who boasted “I hold the microphone like a grudge” and used it to move-move-move the crowd. He was the original microphone fiend, and in his hand it was the third rail on the subway line into the cosmos; he made the mic smoke and then slammed it down to make sure it’s broke. (Hip-hop was the first culture I know of to spell it “mic,” to signify that a rapper’s mic was a different instrument from anybody else’s mike.)
Biggie has that great song “Mo Money Mo Problems” about being onstage, looking out at the crowd, with all the girls sitting on the guys’ shoulders, screaming his name. In the song, all the girls look like microphones to him. The ladies watching him amplify his voice, make it mean something. The thrill of looking out into an audience of those girls, so many rock stars have written poetry about that from Chuck Berry to Patti Smith, but I think Biggie was the first to recognize those girls as microphones. “Mere mics to me”—I think about that line every time I go to a show and see the singer bask in the screams.
But mike or mic, if you’re in the audience, the microphone is what the singer has that you don’t, and some part of you wants it. Holding the mike transforms you into a star, makes you say things like “one-two, one-two” or “testing” or “testes” or “There’s gotta be some people out there who like to drink tequila.” If you’re Billy Joel, the microphone smells like a beer. If you’re Steven Tyler, it’s a place to tie your scarves. If you’re Trent Reznor, you fling it to the floor to signify your alienation. Joe Strummer was the first rock star I ever saw do the move where they hold the mike stand into the crowd so it picks up our voices rather than theirs. It was my first Clash show and we were all singing “Garageland” and it was so touching (Joe Strummer wants to listen to us ?) that it’s always stayed with me, even if I’ve seen that move a thousand times since then. That machine can make anyone a star.
But you can’t step to the mike with fear in your heart. You have to love it, the way J.J. does, and you have to make the crowd love how much you love it. It’s like Hunter S. Thompson said about politicians—“maybe the whole secret of turning a crowd on is getting turned on yourself by the crowd.” Watching J.J. turn into Beyoncé, it’s not merely that she turns him into a star—he turns her into a star. You have to grab that mike like the song is desperate for you to bring it to life and wear it like a halo.
EIGHT
10:16 p.m.:
Rebel Yell
We’ve already spent a couple of hours in Sing Sing. But I have the untamable hunger for more, like a girl in a Billy Idol song, which is only right and natural, since for a few minutes I am going to be the girl in a Billy Idol song. My rebel yell can’t be stopped: You give me the midnight hour, I’ll give you the mo-mo-mo.
Right now I am a rock star. I am living the dream as Ted Nugent described it in the title of his live album Intensities in 10 Cities . Except in my case, it’s Intensities in 10 Shitty Versions of Other People’s Songs. But nothing can slow us down. The night is under way. In karaoke, there is no right or wrong. There is only mo, mo, and more mo.
But here’s the big question: Where did karaoke come from? How did it get so popular so fast? How did this become acceptable behavior? Why do we do this to ourselves?
There’s the simple historical answer: It began in Japan, where the word karaoke means “empty orchestra.” But I’m looking for bigger answers, digging into the primal aspects of the question. Where did the karaoke mind-set come from, and what does it mean that
From the earliest days of hip-hop, holding the mic was a sacred responsibility. No MC has ever worshipped it like Rakim, who boasted “I hold the microphone like a grudge” and used it to move-move-move the crowd. He was the original microphone fiend, and in his hand it was the third rail on the subway line into the cosmos; he made the mic smoke and then slammed it down to make sure it’s broke. (Hip-hop was the first culture I know of to spell it “mic,” to signify that a rapper’s mic was a different instrument from anybody else’s mike.)
Biggie has that great song “Mo Money Mo Problems” about being onstage, looking out at the crowd, with all the girls sitting on the guys’ shoulders, screaming his name. In the song, all the girls look like microphones to him. The ladies watching him amplify his voice, make it mean something. The thrill of looking out into an audience of those girls, so many rock stars have written poetry about that from Chuck Berry to Patti Smith, but I think Biggie was the first to recognize those girls as microphones. “Mere mics to me”—I think about that line every time I go to a show and see the singer bask in the screams.
But mike or mic, if you’re in the audience, the microphone is what the singer has that you don’t, and some part of you wants it. Holding the mike transforms you into a star, makes you say things like “one-two, one-two” or “testing” or “testes” or “There’s gotta be some people out there who like to drink tequila.” If you’re Billy Joel, the microphone smells like a beer. If you’re Steven Tyler, it’s a place to tie your scarves. If you’re Trent Reznor, you fling it to the floor to signify your alienation. Joe Strummer was the first rock star I ever saw do the move where they hold the mike stand into the crowd so it picks up our voices rather than theirs. It was my first Clash show and we were all singing “Garageland” and it was so touching (Joe Strummer wants to listen to us ?) that it’s always stayed with me, even if I’ve seen that move a thousand times since then. That machine can make anyone a star.
But you can’t step to the mike with fear in your heart. You have to love it, the way J.J. does, and you have to make the crowd love how much you love it. It’s like Hunter S. Thompson said about politicians—“maybe the whole secret of turning a crowd on is getting turned on yourself by the crowd.” Watching J.J. turn into Beyoncé, it’s not merely that she turns him into a star—he turns her into a star. You have to grab that mike like the song is desperate for you to bring it to life and wear it like a halo.
EIGHT
10:16 p.m.:
Rebel Yell
We’ve already spent a couple of hours in Sing Sing. But I have the untamable hunger for more, like a girl in a Billy Idol song, which is only right and natural, since for a few minutes I am going to be the girl in a Billy Idol song. My rebel yell can’t be stopped: You give me the midnight hour, I’ll give you the mo-mo-mo.
Right now I am a rock star. I am living the dream as Ted Nugent described it in the title of his live album Intensities in 10 Cities . Except in my case, it’s Intensities in 10 Shitty Versions of Other People’s Songs. But nothing can slow us down. The night is under way. In karaoke, there is no right or wrong. There is only mo, mo, and more mo.
But here’s the big question: Where did karaoke come from? How did it get so popular so fast? How did this become acceptable behavior? Why do we do this to ourselves?
There’s the simple historical answer: It began in Japan, where the word karaoke means “empty orchestra.” But I’m looking for bigger answers, digging into the primal aspects of the question. Where did the karaoke mind-set come from, and what does it mean that
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