“Where did you get tickets to this concert again?” I ask after my stub has been handed back to me.
My friend Allison grins. “Some guy at work was giving them out.”
“And this band is good?” I look at the ticket stub skeptically, certain I have never heard of the Laser Light Loners before.
As they begin to play, I quickly realize I actually wish to never hear about them or from them again. My three year old nephew makes better music when he is screaming “Mom! Mom! Mom!” at the top of his lungs.
After the fourth song, I tap Allison on the shoulder. She mouths, “I’m sorry,” but her eyes speak so much more. Soon we are in the parking lot and we are not alone. Half the crowd seems to have joined us. I have to wonder what kept anyone standing around to listen. My top contenders include being related to the band, having already reached a level of inebriation that makes the chaotic misalignment of sounds suddenly seem like musical poetry, or having the worst taste in music ever given to someone with full use of their ears and brain. I express these ideas to Allison as she offers to make it up to me by taking me to our favorite pub. Though we don’t drink, their fries and hot fudge sundaes are among the best I have ever tasted.
We have just polished off our sundaes when Allison giggles and points toward the door. “Looks like your new favorite band found your favorite place.”
‘What?” I glance over my shoulder to see the lead singer of the Laser Light Loners.
I roll my eyes. “At least it isn’t karaoke night.”
“I dunno. I think I’d like to see him pit his vocal skills against yours.”
“I have no skills,” I inform her.
“You must have some skills,” she says, nodding her head at something over my shoulder.
I turn to find the lead singer smiling down at me with the bass player and drummer flanking him like rock star body guards. “Hello.” I have to admit his voice sounds better when he isn’t screaming into a microphone, but my ears can’t forget the horrors that he calls singing.
I smile anyway. “Hi.”
“Seen any good concerts lately,” he grins at me.
“No,” my own smile fades.
“Oh!” He looks like I just punched him in the gut.
“Must not have seen our concert.” The drummer declares obliviously.
“We did,” Allison backs my play. “Part of it.”
“Ouch!” Looking deflated, the drummer heads over to the bar.
“Let me make it up to you. I’ll buy you a drink,” the lead singer offers. “I’m John, by the way.”
“Kim,” I offer him my hand, “We’re just drinking water.”
He mulls this over, inspecting the toes of his sneakers as Allison mouths, “Be nice. He’s not that bad looking.”
I roll my eyes at her but take a deep breath and her advice. “Maybe you could make it up to us another way.”
“I’d love to try,” he lowers his voice, grinning at me.
“Not that way,” I give him my most disapproving look.
He laughs, “Of course not. Of course not. So what do you have in mind?”
I glance at Allison, giving her a slow wink. “There is a karaoke bar on the other side of the street. Want to have a sing off?”
“You know I’m a singer, right?” He looks incredulous.
“Maybe you’ll have more luck singing someone else’s songs.” I grin at him and stand up.
Allison joins me, offering her own challenge, “Unless you don’t think you’re up to it.”
We giggle. Allison knows how truly terrible my singing can be. In fact, she once pointed out that the more I love a song, the more I seem to butcher it on its way across my lips.
“Oh. I’m up for it. Come on guys, give me some support.” He waves his friends in and they fall in behind us on our way out.
Our waitress looks at us curiously as she waves goodbye.
Soon, we are sitting at a sticky table with what I find to be arguably the worst band in the world, looking for the right songs to pit our voices against each other. Allison selects a country tune for me, hoping to highlight the accent I never completely vanquished from my speech when I ran away to the city. John lets his friends select a song for him, a ballad from the 80s that makes him wince just hearing the name.
While I am scrolling through my phone to get a reminder of the lyrics I will be singing, Allison stands up and walks over to the disc jockey. I don’t give it much thought until the background music disappears and her voice fills the air around us.
“My friend and I need your help,” she gestures toward me and the disc jockey shines a light on me, “She has challenged a new friend of ours to a sing off. You decide which one of them deserves the win. You get to listen to both songs and then we will ask you to vote for my friend or the other contender Doesn’t that sound fun?”
We get light applause and a few drunken cheers. One man stands up and starts to lift his shirt over his head, presumably to toss in Allison’s direction. Luckily, his friends talk him out of it, probably by reminding him that such behavior gets one kicked out of the establishment fueling the happy drunkenness.
I stand up to sing first. Even I cringe at how far off I am at points in the song, but the crowd listens with the politeness granted the inebriated. I even get a couple of supportive claps from the man who probably still wants to toss his shirt onstage. I appreciate his restraint.
It turns out John’s friends want to play to his weaknesses. Most of the chorus proves way too high for him, and the expression on his face speaks to his distaste for the song, the key it should be sung in, and probably the band from which it sprang. He closes up with a brief improv a cappella rap of insult for his friends and steps over to stand next to me as Allison continues her duties as master of ceremonies for our musical circus.
“May we first hear applause for my girl Kim.”
Most of the room expresses their preference for my musical stylings by pounding their hands together.
“And who prefers the musical stylings of John and his heartfelt ballad?”
A few people offer soft pity claps. His two friends try to make up the difference with loud hoots and hollers.
“And who just wants them both to sing again?”
A soft chorus of boos fills the bar. One person even calls out a helpful, “Get off the stage.”
And the most helpful of all is the drunk man assuring us loudly that if we sing again, he is taking off his shirt and giving us both hugs. I shudder as I glance in the direction of the wet stains in his armpits.
“That concludes this evening’s humiliation for my dear friend, though I think she may be the new frontman of a local band in light of tonight’s vote.”
A few people guffaw, but I doubt any of them have heard of the Laser Light Loners. If they have, they probably will join me in forgetting about them.
“I guess you bested me this time, but I am always up for a rematch.” John offers me his hand.
“Don’t touch the star,” Allison tells him as she begins dramatically dragging me toward the door. “No autographs, please.”
“Come on, Allison, don’t be rude.”
“Shh. I know you like being flirted with, but it can’t go anywhere,” she assures me, “What would you do if he wrote you a love song?”
~I kind of feel like this is how people would react to me deciding to be a singer. That is why I skip getting off the stage by not stepping onto it in the first place. I shall stick to my poetry for now, but feel free to let me know if you are brave enough to let me sing to you, so you can give me an honest opinion of my pipes.~
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