Karaoke Crazy

You’ve ended up at a karaoke party.  Do your eyes roll
madly in their sockets while you search for a quiet corner? Do you
hyperventilate at the thought of singing in public? Or do you grab the
microphone and start rockin’ out?

I used to hyperventilate. Just the thought of singing in
front of a crowd made the contents of my gut begin to churn. But some
years back when my then-pastor, the saintly and adorable Rev. Davis
Chappell was turning forty, the church decided to throw a big party for him
whether he liked it or not. I called the organizer and said, “I’ve written a
parody of the song ‘This Magic Moment’ titled ‘This Tragic Moment,” and
you have to sing it to Davis.”

Steve said, “No, you have to sing it.”

I panicked. “No! No! I can’t sing in public! My voice goes
all quivery and I can’t breathe and—”

He commanded, “Sing it for me now.”

Obediently, like the good little Catholic girl I once was, I
sang the song in my terrified, quivery, singing-in-public voice, knowing he
would agree posthaste I couldn’t possibly sing in front of the group.

Steve said, “You’re singing. I’ll accompany you on the
piano. Meet me an hour before to practice.” And he hung up.

Moment of truth time. I sing alto, can keep a tune, and once
in a while sound pretty good—in my home, my car, or in the anonymity of a large
congregation. But my fear of singing or even speaking in front of a crowd kept
me cowering in dread of doing either one.

I had two choices: to finally accept that I was never
ever ever going to sing in public, or to woman up and sing.

Time to woman up.

For the next week I practiced obsessively in private, and
then began stopping people at work saying, “I have to sing this song in front
of you.” Eventually I could do it without having the vapors, and without the
accompanying urge to vomit.

The night of the party I practiced with Steve but without
a microphone, and managed to get through it in tune, without the quavering.

An hour later Steve put a microphone in my hand.

I sang the first line quietly. Through some holy miracle I sounded—good.
My shoulders straightened and I began to sing louder, more confidently,
bluesier. And the crowd loved it. By the end they were singing along and
cheering. People told my husband, “I didn’t know Valerie could sing!” He said,
“Neither did I!”

Much later, a new friend invited me to a karaoke party, a
regular event at her house. I selected the song “Crazy,” by Patsy Cline.
Typical rookie-karaoke bravado, I learned, to think I could handle that song.
Every woman at geezer karaoke bars thinks they can sing “Crazy.” Here’s a hint:
most people suck.

But—I didn’t suck. I sang that song like I was born in 1932,
like I wore a ’50s full-skirted dress and kerchief, like Willie Nelson (who
wrote it) wrote it just for me. I owned that song. One guy said, “I’ll
never look at you the same again.” And he meant it in a good way.

Afterward a woman said, “That used to be my signature song,
but I’ll never sing it again. I hate you. I’m kidding.” Then she said, “I hate
you a little.”

So, if you’re hosting a karaoke party, I’m your girl. I’ll
sing in groups, duets, singly, whatever. I haven’t yet braved the world of
karaoke bars, but someday I just might.

But if you’re contemplating following my road to instant
karaoke stardom, a word of advice: Do NOT steal another person’s signature
karaoke song. And by that I mean, stay away from Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” That
song is mine.

And I’m not kidding.