Nine years ago, Seattle's lone honky-tonk, the Little Red Hen, decided to give karaoke a second chance. They'd tried it before in the mid-'90s, but it attracted "mostly an older crowd, and they didn't come out to drink and party," says the Hen's entertainment manager, Connie Robertson, whose bar normally hosts live country-music acts.
Tim Lane
Karaoke has become a barroom mainstay, and nobody is more obsessed with it than the Karaoke Korrespondent.
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But their redoubled effort proved different. Robertson plastered area colleges with flyers, and youngsters flocked. Before long, Wednesday-night karaoke at the Greenlake bar became "an institution," says Robertson, and lines to get in stretched down the block.
"It's been an extremely good thing for business," says Robertson, who adds that some karaoke regulars have taken a shine to the venue's more traditional live offerings as well. "As far as weeknights, Wednesday nights have basically been the bread and butter for a long time."
In 2009, the Hen shattered its annual Wednesday-night revenue records, and added Monday-night karaoke to further capitalize on the success. The Hen also holds line-dancing lessons every Monday night, and there's been considerable crossover between the two crowds. Lead bartender Sunny Echeverria loves the confluence of clients, calling Monday her "favorite night in 20 years of bartending."
A lot of nightlife fads have swept through Seattle in the past quarter-century, but karaoke isn't one of them. This (typically) drunken act of microphone mimicry is here to stay—and spreading like wildfire. Thanks to linchpins like the Hen, the Rickshaw, and the Mandarin Gate, the karaoke blaze burns brightest in the city's north end, home to Seattle Weekly's Karaoke Korrespondent, Jeff Roman, who files a field report every Wednesday for SW's music blog, Reverb. (Roman's columns can be found at blogs.seattleweekly.com/reverb/karaoke_korrespondent/.)
Roman lives in the same Greenwood home he grew up in. Karaoke, he'll tell you, is in his blood. He's Filipino, for one, and was weaned on a cassette-powered karaoke contraption with lyrics on the printed page in his family's living room. He eventually went on to a brief but enlightening stint as the Baranof's karaoke host, back when the swashbuckling Greenwood lounge was populated mainly by all-day drunks who considered pop music to be pure cacophony.
When singing, his artist of choice is Springsteen, although Roman is one of the most adventurous performers in the city. Not only can he carry a tune, but his dispatches often delve into the sort of technical minutiae that only the karaoke-obsessed can appreciate—and which the non-obsessed will find both educational and hilarious.
Following are five of Roman's Greatest Hits, if you will—unforgettable nocturnal journeys rife with elation, frustration, inebriation, and the eternal quest for perfect pitch. MIKE SEELY
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The only time I've ever been fired was when I hosted karaoke at the Baranof in Greenwood.
My buddy Jason heard the Baranof (8549 Greenwood Ave. N., 782-9260) needed a KJ [karaoke disc jockey] and recommended me to Carole, the manager, who had been trying to make karaoke work there for a while. He thought I'd be a great fit because he knew I loved karaoke, and I literally had zero going on workwise at the time. When I interviewed, Carole made the gig sound simple enough: Come in Sundays to Tuesdays from 9 to close, announce the singers, change out the music, and attract as many friends as I could to come in and liven up the place.
I started on a Sunday in September 2001. I came in early to check out the setup and meet the staff. They were still working off laser discs, which even for that time was outdated technology. The catalog had some selections crossed out because the previous host had taken a quarter of their library with him when he left. The bartender was a tall, husky, bald guy with a goatee and glasses named John. When I tried to order a beer from him, he told me he wasn't sure that was allowed and that he'd have to clear it first. I thought that was odd, but didn't want to cause trouble my first night.
John was a very serious man and was not amused by my goofy nature. As hard as I tried to break the ice, whenever he talked to me, his face looked as though he was staring at the biggest jerk-off on earth. That was the first lesson I learned about being a KJ: Some people just aren't going to like you. Thankfully, I had all my friends in that night, so it was a fun start.
My second day, I got to meet the regulars. John let me know it was OK to drink, but I could tell he was going to monitor my consumption. I decided never to give him the satisfaction of cutting me off, so I didn't ask for anything more than a couple of pints. Lots of faces come to mind when I think of my time there, but two people really jump out: a nice man named Rick and this prick named Jay.
Rick was a friendly guy who was there every night. He was in his 40s, had dark hair and a mustache, and sang with a lot of sadness. He had a beautiful deep voice; I learned some great old country standards by watching him perform. Meanwhile, Jay was in his 30s, had CornNut teeth from chain-smoking, and always wore a shitty warm-up and adidas thongs. His face just looked dirty. I admit I haven't been nice to every KJ I've ever encountered, but the ones I did mess with at least gave me a reason. This guy had a hard-on for me like you wouldn't believe. Whenever I called him up to sing, he'd take the microphone, make some mean remark, and shoo me off the stage. He was friends with the previous KJ, and didn't like the way that person was let go—so he took it out on me. He also hated the fact that I could sing his dick into the dirt.
