Went to outdoor karaoke in Mauerpark

Never Done: Spent the afternoon with probably two thousand people listening to outdoor karaoke

Kathleen loves karaoke. She had, in fact, hoped to be the person to introduce me to karaoke so that I would love it the first time I did it. After that didn't happen, she hoped that we would do karaoke together somewhere else, and that doing it with her would make me love it. I am very open to that possibility, but I am also open to the possibility that it's just not my thing. She also expressed some interest in doing karaoke together when we would be here in Berlin, and again, I felt completely open to that idea. Then she heard that there's a guy who sets up karaoke on Sundays in the Mauer Park flea market, and so we put it on our list of things to do when not doing things more directly linked to our mission in Berlin.

First of all, the flea market felt like a huge flea market anywhere. Vintage eyeglass frames and old tools interspersed with beautiful bamboo silk screened tee shirts. Old boots and jackets interspersed with handmade jewelry. Old and new photographs interspersed with -- what was that that? -- a gun? And what was that? -- a gas mask? OK, so maybe it's not like flea markets everywhere. We left the gas masks behind and entered a beer garden (my first! never done!) with grilled fish and sausages and split pea soup with more sausage. From there we wandered over to the outdoor karaoke, where an Irish guy KJ'd (karaoke jockeyed) for hours, the only compensation we saw being the coffee can he passed through the crowd, which people happily contributed to. I thought to myself, this is what my life used to be like, and this is what I used to want it to stay like, and there is still a part of me that yearns for this life.

Not that I was going to be a karaoke jockey, but that I was part of outdoor alternative economies throughout the 80s and a little bit in the 90s. Mostly I busked (played music on the streets) but I did other things too. I spent quite a bit of time with people who set up booths outside and sold things -- first in England, with the Green Roadshow, at Peace and Music festivals, and then in the United States, at the New England and Michigan Womyn's Music Festivals, the Common Ground Fair, and the Oregon Country Fair. In England, I ran an alternative tea house with some friends, and our motto was "we don't serve proper tea, 'cause proper tea is theft." A the Oregon Country Fair, I worked in the booth of someone who made handmade knives, and I also juggled, made and sold pies, and played music in exchange for food. I did the same things at the music festivals, and I also did work exchange -- bartered for my time at the festival with my work in the kitchen and a job I didn't enjoy, parking cars.

If I look honestly at that part of me that still yearns for this life, I see that it's not so much about being stuck in the past as about being unhappy with the present. How to put this? For all the years that I lived in Maine, I lived in rented apartments in old houses, and eventually in a yurt that I built together with my partner at the time, which we put on a beautiful 5 acres that we rented for $25/month. My mother used to say that I didn't live in Maine, that I lived in "alternative Maine." I always had jobs -- Family Planning counselor, Rape Crisis Assistance co-director, movie projectionist and all around do everything person, and also waitress and cook at a cafe that I eventually co-ran with a friend, pulling 17-hour days and bottom lining a business. So, how alternative was that? But it was, somehow, more in the mode I yearn for than the mode I live in now, and I think the difference is New York City. Even though I am more politically active now than I was then, and have a far better analysis of racism and other forms of systemic oppression, and have become a much more effective agent of change, I feel cooped up and ineffective. Cooped up by a city apartment, cooped up by exorbitant rent, cooped up by the confines of the city itself. Maybe part of it is that I am older, and weighed down with more possessions than I used to be, including many more that plug in. I don't think I owned anything that plugged in until I was in my very late 20s. Now I would be hard pressed to part with my computer and cell phone, and would have to think hard before giving up my Cuisinart and my compound angle miter saw.

So I was thinking about all this, while we were outside in Berlin on a sunny day, listening to people sing American pop songs on a karaoke machine. It was just the second time I'd been around karaoke (I wrote about the first -- it was in a room with people who all knew each other, rather than in a public space) and so much more fun. There was a spirit of relaxation and encouragement that didn't seem to depend on whether or not the person was a very good singer. It turns out that's not really the point. A couple people had good voices, but most people were singing off key, or didn't really know the words to the songs they picked -- and yet they wanted to get up and sing in front of a couple thousand strangers. The ones that gave most pleasure to the crowd either picked songs that were fun to sing along with, or had fantastic stage presence. Kathleen wanted to sing, and I asked when we got there if she could, and the KJ told us they would open up the list in about an hour. So in about an hour, I went up and asked again, and I was able to put her name on the list, but by then they had actually accepted a bunch more people. After another hour or so, she went up to check, and she found out that her name was last on the list, and that they would be stopping at 7PM, and that she might not get a chance to sing. I was hoping it would happen. I loved the idea, given what she is here for, of this huge crowd of Germans clapping and whooping for her. Also, I just wanted to hear her sing karaoke, because it's something that brings her so much joy. But time ran out before her name got called, and finally the Irish KJ took the mic and belted out a great Brechtian version of Minnie the Moocher, and the big, drinking, smoking German audience sang along in response: Hidey hidey hidey ho!

Group song

Never Done: Karaoke

It's true. I have never done karaoke before. I think I stayed away because I regarded the whole experience in contrast to singing or playing music with a live band, which I considered to be a more real and authentic experience, rather than singing with canned music and a video screen. Also, I didn't like the idea of people drinking to loosen up to sing, which I had a sense (from where? from movies?) was a big part of the karaoke experience.

When I met Danielle at Dara B's latke party, and she invited me to heartbreak karaoke, I knew I had to go, because karaoke has been on my Never Done list since I first made it. A few nights before we were going, she sent a link to the song selections the karaoke bar has -- and suggested we look through and select a few songs we might like to sing. Never one to ignore an assignment, I stayed up too late looking through Karaoke Boho's (terrible) search function. (You can't just look at a list of songs; you have to think of an artist or a song, and type it in to see whether they have it.) The first clue I got that karaoke might not be for me was that with over 80,000 songs in their system, they didn't have any of the top songs I was interested in singing. But I persisted, and I found a few songs in the system that seemed like they embodied the pathos of heartbreak, and that I could sing well.

So I went to the East Village with my little piece of paper with song titles on it, and as I was rounding the corner onto Orchard Street, I saw someone go into Karaoke Boho, and I suddenly got nervous. Why nervous? Why her? Because of all the people I met at the latke party, she was the only one who treated me with disdain. I'm not sure what she saw when she looked at me to make her act that way, but she wore it openly. At the party, I just decided to focus my social energies elsewhere, but now I was about to have my first karaoke experience with her? The thought of combining karaoke with judgment set me off for a minute, and so I texted Kathleen, who loves karaoke, to get a little advice about dealing with hipsters, took a deep breath, and went in.

A word about Karaoke Boho. How do I say this delicately? Not that I've ever been to a one-hour love motel, but ...

We walked down a long, shiny corridor to room #16 -- about 8x15, with vinyl benches around the perimeter, a low table in the center, and a video screen on the wall. There was just something about how perfunctory the set-up was that made it feel like we were renting the room for something a little more illicit than group song.

But song it was, and the 15 of us squeezed onto the benches, and the guy who works there showed us how to work the video remote/song selection, and left us alone to get down to it. But wait, there's one other thing I should mention. There was nobody else in this entire place. There were probably 20 rooms altogether -- upstairs and downstairs -- as well as a big open bar -- but there was nobody else in the joint. Which also felt a little strange.

But back in our room, people started looking through the books for songs (What? They hadn't done the homework?) and a general sense of embarrassment crept over the room: nobody wanted to go first. So one of the people who does a lot of karaoke did a great thing: she programmed a group warm-up song to get us going: Don't Go Breakin' My Heart. I was encouraged -- a song I knew, everyone singing together, take focus away from individual performance -- I could enjoy this. And then a couple people programmed in songs they liked and sang them -- and everyone sang along, so I went ahead and programmed in Behind Blue Eyes, figuring it would be a great group song -- a slow ballad leading up to an angry diatribe. But two things made it not a great song. First, it was in a super low key, so I was practically inaudible singing it, which was strange for me, since I am actually a really good singer, and the people who didn't know me didn't know that, and thought I was too embarrassed to put the mic close enough to my mouth. Second, only one other person sang along, while everyone else seemed like they were just waiting for it to get over. I really REALLY appreciated the other person for joining me -- I'm not sure if it was out of a sense of fun or kindness, but either way, I appreciated it.

So I was a little relieved when it ended -- and looking forward to more group singing, but then ... I only knew 3 of the next 15 songs that people sang: Psycho Killer by the B-52s, When Doves Cry, by Prince, and The Chain, by Fleetwood Mac.

Here are the songs I didn't know:

Torn, by Natalie Imbruglia?
Fuck and Run, Liz Phair
Don't Know Much, maybe Aaron Neville?
Take a Bow, Rihanna
I'm the Only One, Melissa Etheridge
Pull Up to the Bumper, Grace Jones (I'm surprised I don't know that one)
It's My Life, maybe Bon Jovi?
Every Day is Like Sunday, Morrissey
Love Will Tear Us Apart, Joy Division
Since U Been Gone, Kelly Clarkson
Say My Name, Destiny's Child
Self Esteem, Offspring
A Little Respect, Erasure?

That's a lot of songs not to know in an environment where the fun is derived from knowing the songs, and singing along. I tried to enjoy the process of getting to know the songs -- and there was definitely value to that. I tried to enjoy people's enjoyment -- but that took me only so far. I tried to enjoy the experience of having a new experience, but could only get so far as enjoying thinking about the new experience, not actually enjoying the experience. Here's what I was thinking about -- the fundamental Mussar question: what was the experience of the other? If I seemed not to be having a good time, was that negatively affecting anyone else's experience? I didn't want it to, so I tried hard not to seem bored, and I tried hard not to be bored. I tried hard not to feel marginalized, and I tried hard not to be marginalized. I was only slightly acquainted with everyone in the room (with one exception of Dara B, who I know a little better) -- but still, I didn't want to put an energy off in the little room that would make it harder for any of them to have a good time. Also, even though I didn't know these folks very well, I got a great hit off of them -- I liked them. I liked how they were with each other, and I liked how they were with me. I just didn't know them, was older than them, and didn't know the same music as them. In many other environments, none of those things would be a barrier to getting close. But they did seem to be the barriers to getting close in karaoke.

That's when it occurred to me that karaoke is probably most fun when you are with your own cohort -- the people you are already close with. The people who have the same cultural references that you do. The people who already know you're a musician with a great voice -- or not, if that's who you are. And when I figured that out, and I realized I wasn't likely to get closer to this group of friends by staying longer, and I wasn't likely to suddenly start knowing the songs, I decided it was time to go. I'm sure that the mide of decisiveness helped me here -- once I made the decision, I left without hesitation, and without inner or outer drama. And when I stepped out onto Orchard Street on a warm, drizzly December evening, I dialed Kathleen, who loves karaoke, for a real connection.