Wednesday, Aug. 18, 2010

Learning to love karaoke

Most karaoke bars make me want to rip off my ears.

I'd rather hear eternal silence than another tipsy college kid screeching through the "na-na-na-na-na-na" section of "Welcome to the Jungle," or another bridesmaid warbling through the endless "la la las" and "lordy lords" of "Me and Bobby McGee."

But the staunchest karaoke hater, even I, cannot pass by Two T's on a Thursday night. You'd have to be a corpse to ignore this place. There's no way you can walk past the Hargett Street window, glimpse Cedric Page with his white shirt unbuttoned to his navel, eyes squeezed shut, clutching the microphone like a drowning man holds a life preserver, howling like a tent-revival preacher, and not poke your head inside.

By the end of his performance of Larry Graham's "One in a Million You," Page had practically slow-jammed himself onto the floor, and when he returned to his table across from me to watch the next singer, he immediately began ferociously banging on a set of air drums.

"I'm glad he did that before he had his gin," joked Corey Parker from behind the bar.

Just around the corner from downtown Raleigh's bus station, Two T's isn't much bigger than my living room, so when DJ Silk wades into the crowd, I can't hide.

I hadn't sat on a stool for five minutes before he tried to coax me into aping Stevie Wonder in front of 25 strangers. The stranger next to me, having just finished his Usher imitation, practically shoved the mic into my fist.

The inhibitions are so low here, and the enthusiasm for amateur crooning so intense, that I actually consider making a spectacle of myself. When the guy after Page belted out "Hotel California," nobody minded that he garbled the lyrics with phrases like, "Goodnight, said the night man..." No matter. In Two T's, you are the Eagles. You are Usher.

"What you have to do is motivate them, find their best attributes," said DJ Silk, aka Steve Winn. "Raheem, his strength is ballads. This lady here is a regular, and she's an older lady who likes older songs, so you want to steer her toward something like 'Do Right Woman, Do Right Man.' The thing is making them feel confident."

So powerful is the pull of DJ Silk that Marshall Welsh troops in on his bachelor party night, dragging behind him a crew of groomsmen from Kansas. He chooses "Hell Yeah" by Montgomery Gentry, a rabble-rousing country cheer, about as far from Page and his Larry Graham performance that I can't believe they both performed in the same bar.

But Welsh wouldn't think of missing this spot on a special night. DJ Silk, after all, is his best man.

"Everybody just relaxes here," said Welsh, explaining that Winn is a former co-worker. "Color is not an issue."

More than twice, the bearded man on the stool next to me insisted that I pull a fellow reporter out on the dance floor. But I dance like Al Gore, so I politely resisted, claiming objectivity as an excuse.

He went on to explain that he has been in jail - though not recently - and I thought, "This isn't the sort of conversation you hear at most karaoke bars," and as I pondered that, the stranger informed my colleague, "You make that tall guy look good."

I'm pretty sure I'll revisit Two T's. I may even learn the Cupid Shuffle. I may even forget how to be embarrassed and spend five minutes under the swirling green and red lights. DJ Silk, do you have any Tom Waits?