In the early ‘70s, a Japanese musician by the name of Daisuke Inoue invented the first ever Karaoke machine. The name Karaoke comes from a combination of the word Kara-meaning empty and Okesutora- meaning orchestra. However, even Daisuke’s Sadist ass couldn’t have fathomed what I experienced last night.



Rockaroake is the brainchild of George Aragon and Rusty Urie, formerly of Hit Explosion. I spoke with George about what ingredients were required to make the current Rockaroake stew. “Rockaraoke is comprised of a rotating group of local studio musicians,” Aragon told me.



Do any of you participate in original projects, I asked?



“Of course. A couple of our guys recently went on tour with one of the former member’s of the highly successful Christian band, Petra.”



Cool.



I wanted to see, firsthand, what was going on with this Rockaraoke, which meant a trip to Jazzbones in Tacoma. Every Monday night the club hosts the most raucous Rockaraoke in town. Here is my story.

9:05 p.m.

Under persistent recommendations from my local friends, I show up early so that I can ensure a spot on tonight’s Rockaroake roster. I am the third one to sign up which leaves me with no one to talk to but my good old friend Jack. Showing up early for a show is intrinsically un-rock so to prove that I am at the same rock level as Axl, Jim Morrison, and Keith Richards, I inform the bartender that I will not be singing tonight unless I have a bowl with 100 brown M&M’s delivered to my table. This doesn’t go as well as I had anticipated.

9:30 p.m.

The band is setting up. This seems bizarre to me. I wonder if they have pretend groupies who go to the after party, spell their names in pixi stick dust, snort it, and then drink non-alcoholic beer. The set up and mic checks are a bit surreal in the context of what is about to transpire. The only concrete rock necessity on stage seems to be the white high top sneakers that cover the feet of a Marty Friedman look alike guitarist.

10:00 p.m.

It’s go time. The first virtual rockstar of the night sings “You’ve Got Another Thing Comin’” by British heavy metal outfit, Judas Priest. It’s ridiculously good. Literally, no one should be allowed to sing this good over Judas Priest on a Monday night. No one.

10:30 p.m.

I need to get drunk while at the same time blending in with the crowd. I get a Jagr-bomb.

11:00 p.m.

I need more camouflage. I order another Jagr-bomb from Jazzbones bartender, and local drum n’ bass aficionado, Ben. This is going to go great with the pitcher I just bought. I’m inching my way towards true rock ‘n’ roll rebellion.

11:05 p.m.

Fucking finally. I get called up to sing the shortest song on the entire Rockaroake play list, “Song #2” by Blur.

11:06 p.m.

I finish singing song #2 by Blur. It’s over before it starts but I am now a dignified member of what the hostess referred to as the “Boners.” This is a play on words referring to people who perform at Jazzbones. I find this highly unnecessary. I get a shot of Jack.

11:20 p.m.

I have spent the last hour and a half drinking the aforementioned beverages with Tacoma Karaoke legend, Aaron Whitfeldt. I ask him how he feels about the circumstances that he is going to be faced with when he gets on stage to perform “You Gotta Fight For Your Right to Party,” now that the crowd has swelled to an incomprehensible 300+ person entity. “You could die at any moment, dead man!” he tells me. I conclude our interview and let him get mentally prepared to rap like MCA, AD-Rock, and Mike D.

12:00

Schadenfreude is a German word that, loosely translated, means “the malicious enjoyment of another’s failure.” This singular word encapsulates what makes karaoke especially enjoyable to people like myself. This word finally becomes realized when a group of three girls stumble onto the stage to sing “I Touch Myself” by the Divinyls’. They suck. Bad. One of the girls has Dolly Parton size cans and flaunts them with the viral persistence of a succubus. I order a shot of jack.

12:30 a.m.

I am sitting next to a cute girl who I had just met a couple of hours ago. Her name is Van. With a cold beer in my hand, and the non-Marty Friedman absolutely wailing on his guitar in the background, I decide that it’s time to dissect the philosophical conundrum that the studio musicians making Rockaroake tick must have faced at one point in there life. Are you an artist if you don’t create art? George Aragon put it very eloquently when he stated that, “the members of Rockaraoke don’t consider themselves to be in a band but rather people performing a service.” But what about after the show? Would you feel satisfied if you were an extremely talented artist but you spent the majority of your time painting exact replicas of famous works? Instead of spending every sunset trying to capture the last fleeting moment between light and dark whilst refining your use of impressionism, you just draw another Mona Lisa? Can this be spiritually fulfilling? Can you ascend to the top of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and reach Self-Actualization while your 12th lead singer of the night almost falls off of the stage in a drunken stupor during “Wonderwall?”



Van simply replies, “I like Rock Band.”



I buy a shot of tequila.

1:00 a.m.

I’ve got to get out of this place. The decline of western civilization is taking place on Sixth and Anderson. I bid my fellow “Boners” adieu and catch a ride to my sanctuary of refuge, Magoo’s. My life has been changed by the events of the night but I escaped, dammit. I escaped. And the studio musicians of the world will have to sleep another night without my blood on their lips.