Imagine, if you will, a crowded little basement nightclub. The band of the night has just finished, and you’re all enjoying your drinks, talking and laughing and having a wonderful time.
Another band is setting up, and the MC of the night’s festivities gets up on stage. He has a spiel, he sings a song, he makes you laugh even harder, despite how terrible the jokes are.
The band’s warmed up, and the MC calls out the first name. People go up on stage, and sing songs you know so well — Blur, Hole, the Strokes, Weezer, Joy Division, the Cure — all songs you’ve sung along with on the radio, shouted at the top of your lungs in a club, loved and remembered from university, college, school, your life.
It’s a whole range of people. Giggling tipsy girls stumble through EMF’s “Unbelievable”. Hipster boys in Vans and ironic t-shirts sing out Morrissey with all their hearts. The singer from the earlier band laughs and does a fantastic version of Kaiser Chief’s “I Predict a Riot”. A middle-aged man shouts out “Teenage Kicks” with a dirty old perverse growl.
Some are terrible. Some are brilliant. But they’re all wonderful.
And then it’s your turn.
You get up and walk to the stage. They hand you a sheet of paper and a microphone. You can’t see the audience as well as you thought you could, because there’s stage lights in your eyes, and the guitarist looks at you.
“Ready?” he says, fingers just above the strings.
You nod, and hear the keyboard start that familiar melody. You open your mouth, and start to sing.
“She came from Greece, she had a thirst for knowledge…”
But you’re not Jarvis Cocker, you’re someone else entirely. You’re not singing anymore, you’re shouting out the words, shouting at every rich kid you ever knew, straining against your slightly-too-tight 7-11 shirt you wear ironically because you know you’re barely one step away from working at the Spar. Your voice gets louder and angrier and the audience is cheering you on, singing along, urging you further and further until you’re screaming out the last bits.
The audience cheers, the MC gives you a hug, and everyone compliments you as you waveringly head to the bar. You order a rum and coke, and laugh shakingly, still high on adrenaline and admiration, at the irony.
On the first Friday of the month, the Buffalo Bar in London, right outside the Highbury and Islington tube station, hosts IndieOke, a karaoke night unlike any you’ve seen before.
There’s no pre-recorded backing track, there’s no bored Pop Idol wannabes with spray tans and alcopops, there’s no Righteous Brothers or Robbie Williams or Abba. It’s a live band, it’s a selection of indie songs, and it’s you. You up there, on stage, being a rock star.
You can sing Devo, L7, Pixies, Franz Ferdinand, Radiohead, White Stripes, hell, you could even sing Oasis if you wanted to. The band helps you along, the lyrics are on a sheet of paper, and the audience loves you, no matter what you do.
The next night is Friday, 2 July, and it’s £6 at the door. Go see the opening band, go enjoy the singing, and, if you’re up for it, sing your goddamned heart out.
Just don’t sing “Common People”. That’s my song now.