The first open-mike night I ever went to looked and felt more like an AA meeting.
A small crowd of anxious amateur musicians sat around a cold coffee shop. They were all biting their nails, suspiciously scanning the room to see if anyone "looked' more like a performer than they did. No one spoke until spoken to, and when their name was called to step into the spotlight, their eyes froze with panic, as if they were just called to their death.
But no wonder they were nervous. As far as talent went, none of them had any. I can't remember any of their names, but their horrible slit-my-wrists singing will probably haunt me forever.
There was Flock of Seagulls man — a rejected hair-band '80s rocker who strummed an electric guitar (sans amp) and paused every few seconds to pull his tube socks back up to his knees. He was followed by a wannabe Frank Sinatra crooner who stared down all of the women in the audience during his excruciating performance of "The Way You Look Tonight." Not because he thought they would melt over his singing, but because he really felt like Sinatra for that fleeting moment in his life.
Finally, there was the little-old-man-who-could. He couldn't have been younger than 80. And yet he sprung around the crowded stage with an acoustic guitar that buried his frail frame, singing poppy, funny folk songs about the fortunate death of his wife and the woes of his life. The entire crowd (all four of us) was enchanted by his energy, despite his off-key voice.
In fact, he was the worst of them all. But he didn't care. None of them did really. They had to know they'd never go far, but they were nevertheless addicted to belting out a tune or picking half-heartedly at worn-out guitar strings.
They weren't concerned with getting noticed — trust me, no one who was anybody would have been at this hole-in-the-Mesa-wall anyway. They were there simply to fulfill a love, or perhaps, a vice. They got nothing in return except for a few bursts of distracted applause.
Their lack of egos was refreshing, so I decided to frequent some other local open-mikes, and what I found was very much in tune with my first experience.
Sure, there are handfuls of would-be superstars who get their start on the open-mike circuit. It's the best venue for people with skill to showcase their talent and develop a following. And it's a gem to audience members to find a true talent who has yet to create a stage name.
But the majority of these open-mike groupies will never (and perhaps never wants to) be famous.
The humility of it all is so uplifting considering the current state of our music "icons." Little Lance Bass of N'Sync was finally denied the opportunity to rocket into space this week. The poor lil' lass couldn't raise the necessary funds to burst into the beyond and rid us of that irritating cross-eyed "don't hate me because I'm in a boy band" gaze for a while. Which, OK, actually would have benefited the greater population.
If only teen queens who match Bass's cheesiness could have been sent into space with him — Usher for those ridiculous Twix commercials, and Enrique Inglesias, because — well, just because.
On the other hand, it seems a few unlikely superstars have stepped up recently to proclaim that they will not fall prey to the slimy jackals of Hollywood hell, a.k.a., agents.
Newly chosen American Idol, Kelly Clarkson, said earlier this week she refused to sing The Star Spangled Banner on Sept. 11 at a commemoration ceremony at Washington's Lincoln Memorial because she didn't want to market herself on such a serious occasion. Way to go, Kelly. If only every day could be Sept. 11.
And the master of slime himself, Snoop Doggy Dog, said recently he has given up a life of drugs and sex in order to devote himself to his family. The raunchy rapper told Craig Kilborn Monday night that he will even appear on this winter's A Very Muppet Christmas Special. Oh, the trauma that could be inflicted on children everywhere. Let's just hope there's not a "Miss Piggy Style" single in the works.
Even so, Dogg's decision is — dare I say it — admirable. As admirable as possible for someone who immortalized the term bitch-ass.
While Kelly and Dogg won't be performing a heartfelt duo any time soon, they are examples of two completely different people exuding the same kind of modesty and sacrifice I see in the local open-mike groupies.
The State Press Magazine found some of these noble nobodies in order to find out what they truly see in an open-mike night. What we discovered is that these nights aren't simply something to do every week. They're a way of life.
Reach the editor at ashlea.deahl@asu.edu.
