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Arlene
Grocery has the dubious distinction of being the Lower East Side's
current hot spot. Even on a Monday night, there are usually fifteen
or twenty smartly-dressed young professionals listening to yet another
folk singer, sipping girly drinks, and gazing with some anxiety
at the unruly horde that begins to drift in at about a quarter to
ten. Tall or short, male or female, long-haired or buzz-cut, clad
in khaki shorts and an oxford button-down or a vintage Manowar T-shirt
and leather pants, barely old enough to get into the 21-and-over
club or venerable enough to have seen Iggy and the Stooges live,
the members of the mob all share one thing in common: Like faithful
acolytes, all are drawn here for a ritual that has repeated itself
every week for over two years.
It's
magic. It's an addiction. It's anarchy in action. It's run by a
Birmingham lad named Owen. It's Arlene
Grocery's world-famous punk rock/heavy metal karaoke,
and there's no experience like it on earth.
As the
evening's last band starts breaking down round about ten, a short,
skinny, loudly dressed man with an accent originating in an industrial
town in northern England will take the stage. He will usually amuse
the crowd by yelling at the sound guy to "turn the bloody mike
on—no, the OTHER mike!" and reminiscing about how
he used to go see "the CLASH man, the bloody CLASH,
man" for three-quarters of a pence back in the day. This isn't
avant-garde stand-up comedy; it's Owen, the club's owner. Owen is
undoubtedly the most important person at PR/HMK, the hierophant-cum-emcee,
if you will, for he is the one who runs the show, and it is in his
care that the most holy of relics is placed: The Clipboard.
If the
karaoke regulars are a cult and Owen is the high priest, then the
clipboard is the sacred book. If you want to get up on stage and
sing your little heart out, you must sign your name therein. The
band has a regular playlist of songs they do, and the best ones
("California Über Alles" and "Where Eagles Dare,"
for instance) are taken quickly. When Owen drops the clipboard into
the crowd, it's like a school of piranhas skeletonizing a cow. In
seconds, nothing is left but the bloody scraps of second-rate Bon
Jovi songs. Not that the process is unfair-Owen actively encourages
first-timers, who sometimes have to be gently tied up with ropes
and thrown on stage by their friends. Besides, if you miss "Run
to the Hills" this week, there's always next week. The club
provides lyrics sheets, if you need 'em, and then all that's left
is to wait 'til Owen calls your name or song, get on stage, and
cut loose.
Did we
mention the band? That's right: Canned music is for other,
wussier types of karaoke. PR/HMK makes use of the talents
of Devin Emke on guitar, Rob Kemp on bass, and David Richman on
drums. Devin plays those licks just as you imagined you did as you
air-guitared along with Eddie Van Halen in your bedroom back in
high school, and David, for his part, might very well be Bonzo Bonham's
reincarnation. Rob, a talented bass player, is also good at cueing
clueless would-be front men when to start singing. They're more
than a cover band: PR/HMK wouldn't be possible without them, plus
they're talented and tight enough to make anybody sound good (and
it helps that the sound guy turns down the mike volume for horrendous
performances). So, be sure to give generously when they pass around
the tip bucket.
Of course,
there are also regulars who have made almost a profession out of
doing renditions of their favorite bands and songs. For example,
there's an entire Brooklyn-based KISS army, led by the redoubtable
Paulie Z. Occupying his post front-and-center of the stage every
Monday night, Paulie is the unquestioned king of KISS covers and
a damned fine performer to boot. (And if you can, check out KISS
Nation. It's amazing how much Jews from the boroughs
have given the music world. . . KISS, the Beastie Boys, Joey
Ramone. . . Paulie. . . )
But,
the vast majority of people who crowd into Arlene Grocery and take
the stage aren't would-be stars. They're the plebes of the music
world, the music-buying public, like you or I.
PR/HMK's
appeal lies in this: For between three and five minutes, you
are a rock star. All you dreams of being on stage, from the blinding
lights to the screaming crowd singing along at the top of its lungs,
are made reality. And, for Chrissakes, it doesn't matter how badly
you sing, or how pretty your hair is—it's about the spirit
of the thing, and the cheering, clapping, singing-along crowd is
nothing if not supportive. Some of the most electrifying performances
are by guys who look like aspiring middle managers. Put them on
stage, and their inner animal emerges. Gabba gabba hey, you're one
of us.
Some
might claim that punk and metal are two completely separate social
movements, and never should the twain meet. However, music historians
two hundred years into the future, if they bother take note of pop
culture as opposed to, say, Philip Glass, are not likely to draw
such a distinction. In the long run, there's not much difference
between the casual idiocy of Iron Maiden's "Number of the Beast"
and the studied idiocy of Black Flag's "TV Party." Both
are the primal scream of frustrated youth.
Some
might claim that amateur covers of kitchy metal songs and yesterday's
punk anthems are by nature hopelessly derivative, but then, if originality
was the litmus test for what "art" is, Andy
Warhol's cans of soup wouldn't be hanging on the wall
at the Museum
of Modern Art. PR/HMK has given every die-hard
metalhead a chance to relive the music of their youth,
from the transcendent silliness of Black Sabbath to the mass-marketed
glam of Poison, and claim it for their own. Similarly, it's given
old-school punks the chance to share angry anthems as
they were meant to be heard: Crammed against a nightclub stage,
being shouted by the angry youth of America.
Furthermore,
by allowing everyday Joes (and Janes, and would-be Joeys) the chance
to become rock stars, PR/HMK blows up the notion of what a rock
star is. A rock star isn't the guy with the ten groupies riding
in a limo down Hollywood Boulevard—he could be the guy in the
next cubicle. As Warhol himself once said, in the future, everyone
will be famous for fifteen minutes. Owen has made superstars out
of all of us. PR/HMK has the vibe of a rock concert, but it's infinitely
better: Because this is for the people, and by the people, the crowd
isn't just a passive audience—the crowd is the show.
Fuck
the latest mass-marketed "alternative" crap the radio
stations are trying to shove down our throats. If you need me, I'll
be at Arlene Grocery.
Punk
Rock/Heavy Metal Karaoke takes place every Monday night at ten.
There's no cover, but the club is 21 and over. For more info, see
the Arlene
Grocery Web site.
Sonny
Aronson of Creative Arson has also put together a 70-minute documentary
entitled, appropriately enough, Punk
Rock/Heavy Metal Karaoke.
For ordering information, see the Creative
Arson Web site, or pick up a copy for $10 at Arlene Grocery.
Would
you like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony? E-mail Tristan
at editor@corporatemofo.com
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