A friend of mine told me I needed a severe attitude adjustment. At first, I didn’t know what she was talking about: “What’s wrong with my attitude?”

“You’re the only person in this room not having fun,” she said. She was right. We were in the midst of a typical Friday night crowd at the local watering hole. I don’t drink, but I don’t think that had any bearing on my state of mind and, if anything, if I was a drinker my negative view of the situation probably would have been worse, not better. On the stage, which seemed to be the size of a backyard pool’s diving board, was a cover band. Not just any cover band, mind you, but an ’80s hair metal band, complete with poofy, sprayed-up manes held together with gypsy-print bandannas and the whole “we are gonna Rock YUH” schtick — I think the lead singer even did Axl’s snake shake a couple of times.

And the audience ate it up. No question that the booze was indeed flowing, so there was a degree of liquid indoctrination happening, but their momentary adoration was not completely fueled by firewater. And here’s the thing: in spite of the inherent cheesiness of trotting out Europe’s “The Final Countdown” like it was something worth trotting, the band could play. The singer could sing. It wasn’t like they were incapable, so why were they leaning on the crutches of Winger, Poison and Slaughter?

Weeks before, I mentioned to someone that the only time karaoke is really fun is when the participants are drunk. Look, there’s a little truth to that, isn’t there? I barely can handle listening to the real Mariah Carey sing, so why would I get any pleasure out of listening to an amateur imitating her competently? Stumbling for words and attempting to reach those hellspawned high notes until her poor little head nearly burst like a festering zit…well, that might be more entertaining. Still, that was a snipe there, and in retrospect I realize that maybe I do need an attitudinal chiropractor to wrench my crap back into alignment and help me not be such an old, opinionated crank.

I’ve met people in cover bands over the years, and even though many have been of the “Du-ude!” variety, they had a clear notion of where they were on the entertainment totem pole, and where they weren’t, meaning that few harbored illusions of becoming stars in their own right. One once said to me, “I’m not here to be a rock star, I’m here to channel a rock star. People don’t come here to see me if they come at all for the music. They come to see through me to whoever and whatever I’m singing tonight.” It was a very honest statement, a knowing statement. This guy worked at a mortgage firm at the time, before the term ‘mortgage firm’ had the same effect as ‘baby killer.’ Deskside number-crunching was what paid the bills, and he knew it. Saturday night at the beachfront joint with the tiki lounge was for fun, it was escape, and it was a brief moment for this guy to think about the might-have-beens. (more…)