In my review for a different Rob Sheffield book I concluded:
I'm left thinking that a memoir needs to be either: a) So mind-bogglingly outside the realm of my own existence that I am fascinated by the details; or b) So universal that I learn something about myself through the evaluation of someone else's experience. Talking to Girls About Duran Duran falls somewhere in the middle, and I think that's where it falls short: It's too mundane to excite and too personal to relate to.I know I'm risking looking pompous or foolish by quoting my own self, but Turn Around Bright Eyes was déjà vu all over again. This, Sheffield's third memoir, treads his familiar territory of sharing personal stories through the soundtrack of his life, with the added bonus that this time the soundtrack is also his karaoke set list. I still haven't read Love is a Mix Tape -- which is Sheffield's most beloved book about how his wife died suddenly when they were still really young -- but I was familiar with his tragedy so was heartened to learn that Turn Around Bright Eyes is about how he eventually fell in love again and got married. But as poignant as his experiences might be -- Sheffield was a young widower, lived across from the World Trade Center on 9/11, got a second chance at love -- I totally failed to connect with this book.
I did like the chapter about Sheffield's experience at a Rock ’n’ Roll Fantasy Camp -- it was just the right mix of gossipy celeb sighting (Eric Burdon can't be happy about how he appears) and self-deprecating humour (Sheffield is so bad that, despite the green and purple bruises on his thighs from giving his all to the tambourine, Grand Funk Railroad’s Mark Farner is more angered than entertained by his performance). And I was interested in the one chapter about how he found Ally -- the rocket scientist/college DJ "Astrogirl" that he courted and married. There are likely people who, after reading Love is a Mix Tape, would really like to know that Sheffield ended up happy again.
But overall -- this was a pretty unnecessary collection: Who writes a third memoir? Did Churchill? Did JFK? (And this is more memoir than, say, the essay collections of David Sedaris or Chuck Klosterman). The karaoke connection was pretty weak and, despite the fact that Sheffield the self-admitted rock geek keeps name-dropping obscure underground bands, there were whole chapters on Neil Diamond and Rod Stewart and David Bowie that were neither interesting in their own rights or useful for illustrating some grander overall theme. His chapter on the Beatles should have been interesting to me -- they were the soundtrack to my own first crushes -- but it was rambling and annoying. His chapter on Rush should have been interesting to me -- my brother was tutored by the drummer's sister back in the 70's -- but it was pointless.
Neither exotic nor universal enough, but not entirely a waste of time. Déjà vu all over again. (And I am still intending to read Love is a Mix Tape one day.)
I understand that Rob Sheffield is making a point with the karaoke theme -- he and Ally have bonded over their mutual love of getting up at bars and belting out their favourite jams -- but as a connecting device for this memoir, it wears thin. As a result, he needs to make karaoke seem more important to our culture than I have to believe it really is.
The first time I heard of it, Dave and I were working at the Mayfair Hotel in Edmonton and the bar hosted a karaoke night. The more we drank, the more we volunteered to sing a few songs, and by the end we were trying to be Kenny and Dolly, not realising that we didn't actually know the tune to Islands in the Stream until we were up there butchering it. This did not lead to a lifelong bonding over the microphone for us.
When our kids were little, they loved to sing, and happily, that was right around the time that home karaoke machines were being sold. We bought them plenty of background cds but Dave and I never had the urge to host singalong parties. When the video game Rock Band came out, we had some fun for a few months -- I was pretty easy to cajole into singing to the Beatles edition -- but again, this wasn't hugely meaningful to us or anything, and now it gathers dust in the basement.
It's strange then that on one trip to the Dominican Republic, when there was a karaoke night, the girls figured that we would be up for singing some duet on stage -- that Dave and I had somehow given the impression that we were longtime karaoke fans that were comfortable with making fools of ourselves. Probably based on that Islands in the Stream episode, and Dave's Kenny Rogers collection, we have been known to remark to the girls that some duet or other (usually right after mangling it at the top of our voices as we sing along to the radio) is "our song" or "our usual duet", so eventually one of these duets was selected, and after an appropriate imbibement of liquid courage (an expression the girls found charming at the time, lol), Dave and I sang Don't Fall in Love With a Dreamer.
I should probably have been more embarrassed by that than I was, but really, who cares about public humiliation in a foreign country?
I'm racking my brain, but I think those are all the times I've ever had anything to do with karaoke, and really, these were not seminal events for me -- basing a whole book on its importance to our culture came off as disingenuous.
One more comment about Rush -- Ken really was tutored by Nancy Peart back in the band's heyday. And like Sheffield noted, like most girls, I really wasn't a fan -- I was listening to the Beatles at the time and Rush were pretty much the opposite: all sound, no melody. But Rush were on the radio all the time, and although it took years and a growing patriotism that encouraged me to like all things Canadian by default, I eventually listened, really listened to their song Tom Sawyer once and was blown away by just how musical all that sound they were making really was. When the band seemed to be making a resurgence lately (likely based on the rockumentary Sheffield mentions in the book), I felt a protective, almost motherly, sense of pride. I was therefore shocked to hear Sheffield say that most people he knows hate Rush and they hate them because they were on the radio all the time -- for some reason no one can explain, radio execs made the DJs play Rush nonstop, even though everyone hated them. Well, that's embarrassing. I know we listened to them nonstop in Canada because of our radio stations' Cancon requirements -- the same reason why we were forced to listen to Terry Jacks' Seasons in the Sun nonstop *shudder* -- but my maternal/patriotic instincts are rattled by the idea of all of America hating these boys from the outskirts of Toronto. I didn't need to hear that, lol.
One last comment -- Sheffield goes on at length about how the spirit of karaoke is its amateurism; that the only good karaoke singers are the bad singers who have enthusiasm -- he especially despises that one woman who does Me and Bobby McGee in every karaoke bar. As it happens, my friend Delight's daughter is a wonderful singer who lacks the self-confidence to have ever taken a shot at professional singing. Now a mother and approaching 30, her karaoke nights are the only outlet she has for what is a real gift, and yes, she sings Me and Bobby McGee, and yes, she's good, and yes, my maternal hackles are raised at the idea that anyone might be rolling their eyes at the talented woman's turn at the mic. Ah so little confidence -- I just went to her facebook page, where I KNOW I once saw a video of her singing Me and Bobby McGee and it's gone -- can't we all just agree to be gentle and nonjudgemental with each other? Isn't that the true spirit of karaoke?
Edit from February 7:
I just logged on and Delight's other daughter just posted this link on facebook:
Me and Bobby McGee
Is it any wonder I suffer from magical thinking?
