If you were to ask me how I ended up at a punk-rock karaoke night at Liam’s Irish Pub on North Avenue last Saturday night, I wouldn’t have much to tell you other than that I was in the wrong place at the right time. Like most Hopkins students, I’ve been told to stay away from North Avenue at all costs.
I’ve personally never been much of a karaoke fan. I’m painfully shy and my singing career has been limited to mouthing the words during mandatory high school chorus and the occasional solo performance within the soundproof comfort of my car.
When asked if I wanted to go to a punk-rock karaoke night at Liam’s Irish Pub on North Avenue, I sort of nodded and smiled in affirmation that such an event could possibly occur, completely unaware that I had just consented to going there myself. Soon enough, I found myself on the JHMI en route to Penn Station, with just a few blocks to walk up to get to the infamous North Avenue. The bright green painted storefront had giant gold lettering that read “IRISH PUB.”
Having lost my voice a few nights ago at the Baltimore Curators show at Golden West, I really couldn’t have been any less prepared for what was beyond those large wooden doors. Once inside, there were studded leather jackets as far as the eye could see. Instead of a stage, there was a large screen with the karaoke lyrics projected, situated in the center of the bar and surrounded by a circle of spectators. Someone yelled out that they were no longer taking requests because they wouldn’t be able to get to all of them anyway.
I felt momentarily relieved until I realized that it didn’t really matter what was requested or who had a microphone because the entire crowd would scream along with the lyrics on the screen. It also became abundantly clear that maybe I didn’t know as much punk rock as I thought. That was until I heard the first Smiths’ song of the evening.
As reluctant as I had been initially, I was now (despite my limited range and surprisingly appropriate hoarse voice) singing along with the crowd. As much as I hate to admit it, there was something really exhilarating about jamming with these strangers for what seemed to be the most ridiculous premise I had ever heard of. The crowd was amped for every song selection. There wasn’t any pressure to get “on stage” and sing in front of everyone because it was almost impossible to hear your own voice over everyone else’s.
Eventually, I stumbled upon the song catalogue, which contained easily over a thousand songs. There were songs I recognized and some I had never heard of, songs I loved and some that didn’t really seem to be punk rock at all. The list had everything from Blondie to The Ramones, and even (for a reason unclear to me) Fall Out Boy. For the first time in my life, I really regretted not being able to put in a request for karaoke.
Just when I thought this experience couldn’t get any more surreal, a small man came up to me and told me that he was selling raw oysters and codfish cakes at the bar in the back. Again, this was another moment where I found myself being dragged over by my friends to what resembled more of a nightstand than a bar with a large plastic box containing pre-fried codfish cakes and a small red cooler filled with ice and oysters the size of a fist. Somewhere in between “Punk Rock Girl” by the Dead Milkmen and “Holiday in Cambodia” by Dead Kennedys, I had an empty shell in hand and the cold slippery sea creature was halfway down my throat. This was not going to be a night of missed opportunities.
Finally, the bar got eerily quiet and the haunting intro for “Where is My Mind?” began to fill the room before an eruption of cheers. In nearly perfect unison, the entire bar yelled out the lyrics so effortlessly that it seemed that the words projected onto the screen were entirely unnecessary. This must be what karaoke in Baltimore is all about.
Suffice it to say, when life gives you three oysters for five dollars at an Irish Pub on punk-rock karaoke night, you hold your head high and knock em’ back (and hope you don’t get botulism).
