“Welcome to the kids’ table,” Monique joked.
“Thanks! Thanks for inviting me.”
Sam and Kirsten both said their hellos. The noise in the bar was too loud to do much talking, and it was about half-full, not jammed to the rafters, but with enough people there that there was a steady stream of people getting up to sing. I got up to go to the bar to order, and Monique came with me. The noise was lower standing at the bar.
“Are Laura and Natalie coming?” I asked.
“Laura is later,” she answered. “She has to work late tonight. Natalie’s doing an intersession course at University of Ottawa. She won’t be back in town until mid-June.”
I considered this. “Does that mean I should wait until mid-June to figure out who might or might not have a crush on me?”
Monique giggled. “Why wait?”
I locked eyes on her.
“I already told you that I’m not breaking the girl code, Peter. But your chances of success with the girls in this bar tonight aren’t zero.”
“Interesting.” I had been sure it was Natalie. Maybe it still is? Who else?
“Don’t overthink it, dumbass,” Monique ordered, clearly noticing the wheels turning in my head. “Relax. Have fun. Sing something. Who knows what’ll happen?”
“You’re the best.”
“I know.” She smiled at me. “How’s your singing voice?”
“Not bad. I’ve been in bands before.”
“So I’ve heard. Doesn’t mean you sang.”
“I’m not a lead singer. I can handle low harmony, but I’m a bass-baritone, and most lead parts in pop music are for tenors. Give me something low enough and I can make it sound decent.”
“Low like what?” she asked.
“Johnny Cash is a good go-to, David Bowie. I can transpose music down into my register, but people notice it doesn’t sound like they’re expecting.”
“Well, I have high hopes. I can’t sing for shit.”
“But you’re going to, right?” I prodded.
“Of course. It’s just going to sound awful.”
“I’m sure you’re not that bad.”
“Don’t say that until you’ve heard me.” She shot me a knowing look.
We headed back to the group, where the noise made conversation impossible, and put in our tickets for our first round of songs. After some time, we started getting called up, one-by-one. The other table went first, and last to go on their group was the guy I didn’t know — Mark, apparently — who sang a passable version of “Heroes” by David Bowie. I was next, and I’d been planning to do “Space Oddity,” but I quickly changed my plans. I gave my new selection to the girl running the show.
“Okay, so I was going to do ‘Space Oddity’, but Mark just stole my Bowie thunder here, so I’m going to do a song inspired by it. This is ‘Major Tom’, by Peter Schilling, from 1983.”
The familiar synth intro started to raucous cheers from Vanessa’s friends and indifference from everyone else. Walt had got me into the song — he’d been a big New Waver in his youth, and it was basically a New Wave sequel to Bowie’s original. The soaring chorus was at the upper limits of my range, but I gave it my all and thought it sounded reasonable enough. The crowd cheered as I finished and Samantha headed to the stage.
As soon as I sat down, the blonde next to me leaned in and shouted in my ear.
“How do you know that song?” Kirsten asked. Her voice had just a slight German accent.
“My stepdad. He was big into New Wave and played in a bunch of bands back in the 80’s. It was a big hit in Canada.”
“It was a big hit in Germany, too. You know Peter Schilling is German?”
I nodded.
“The original version of the song is called ‘Völlig Losgelöst’, which means ‘Completely Detached’,” she explained. “The German lyrics are better, I think. The chorus goes, ‘completely detached from the Earth, the spacecraft floats, completely weightless.’ Nothing to do with coming home.” She smiled.
“You should do a German song, too,” I suggested.
“Good idea! I will!”
We watched Sam finish singing a Britney Spears song, then Kirsten’s name was called and she headed for the stage, giving instructions to the karaoke attendant.
“This is another German song!” she called out from the stage, grasping the microphone stand confidently and staring defiantly out at the crowd. Damn, that girl has stage presence, I thought. People at the bar had taken notice of her, and she hadn’t even begun yet.
Just then, another New Wave synth chord started, and Kirsten began. It was Nena’s ’99 Red Balloons,” but even though the monitor was prompting her in English, Kirsten was effortlessly singing the words from memory in German. And her voice, my goodness. Kirsten’s mezzo-soprano was rich, her pitch was perfect. She was every bit a professional, and as her fair skin broke into a sweat as she strutted around the stage… maybe it was the lights reflecting in her glittery eye makeup, but damn, she was pretty. Following the long parade of amateurs, the entire bar had noticed the professional suddenly prancing around on the tiny stage, watching in rapt attention, even though she was singing a song in another language.
Kirsten got the biggest round of applause of the night as she finished, and curtsied gracefully before coming back to the table and taking a big swig of beer.
“I’m so impressed!” I yelled.
“First time hearing her sing?” Samantha asked.
I nodded.
“She’s so talented!”
“Oh, stop.” Kirsten blushed.