She goes on to summarize the personality and the crowds at various (mostly-long gone) karaoke bars of the day, including The Penn Bar, Pipeline and Houlihan’s. “On Manhattan’s karaoke circuit, the location changes from night to night, but the faces stay the same,” reported author Suzanne O’Malley. New York magazine ran a cover story entitled “Tuesday Night Fever: A Karaoke Romance,” chronicling the tumultuous relationship of one New York couple through the lens of their favorite karaoke haunt, Flemings, on the Upper East Side. A charming first-person report in the same issue entitled “I Was A Human Karaoke Hound: A Neophyte Explores the Karaoke Experience” chronicles one night at the now-shuttered Daruma in Greenwich Village, where the writer reports, with a mixture of misery and delight, on his attempts to win over the crowd.īy the next year, karaoke appeared to have broken fully into the mainstream. would jump 79 percent over 1991 to $590 million, according to the estimates of the Simi Valley-based Karaoke International Sing-Along Association (sadly, since defunct). In 1992, a Billboard feature reported that the projected karaoke market in the U.S. Later that year, Mindy Birnbaum and Donald Zuckerman, a founder of the Ritz nightclub, opened Singalong in Chelsea, one of the first karaoke bars to use then-cutting-edge Japanese AV technology that displayed lyrics on a screen in real time.Ī few years later, America was well on its way to peak karaoke. The first known English-language karaoke night debuted in New York in 1987 at a now-shuttered Chinatown restaurant called Lotus Blossom. One of the earliest mentions I could find was this 1986 article in the New York Times profiling the handful of Japanese karaoke bars that had opened in New York in the mid-1980s (“For a business type like myself, when you sing loudly, it is a solution to stress,” explained one happy customer).
It took off in Asia but was slow to take root in the U.S. Karaoke itself a relatively recent phenomenon, invented in Japan in 1971 by a near-broke musician whose other patents included a cockroach-killing machine. I can’t begrudge Upstairs Bar for changing with the times. Hundreds more have disappeared into the ether, but karaoke itself remains death-proof: No matter how uncool it may seem, there will always be a market for activities that provide a respite from the career pressures, breakneck pace and occasional crippling loneliness of life in the city- and now, perhaps more than ever, karaoke feels like a relevant act of liberation. That’s just fine-there are dozens of karaoke bars in New York, some slick and some scuzzy, some private and others public. I have friends who ardently avoid the open-room setup at Upstairs Bar and Planet Rose. For that, however, you can still go to Planet Rose in the East Village, which has plenty of dingy animal-print sectionals and drunk NYU students chanting along to Weezer. There’s still open-room karaoke fueled by a surprisingly passable cocktail menu, but I learned the hard way during a recent post-renovation visit that the unhinged thrill of singing to strangers inside a dimly lit, grime-caked dive is gone. Winnie’s was “famous” for a few things: a limited karaoke selection that was housed entirely on LaserDiscs, a drink called Hawaiian Punch that involved eight liquors, including crème de banane and amaretto and a dark past as the site of several gang-related shootouts in the early-1990s.Ī few months ago, shortly after Winnie’s closed, Rena decided it was time to clean up the place: The couches were banished, the bar extended, the tiki vibe replaced with a more “sophisticated” sports bar aesthetic. It felt like a soul sister to Winnie’s, one of the city’s longest-running and most beloved* karaoke dives until it closed last year.
The place used to be a bona-fide shithole-one open room with a vague tropical motif, drinks by the bucket and couches with powdery plastic drug baggies shoved between the seat cushions. Upstairs Bar is a second-floor karaoke joint in Manhattan’s Chinatown, above one of those budget bus operations whose vehicles occasionally bursts into flames mid-route. Behind us, a glassy-eyed Spaniard warbled ungracefully through George Michael’s “Careless Whisper,” but it didn’t matter how off-key he sounded unbeknownst to him, Rena cut his mic 20 minutes ago. I do not like Jäger shots, but Rena is the owner, and when she’s pouring, you’re drinking. at Upstairs Bar, and Rena, resplendent in a leopard-print top that strained across her broad shoulders, had just bought us a round of Jäger shots.
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