When the Music's Over

In which The Author isn't singing any more

Two weeks ago yesterday, something strange happened to me. Early in the morning, I got out of the bath and suddenly felt very dizzy and light-headed. As I mentioned in the last entry, I'd climbed the Monument in London less than a week before. I'd suffered no ill effects as a result of climbing over three hundred steps and then emerging onto a viewing platform some 160 feet about the ground. A few days later, I could barely make it down the stairs in my house without feeling wobbly.

I sat down for a few minutes, thinking that my blood pressure might have been a bit off when I stood up after a hot bath. That didn't help. I made sure I ate something, just in case my blood sugar was down, and waited for the feeling to pass.

It didn't pass. By lunchtime I was still feeling light-headed, and spent the rest of the day at home. I certainly didn't feel up to venturing out for karaoke that evening. I stayed in and watched a film instead. It was the same story on the Friday; if anything, the effect was even more pronounced when I lay down in bed. I didn't like the way the week was panning out.

The following Monday morning, when the strange sensations still hadn't subsided, I rang the surgery. I described the symptoms to Janet, the receptionist, and she booked me in for lunchtime that day. Dr Wardrop said it was probably just a touch of vertigo. He checked my ears, gave me some tablets which he said would help, and told me it would probably pass in a week or so.

It hasn't passed. In fact, on Monday morning this week I got out of bed and promptly keeled over. I managed to land against the bedside cabinet, giving my neck and left shoulder a fair crack on the way down.

Yes, you read that correctly – my left shoulder. After seven years of problems with my right shoulder, culminating with an operation in 2008, I'd gone and crocked my other arm. It was painful all right, but I didn't think I'd done any serious damage. However, the pain gradually intensified as the week went on.

I headed down to Minor Injuries this morning to get it checked over. The X-ray didn't show any bone damage, so the nurse thinks I might have torn a muscle. Armed with ibuprofen and co-codamol, I'm preparing for a fairly laid-back weekend of reading Michael Moorcock's latest book, the excellent, evocative and mysterious The Whispering Swarm.

I went to the Lighthouse from the library yesterday, simply because I wanted to take a couple of ibuprofen and needed something to wash them down. (A soft drink, before you ask.) The karaoke regulars were starting to gather, even though it was still comparatively early. Joe and Phil were there when I arrived; Martin was outside chatting to someone I vaguely know. I took two painkillers and had a chat with Joe and Phil. After about an hour or so, the tablets hadn't even started to take the edge off. I decided a pint wouldn't hurt. In fact, I figured that a pint or two might ease the pain slightly. (Even if they didn't ease the pain physically, I might care a little less about it.) Phil's sister Claire arrived during my first pint, so our little gang was assembling as usual. Huntley came in a bit later with his usual gang, and they filled a table in the middle of the pub.

Tara was setting up her gear when Chazza walked in, together with a guy I didn't recognise. She'd texted me in the afternoon, telling me that the trip to Cardiff hadn't gone according to plan, and asking if I was going to be out for karaoke as usual. I said I wouldn't promise. I didn't know if I'd enjoy it because I was in so much pain.

They joined our table and we started chatting, but I wasn't in the mood for company. Joe got up to sing first; Phil was next, then Chazza, followed by Martin. So far, so Thursday. Then Tara called my name. I just shook my head. I really wasn't feeling well enough to leave my seat, never mind stand up and sing. I'd done the same last week, too. That time it was mainly because I was feeling a bit under the weather, but also because there were too many people who couldn't even work out the correct way round to wear a baseball cap. It wasn't a good audience.

To make matters worse, last night I was sitting directly under the TV, and it was tuned to the sports coverage. In the meantime, Keistan had come in and staked his claim to a table in the corner. After about twenty minutes of everyone watching the Olympics above my head, I grabbed my stuff and joined him, out of sight of the stage. He didn't stay long; he sang one song, came back to our table, drank up, and headed home. Tina and Bethan came in and said hello, but I was in too much pain to talk to them. I was left to my own devices until about 9.20. I didn't even make my excuses – I just left, without a word to anyone. I wanted the bus home, some decent painkillers, a hot bath, and an early night.

It's not as though I'd have been up for singing anything last night, anyway. In fact, I've pretty much exhausted my repertoire. Over the past fifteen years or so in various venues in and around Aberdare, I think I've sung every song that I a) like enough to want to sing; b) know well enough to try and sing; c) have been able to find on the karaoke playlist; and d) feel confident enough to sing in front of friends and relative strangers alike.

And, even if I say so myself, I haven't got a bad track record. I've made 'Me and my Monkey' by Robbie Williams into a karaoke mini-adventure every couple of months. I finally nailed 'Changes' by David Bowie on a third attempt, shortly after the man himself passed away. I think I'm the only person in Aberdare ever to do both vocal parts of 'Comfortably Numb' – the Pink Floyd original, of course, not the pisspoor Scissor Sisters attempt. On occasions I've also done 'Won't Get Fooled Again' (which I always introduce as my 'election night special'), 'Light My Fire', 'Waiting for the Man', and 'Common People' – which owes far more to William Shatner's version than the Pulp original. I've even attempted (once) 'Sympathy for the Devil', which was a bit of a failed experiment. Still, if you don't try it, you'll never know for sure.

I did 'Up the Junction' by Squeeze a few months ago, just to prove I still could. Then there's 'Piano Man' and 'Scenes From an Italian Restaurant', two of Billy Joel's finest songs, both of which I can get away with to a certain extent. My pal George once told me that I like songs that tell a story. I'd never thought about it until he mentioned it, but yes, he's right – the majority of the songs do have a story, or at least some sort of meaning, rather than being just a bunch of random words slung together.

If I've just come back from London I might do 'Baker Street'; other times, I might give 'Davy's on the Road Again' a go. Both are songs about people in similar circumstances. I didn't understand what Gerry Rafferty or Manfred Mann's Earth Band were on about when I was twelve years old, but both those records made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Now that I'm older, and I know a great many semi-pro and amateur musicians, I understand them totally.

I don't often sing with other people, because it's pretty unusual to meet someone who actually shares my taste in music. On the occasions when she's drunk enough, Rhian and I make a fair job of 'Perfect 10' by the Beautiful South. I also managed to rope the beautiful Sam E. into 'Comfortably Numb' about eighteen months ago, when she was paying a rare visit to Aberdare. She repaid the favour by getting me to sing 'Valerie' (the Mark Ronson version). In the Cambrian about a month ago, Claire twisted my arm into singing an entirely different 'Changes', with her taking the Kelly Osbourne part and me being Ozzy. Well, I was half-pissed, so it sort of worked.

And, of course, Chazza and I have made 'Shut Up' by the Black Eyed Peas into one of our set pieces. It was actually her idea for us to sing together, so I can only take half the blame. I'd sung it in Elliots on a Thursday night a few years previously, with another Claire, so I sort-of knew it anyway. When Chazz suggested one night, out of the blue, that we should do a song together, I thought about it for a while and then remembered that one.

It turned out to be just what the doctor ordered. She'd split from her girlfriend, so she was (understandably) feeling angry and hurt. It didn't take much for me to play the innocent party to her vengeful woman spurned. Even though we got slightly lost in the middle, I think we did a pretty good job of it. The following week we did it again. And the following week. The fourth week, we drank up immediately and went to the Bush so that we could do it yet again.

Which is where we reached the stage I told you about in the last entry.

Even if I'd been feeling well enough last night, I wouldn't have wanted to sing 'Shut Up' anyway. Of all the things I fear about karaoke – the hecklers, the pissed dancers, the random stage invasions, the sudden crashing realisation that actually, no, you don't know this fucking song at all – the worst case scenario is getting stuck in a rut.

Plenty of the gang are stuck in a rut, I'm sad to say. Martin is a very fine singer, and goes to Spain to work in a friend's bar for a few months every year. I don't know what his professional set is like, because on the basis of the available evidence he knows exactly four songs; maybe five, if Tara twists his arm to do a duet. Phil's rendition of 'American Trilogy' is getting very stale now, since he starts with it every week and does it in the Cambrian on Fridays as well. Joe's 'Enter Sandman' is pretty decent too, but the novelty is starting to wear off. Huntley seems to have settled into a groove of light reggae, a bit of soul, and a touch of funk. There's nothing wrong with that, of course, but I'd like to hear him venture out of his comfort zone once in a while.

On the other hand, Tony S. shocked us last night by doing a song that was written within the current millennium. I didn't even think he knew Elvis Presley had died, to be honest.

I don't know half the songs that Bethan, Claire and Chazza sing, so I can't be sure if they're doing something different anyway. They're heavily into all the modern stuff, and my DAB radio doesn't pick up Radio 1 because it values its continued existence too highly.

So, between these attacks of vertigo, the lack of variation in general, and the impossibility of finding backing tracks for the songs I really do fancy (I've told you about my adventures with the Scott Walker song), I think my karaoke days are probably numbered.

I'll miss the singing part of it, of course, because it's one of the few hobbies I indulge with other people. I'll miss the social part of it, because there's a good gang of us and we always have a laugh before and during the music. I won't miss the long walk home at the end of the night, though, especially now that our brief summer is drawing to a close. And I especially won't miss having to sub Chazz for beer and/or taxi fare every week.

Will anyone miss me? Well, that's debatable.

Maybe I'll venture out every couple of months, instead of every week. By doing that I can keep my set reasonably fresh and avoid becoming the next Martin, or the next Phil. Or I might just knock it on the head entirely. It's been great fun and I've met some amazing people, but like everything else, without a new challenge every so often, singing karaoke soon becomes tiresome and pointless.

Maybe I should head out next Thursday for one final fling. Who doesn't like the Rolling Stones, after all? 'The Last Time', anyone … ?