by Gary Singh
"As long as we don't stay in there longer than an hour, we're fine," Hal said, waving his hands with the rhythm of his speech as we paraded down a busy street in Roppongi. "As soon as one hour passes, they jack the prices up and you get stuck."
"After an hour?" I asked.
"Yeah, everything goes up and they start charging you ridiculous prices."
I had never in my life done karaoke, so I was shivering in anticipation.
Being a seasoned entrepreneur, a CEO of an international telecom company,
and a frequenter of Tokyo, Hal was a self-proclaimed veteran of the scene
in Roppongi, Tokyo's wildest and most flamboyant all-night party
playground of a neighborhood. He gave us the lowdown on the scams
perpetrated by some of the more seedy karaoke joints. Once midnight hits,
the prices go up and you never know what you'll get charged.
"Businessmen are here with ten thousand dollar expense accounts," he said, "so for them it's no big deal."
I became worried because all I had in my pocket was a five thousand yen note, the equivalent of maybe fifty-five American dollars. The third person in our party, Fumiko, a Japanese American stewardess, didn't appear worried in the least bit, so I had no idea what to expect. I gazed around at the craziness of the immediate vicinity.
Roppongi is filled with dance clubs, street vendors, bright lights, various karaoke dens of iniquity, and hordes of pedestrians of all shapes and sizes. The area literally never sleeps. Right on the main corner of the neighborhood sits the Almond Cafe, an infamous pick-up spot. If young Japanese folk are hovering around this corner, Hal told us, it means they're waiting to get picked up.
One also finds a huge percentage of foreigners in Roppongi, largely due to the plethora of government embassies in the surrounding area. It's not that different from being in America, except that the beers run about ten dollars.
We passed by the Almond Café, and several groups of young Japanese were hovering about. Many Japanese twenty-somethings, Hal lectured us, flock to Roppongi to practice their English.
"Because of all the foreigners?" I asked.
"Yes."
I wanted to remain and gawk for a while, but the rest of the party insisted on continuing down the street. The karaoke bar was waiting.
Cars were flying by on the expressway overhead, people were chattering at excessive volume levels, and, as everywhere in Tokyo, noise reigned supreme. Aromas of smog, motor oil, and cigarettes dominated the atmosphere.
As we turned left, directly underneath the overhead expressway, Hal resumed his oration about the karaoke bars. "As long as we don't stay for more than an hour," he told us again, "we'll be O.K. After one hour they start charging you more."
"But you've got the in on the joint?" I asked with a slight tinge of sarcasm.
"Of course. I come here all the time. I know the owner." A wry smirk appeared on Fumiko's face.
Within minutes we reached our destination: a narrow stairway leading up off the sidewalk to a bleak obsidian doorway with no sign on it. Hal led us in. As soon as we had crossed the threshold of the place, the host came to us like iron particles to a magnet. A huge Samoan-looking orangutan of an individual, he directed us to a corner booth, where an orgasmic-looking oriental girl promptly sat down with us and began to pour our beers. Hal put his arm around her and introduced us. "This is Kelly," he said, "she's from Manila."
I looked at my watch and began drinking furiously while Kelly and Fumiko spoke Japanese to each other. No other patrons were in the establishment.
We spent 45 minutes drinking and trying to sing. Fumiko and I made our way through a Japanese pop tune called "Ue O Muite Aruko," and Hal butchered "Sailing" by Rod Stewart. It was art.
Hal was on fire. When his arms weren't around Kelly the host girl, he was over in the corner mingling with the owner of the place, a huge intimidating old Japanese lady whom he referred to as "Ma." They laughed together uproariously and seemed to be recounting old times. The gargantuan Samoan chap stood in the opposite corner, stolidly eyeing us. He stood like a pillar, always looking over the entire establishment.
They wound up charging us $480 for being there 50 minutes.
I was scared to death. There was no way in hell I could possibly come up with my share of the bill.
"Don't worry about it," Hal waved his hand in the air with drunken disregard, "I'll take care of this."
We sat and watched Hal bicker with Ma and the big Samoan dude, who was obviously American by birth, since he spoke perfect California English. Kelly, the hostess girl, tried to explain the prices to us, but her English just wasn't good enough for me to understand. I looked at my watch and hoped to god that we would get out of the place alive. Fumiko looked worried too. I began to consider 1970s crime show escape methods, like climbing out the window and scaling down the building to the crowded street below. This was definitely the last time I would even consider a karaoke club in Roppongi.
After fifteen more minutes of arguing, Hal waved us out of the club as he said, "I'll take care of this, just go, I'll take care of it." He waved his hand towards the door. Fumiko and I began edging towards the exit.
More arguing and then Hal turned called us back. "OK, how about five thousand each?"
"I guess we don't have a choice." Fumiko and I each handed him a five thousand yen note, and we left the club.
Gary Singh is a freelance writer, musician, and social nomad who surfaces
most often in the San Francisco Bay Area. As a scribe, he specializes in
art, technology, and travel, and has published in a variety of venues,
including IEEE Computer Graphics, The San Francisco Bay Guardian, and
Chess Life. His travel stories can be found at www.igougo.com.
Photo by Michael Wong
