Finding Yourself at Punk Karaoke in Baltimore
by Evelyn Kronfeld
Ottobar Karaoke is a lot of things. I don’t want to reduce the weekly event to my own experience of it, or to the experiences of some of my friends. I’ve always felt awkward here. I was brought here during my third year of college. In the University Union, I saw someone I knew from high school. That evening, my new friends from the campus activism groups were busy. My friend from high school told me that he would be driving a group of people to Ottobar for karaoke, and I asked him if I could join his carpool.
In the car, I felt welcomed and included in conversations. But there was a disconnect. They were going back and forth about rock music. For months, I had been listening mostly to Future, Lana del Rey, Playboi Carti, Bob Dylan, and Blood Orange. I wasn’t as tuned-in. There were a lot of referential jokes, riffs, and opinions flying around regarding rock and emo bands. I didn’t have much to say until it was time to discuss the songs we’d be singing later.
“I think I’ll do ‘Dance Yrself Clean’,” I said. My choice amused the group.
Once at the bar, I noticed that this recurring event, which was very popular, did not involve a lot of in-depth conversation. It could get pretty loud, and besides, the point of the event was the shared ritual of amateur performance. We all took turns being vulnerable, while supportive friends and strangers hopefully surrounded us - or at least cheered us on from a table, or from the bar. You sang, people clapped, and you sat back down. There was a real sincerity, it seemed, which reminded me that karaoke is often very sincere. Back in my hometown in Montgomery County, karaoke was the domain of ‘theatre kids’. There were often birthday parties at iRock Karaoke Lounge, where you booked a private room with a microphone and a screen.
I used to find karaoke a bit indulgent. Or rather, I found it off-putting when friends of mine insisted on the absolute attention of everyone in the room. These queer teens had trouble feeling seen, perhaps, so they craved a spotlight. They chose difficult songs and took their performances extremely seriously.
An individual’s selection of a song can reveal their gender identity, their political or cultural affiliation, or how their adolescence went. One time, I sang a SOPHIE song here. I forget why, but it meant something to me. After I sang, a very sweet person offered a hug, and we reminisced about SOPHIE and her passing. SOPHIE was a brilliant trans woman whose approach to sound design and identity-formation encouraged broader textural exploration across mediums.
There’s a lot of hugging here. There are some people I only ever see at karaoke, but who always embrace me. A particular guy comes to mind. I always like catching up with him, and our talks have occasionally gotten somewhat deep. We’ve discussed therapy and addiction.
The great thing about Ottobar, which is also the problem with Ottobar, is that everyone goes here. When I first saw a particular ex here, I was disoriented. He approached me, and I asked him why he had, the week prior, broken no-contact. He told me that he must have been hammered and that he was sorry for texting me. He suggested that, if I didn’t want to be friends with him, we could at least be something more than strangers. Like, seeing each other out and about, we could nod to each other. He offered a friendly hug, which I declined - but I shook his hand before returning to my friends.
As that evening continued, it was weird seeing him sing and dance. I don’t remember his song. But I remember him flirtily dancing with an acquaintance of mine, and I remember needing to leave.
Hanging out at Red Emma’s, I decided to call a friend. We caught up and talked politics. I told him that I was writing an article about Ottobar’s karaoke, and he informed me that Ottobar had been made to pay thousands of dollars due to their copyright infringement. How did this happen? Someone at karaoke snitched?
DJ Penfold, who has been running Ottobar’s karaoke for years, opines that BMI’s move had very little to do with supporting or compensating artists.
“Artists have come by and done their own songs here,” says Penfold. “Turnstile has sung along to somebody else doing one of their songs here. Folks from Bad Brains have done their own tunes here. Slipknot, out of costume, did songs here one night, and nobody knew it was them except the bartender and me.”
When the infringement scandal occurred, Penfold was scared. Thankfully, everything worked out, and many in the local scene responded with support for Ottobar - we cherish their alternative, punk-driven vision of karaoke! But the situation reminded everyone of broader imbalances in the music industry, which have become especially pronounced amid the emergence of Spotify and artificial intelligence.
The last time I was here, there were new signs on the two single-use bathrooms upstairs. They warned that the bathrooms were for one person at a time.
A few weeks ago, the vibes here were somewhat strange. Nothing too crazy happened, but I’m easily scandalized. There was a certain air of desperation. The gossip was sordid and depressing, and my acquaintances seemed to be chasing some kind of high. Early in the night, I told a friend that I was getting too old for the scene. She reminded me that I was twenty-two and that there was still a lot of fun to be had here.
Around 1:30 AM that night, I briefly saw an acquaintance I hadn’t seen here in a while. She didn’t go to karaoke much. I tried to greet her, but she left quickly. I got the sense, based on context clues, that she was there for cocaine. She was looking to stay up. And why not? We’re alive, and we should celebrate. But after a year of sobriety, I’m beginning to feel alienated by my community’s preoccupation with drugs and alcohol. How do I, without drinking, situate myself within these scenes? Should I reach out to the people around me who may be developing destructive habits? It’s usually not my place, ultimately. But the overall atmosphere saddens me.
The following Wednesday, I came here for two reasons: to see my friend Lia, and to gather inspiration for this editorial. Actually, there was a third reason: I wasn’t ready to go home. I hate ‘alone time’. Anyway, here I was. Around midnight, the bar was fairly empty. This surprised me. There were twenty people, maybe. There were four people at our table. Lia had met these fun people, who were initiating conversations about gender and politics. There was a lot of riffing.
By the time the bar closed, we were outside with a big group of people. An acquaintance said a bunch of stuff about beetles, ants, and termites. He had had a strange experience that morning while chopping wood. Another acquaintance initiated a chat. She was very drunk, but it was nice to see her. Lia saw a big argument unfolding between an older man and a woman, and she stepped in to defuse it. The older man joined us and began following us as we went to a playground.
At the playground, we were at an impasse. We were supposed to visit someone’s apartment, but there were now two older men hanging out with us - strangers. Nobody wanted to invite these guys to their place. Anyway, the older guys left. Lia and friends started pouring vodka into each other’s mouths and baby-birding it to the others. It was around 3 or 4 AM when our group split up, and Lia and I joined a girl named Summer on her nearby roof.
We watched the sunrise. We talked about being transgender women and about our experiences with polyamory and monogamy. I started really talking to Summer because, earlier in the night, it was revealed that she was dating the ex of a girl I used to know. Summer and I were in very different places, and yet many of our values and interests were quite aligned. We had a common language regarding topics like ‘compulsory heterosexuality’, ‘T4T’, etc.
I haven’t talked to Summer since that night, but I realize now that this encounter, in some sense, redeemed karaoke for me. I had been frustrated with always being the only sober person around. I had even quit cigarettes and had been concerned that I was missing out on yet another social ritual. But a big conversation like the one Lia and I had with Summer? That’s what Ottobar’s karaoke can lead to.
As for the question of what to sing on Wednesday, I realize that there is some controversy. I once sang a Sufjan Stevens song here, and later heard that an acquaintance was annoyed by people who chose sad songs. To her, we’re all just trying to have fun! That may be. But whatever song you choose, I pray that you’re allowed to sing it. Fuck you, Broadcast Music, Inc! BMI are a bunch of no-good snitches.
Ottobar’s karaoke has endured. The history of this event, which has lasted for over a decade, involves punk, DIY, politics, and trans femme cultural production. It involves collaboration and resilience in the best city in the world.
“Eventually, it just caught on,” Penfold recounts.
“A bunch of different mini-communities formed within the night. I made sure, at the very beginning, to have obscure songs or stuff that a lot of karaoke nights, at chain restaurants and whatnot, won’t have. I didn’t want to have a night full of ‘Sweet Caroline’, ‘Love Shack’, ‘Don’t Stop Believin’, and those standards. I wanted the weird stuff, and people responded to that. I’ve always tried to describe my ideal karaoke night as a mixtape that the crowd puts together in a night. When it’s collaborative like that, and when everyone’s singing along together and asking each other about their songs, it makes everyone feel directly welcomed.”
