"I know that there is pain/
But you hold on for one more day/
And you break free from the chains
Yeah I know that there is pain/
But you hold for one more day/
And you break free right from the chains"
From "Hold On For One More Day" by Wilson Phillips
Sometime in October, Tom dragged me to Trash Bar in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, to sing Karaoke. I can't sing to save my life these days since Island Records pulled that record deal out from under me. I normally only sing in the car or shower since the hurt is too much, but this time I gave in and sang Patsy Cline's "Crazy" (doing so got me out of the dog house with Judy)... I exit stage right, and pass the microphone to Tom…
Tom gets up on stage. He selects the song to which the lyrics are immutably scribed on his lower back in tattoo form: Wilson Phillips' "Hold On For One More Day." He mounts the stage, mike in hand waving to his fans. Tom’s attention is focused on one fan in particular: Sarah; the hipster dame dressed in Red. Tom’s had his eye on her all night and here is his big chance. He’s enthused like never before (it's been months since he covered this love ballad and this performance is long overdue for this special someone). The DJ cues the lyrics, but Tom doesn't care. He knows this song. Tom also knows Sarah’s destiny.
He clears his throat, head down, he shakes his legs and arms in preparation for the number he has choreographed.
Verse 1
I know this pain
(I know this pain, I know this pain, (echo)) Why do lock yourself up in these chains?
(these chains, these chains (echo))…
During the bridge, Tom actually sheds a tear. Emotionally moved, Sarah walks out. This is like no other performance
of "Hold On For One More Day." She actually walked out… and Tom followed her. This is proof that Tom was on stage singing and that he handed off the microphone mid-"Hold On For One More Day."
You made us proud, Tom, although you didn’t hold on and finish the song. 
Okay, okay -- how 'bout I, Tom, break it down for the impressionable and gullible. Here's the unvarnished truth, and it ain't pretty.
As an appetizer, let me say that the karaoke crowd at Trash is full of rockers and rock-lovers, some great and in bands, some terrible and in collared shirts. Still, it's largely supportive, which Mike proved with his Tinkerbell-married-to-Mr. T. rendition of Patsy Cline. 'Crazy.'
Needless to say, following him didn't jangle my nerves. But my nerves, they were a-janglin' nonetheless.
See, about two months prior to this I had written to this very pretty blonde on MySpace. Her profile said she was looking for 'fellow brunchsters,' so I applied for the position. Then she wrote back, then I wrote back, then she...did nothing. I figured, "Eh, what can you do?" and forgot about it. So when I saw this petite, black-haired vixen clad in diablo red, all MySpace endeavors were filed way back in my subconscious.
Now, some of what Mike has written is true. Yes, I had been waiting for my song all night. And, yes, I knew it by heart. And to make things even sadder, yes, there were accompanying dance moves. Still, it's not as shameful as it sounds. Not yet, anyway.
Back to my foxy imp and her friend. Watch and learn, boys:
TOM
Hey, what's up?
FOXY
Nothing much.
[She looks at her friend. The friend looks back, expressionless. I'm still in it!]
TOM
So, what are ya'll singing?
FOXY
Hey, you look familiar. Do I know you?
[Wait. Yes! I definitely recognize her -- she's the brunch girl from MySpace. She used to be blonde, but it's absolutely the same girl. Wow, she looks much hotter with black hair. Verging on knockout. Maybe I should tell her.... Wait! Are you crazy, Tom? Snap out of it! Being recognized from MySpace is no good. Lying about it is worse. Change the subject -- quick!]
TOM
No.
FOXY
Yes, I do -- from MySpace. Didn't you write to me on MySpace?
TOM
No.
FOXY
Are you sure?
TOM
I think I'd remember that.
[I offer a jovial chuckle that sounds more like allergies.]
FOXY
Hm.
[Looks at her friend. Friend returns one cocked eyebrow. Ship is sinking -- and they're nearly done with their beers!]
TOM
Well, listen -- I've got the song right after this and I'm gonna be awesome. You should stick around.
[Pause.]
TOM
Oh, and your hair looks great black.
D'oh!
I sauntered over to the stage where Mike was still croaking it out, bless his little heart, and next thing I know it's Magic Time. It's supposed to be, anyway. I remember feeling distinctly unmagical at the time, but failure was not an option.
The song started.... Something was wrong.... Was I hearing things or were they playing the wrong song...oh wait, nope, it was the song. Damn. Focus. Remember, Tom, it's sing AND dance, not either/or, I reminded myself.
I turned my back to face the audience, shook my ass for a few beats, and whipped around. One crazy arm grabbed for phantom overhead luggage while the other chicken-winged out to the side. I brought the mic in close with a preposterous twist of the wrist:
If you start me up/
If you start me up/
I'll never stop...
It reads better than it sounded.
About two hours (20 seconds) into my Mick Jagger, I saw Foxy and Friend leave through the plastic-sheeted door. I lasted one more line,
Never stop, never stop, never stop, never stop.
before futility set in.
TOM
Uh, the girl I was trying to hit on just left, so I'm done.
I handed the mic to the night's emcee and stepped off the front of the stage. I'm sure it looked junior high, but somewhere deep down, in that place where adoring audiences attend my own fantasy concerts, I was Iggy Pop.
Why didn't I sing Iggy Pop!
CODA
One night this past summer (2005), Mike Davis told me that I had introduced him to Jane's Addiction in 7th grade, by way of his friend and my brother, Michael.
"What were you listening to before that?" I asked, hoping for something embarrassing.
"I listened to Wilson Phillips every day after school. My sister and I choreographed the whole album."
Jackpot. |
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