i was 12 years old when my father first took me to live band karaoke. to put it gently, i was scared shitless walking up the bouncer, the smell of beer wafting off every drunken thirty-something white house intern getting their fix of sam adams and 'i got friends in low places'. marty found the listing for 'harikaraoke', as it was lovingly called, in the paper, and thought it would be the perfect place for a music-obsessed kid like me to practice their chops.
“are you sure they'll let a minor in?”, i asked, yanking at his arm.
“yeah, yeah, of course,” he reassured me, not having a clue.
to get to the karaoke stage, you walk through the restaurant portion of the establishment, which smells heavily of barbeque. as a vegetarian since birth, this smell never reminded me of family cookouts, but, in time, became a reminder of music on wednesday evenings. after descending the stairs, the bar sits at the very back of the basement, glowing with fluorescent light. large barrels act as tables where karaoke performers and observers alike leave their drinks to avoid the large 'no drinks’ signs placed on every speaker in the vicinity. the stage, just a step higher than floor level, is modestly sized, but still large enough to fill the full standard band. the crowd was loud but friendly, and the sign-up sheet was always filled with many characters.
the regulars could be split into two categories; the non-singers with large personalities, and the heavy competitors. the non-singers were often incredibly charismatic, which could be easily explained by their bar tab. the competitors were just that: competitive. for many, harikaraoke was just a stop in their nightly routine of hitting every karaoke spot in the dmv (dc, maryland, virginia) area. some bars had prizes, while others only offered the fame and glory drunkenly bellowing a four-minute-long country song could afford you.
the rest of the crowd was comprised of drunk political interns, bachelorette party attendees, and even the occasional disgraced republican representative. as a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed middle schooler, i stuck out like a sore thumb. this was relieved (and exacerbated) by my singing.
every week, i would write my name on the sign-up sheet, wait my turn (often quietly pushed up due to my bedtime), and eventually skip to the stage to perform bonnie tyler's smash hit, total eclipse of the heart. it's nearly certain i memorized the song from watching glee, but i performed it with a stage presence closer resembling a young greg heffley than the shimmering rachel berry.
alas, each wednesday, i would be greeted with applause and the occasional ice cream cone. when my attendance became weekly, further traditions were solidified, including bottled mexican coca-cola and the semi-frequent company of the underage friends the bouncers would stealthily let in behind me.
people took notice. i was given cards by people claiming to work in the music industry. i was interviewed once or twice (and it's actually worth a read!). i made friends with older karaoke-goers, who would eventually become my peers in the dc music scene once i came of age.
when i was seventeen, i saw my first actual eclipse. in dc, there was only 80% visibility, which meant the glasses stayed on the whole time. still, i remember sitting on “big hill", the sledding/picnic-ing/teenage buffoonery mound in front of the seminary, with selena and being in awe. my karaoke song circled in my head as we rested on the grass, staring up at the sky with the peace you only have during your seventeenth august.
at least, i thought it could only exist in that isolated summer moment. but then came burlington, 2024.
on a saturday evening after a quite unsuccessful hoedown at a boston brewery (three words: no. mechanical. bull.), frances and i headed to loretta's, a country bar near fenway park. we sat at a booth in the far right corner and ordered fried pickles and whatever extra-strong cocktail the waiter recommended.
a drink or two in, frances and i started talking about the upcoming eclipse, which was set to occur on monday afternoon. they told me that their previous eclipse plans had been shadowed (har-har) and now they weren't sure how to spend it but wished to see it in a city where it was 100%. i mentioned that my brother lived in vermont and suggested asking him for a couch to crash on for a night.
less than 24 hours later, we were on i-93.
the road trip was tedious but relatively painless since i had some of my favorite company. frances and i swapped song recommendations as i updated them on as much internet-lesbian lore as they could stomach. we ate handfuls of doritos and discounted easter candy. we tried to find the moon on an astronomy app amidst our conversations on the meaning of life and death, all while waiting for their electric car to charge.
we arrived in burlington in the wee hours of the morning, greeted by my brother wearing a forest green hope deluca hat. we briefly caught up, got a tour of the apartment, and fell asleep splitting the couch and air mattress between us.
the next morning, i woke up with no voice. my communication for the day consisted nearly exclusively of text-to-voice talk and a sound effects app. this included ordering breakfast when we waited an hour for bagel sandwiches alongside every other tourist itching for a glimpse of the eclipse. i hung tight in the line while frances scoured the local shops for the cutest (or campiest) merch - we settled on a long-sleeved blue “vermont eclipse 2024” shirt and a short-sleeved black “to-tality rad” tee that frances cropped in no time.
frances, a former vermont resident, was invited to an eclipse viewing party comprised of old friends. in pure burlington fashion, the get-together was hosted at an organic, community-operated farm. an hour or two before the eclipse was supposed to start, we drove over, parking in the bumpiest dirt lot of all time. we followed the party group of around 20 vermonters to a large field. two were, of course, golden retrievers.
at the field, picnic blankets were sprawled, watercolors were scattered, and tupperware filled with dietary restriction-friendly snacks was retrieved from tote bags. the temperature was in the low 60s. every few minutes, we would raise our cardboard glasses to our faces and look straight at the sky, against every evolutionary instinct (and remark from our parents in our youth). the countdown was on - it was only a matter of time before the sun was entirely obscured.
many cultures have different beliefs regarding astrological events. in some cultures, people would make loud noises to scare away bad energy or creatures they believed caused the eclipse. some interpreted it to mean proof of their future victories in battle. modern spiritual practitioners may view it as cleansing or believe it to be a good time to charge healing stones and crystals.
we decided the moment called for some good old-fashioned intention-setting. i opened my notes app and wrote down everything people said that resonated with me, as well as some of my own intentions:
eclipse intentions
april 8, 2024 at 2:40 pm - shared
patience with self and others
live life with kindness
time will pass anyway, do what you can
relinquishing control & worry
be more present
reach for big things, even if they seem unattainable
trust the process
awaken for spring
it felt positive to be surrounded by people (and golden retrievers) using something like this as an excuse to set positive goals and be excited about something as a community, no matter our differences or backgrounds. i got to watch frances rekindle friendships that perhaps they thought were only remnants of the past, and, despite being literally voiceless (still not sure the spiritual meaning behind that in regards to the eclipse, but maybe for another post), i was able to meet people i might otherwise have never met.
finally, at 3:26pm, the sun was entirely eclipsed. it was almost as if something came over the group - we ran in circles, screamed, cheered, and played like children being let outside for recess. everyone excitedly shared how happy they felt at that moment; relieved, even. i can't explain if the joy was cosmic, but it truly seemed as though there was a spark of magic released for those three-and-a-quarter minutes.
when it was over, friends hugged, tupperware was closed, and dogs were rounded up. frances and i meandered back to the dirt lot to finish the rest of our day in the sunlight. perhaps it was my inability to anxiously overspeak, but i felt incredibly reflective.
my mind running a million miles a minute, i thought about astrology, tradition, and community. i thought about those first nights at karaoke, singing total eclipse. i thought about how deeply those wednesday nights impacted me, and how performing my own music isn't too different from karaoke in the first place. i thought about queeraoke, the lgbtq+ karaoke night held on thursdays that has become a social staple in my mid-twenties, and how dissimilar and identical attending it is to harikaraoke. i thought about steve, the long-haired live band bassist who was always ready to give me a fist-bump, attending one of my first real gigs in dc - i thought about how proud he was of me, how he watched me grow up singing the same songs week after week.
late that night, frances and i drove back to boston. i felt a sense of peace - the kind you only feel after untarnished social experiences, free from post-blabbering embarrassment or the often misguided certainty that you were being judged the entire time. i'm nearly positive it was all psychological, but i did almost feel as though a weight was lifted from my shoulders, even if it was just for long enough that i could catch my breath temporarily.
i think if jim steinman had gone with us, he'd be hard-pressed to convince me that light in someone's life & love in the dark are opposites.