The warm buzz of whiskey has begun to creep through your veins. That song you always skip on your train trip to work has suddenly become your favourite song ever and you have to sing it. It’s time to share your amazing voice with the world.
We all know that moment: that drunk karaoke rockstar moment which finds us closing our eyes whilst belting out a chorus, or ripping out a downward elbow-thrust during power ballads and saying things like “Actually, Creed’s first album was kind of good” without the slightest trace of sarcasm.
Since approximately 3pm this afternoon, my neighbours have been sharing their drunk karaoke rockstar moments with those of us lucky enough to live nearby.
Girls have been shrieking and dirty dancing on the back porch, while the guys have been high fiving and daring each other to jump off various pieces of furniture. The more time that passes, the less coherent their shouting becomes, until finally, the talking stops entirely as Cold Chisel’s Cheap Wine comes waltzing through their tinny speakers and casts a spell across the yard.
With a power only to be found in the refrain of an Aussie Pub Rock Anthem, the drunk karaoke afternoon evolves into the drunk Sunday Evening Backyard Concert featuring Leftover Lunchtime Salmonella Sausages and Aerogard.
It was a loud and raucous evening where we neighbours were treated to a moving appearance by the Garth Brooks Appreciation Choir. A surprisingly welcome cameo by Savage Garden was unfortunately cut short due to interference by a Garth Brooks Appreciation Choir member who was in control of the iPod at the time.
Listening to them, there’s a part of me cringes on their behalf, recalling my own sense of shame when memories of my drunk singing would descend on me the following day and peck at my face with their sharp beaks of regret. The rest of me grins, fondly remembering my own spontaneous drunk Sundays and the freedom that ignoring all sense of responsibility instilled within me.
Mostly, it made me realise that this is probably just payback for the countless 4am drunk renditions of Jolene that I’ve put them through since we moved in here.
A warm grin adorns my face as I tidy up on my way to bed. A couple of short, but faraway years ago I was the one singing along with Eddie Vedder while someone vomited in the corner behind the shed.
I certainly don’t miss going to work hungover, but I do miss those drunk Spontaneous Sunday Evening Backyard Concerts featuring Leftover Lunchtime Salmonella Sausages.
Especially when they happened on a Tuesday.