That made for hours of conversation; conversation that we were so engrossed in that we had not realized just how many times the peachy little Canadian had called for “shots!” until our faces were smashed against the mirrored walls of the hotel elevators in the wee hours of the morning. It was about then that we realized that not only had we missed karaoke, we had personally sampled many kinds of exotic shots that we never knew existed. There were coconut shots, butterscotch shots (the kind grandma would make), Kahlua shots, mango shots, and peppermint shots just to name a few.

A quick assessment of the night brought an estimate of about 8 to 10 shots consumed by each of us unwittingly, at the lovely Canadian’s behest. Looking back on it I realized she set us up like Pavlov’s dogs, she would yell “shots!” in the middle of a totally unrelated sentence each time in that perky, hi-pitched  voice. A round of libations would appear seconds later and she would cock her head and finish her sentence without missing a beat.  We did the same, no questions asked. Karaoke would have to wait until tomorrow night.

Surviving Paradise

Karaoke night at the Paradise Island Resort Hotel was a cozy affair. Set up at the poolside lobby bar after dark, a local boy just barely in his teens served as the KJ and would prove to be a master at the delicate task of handling the multitude of shy, square, squeamish, and ultimately ‘drunken’ tourists that sometimes behave badly.  Whether by design or not, these karaoke sessions were communal since there was only one songbook in circulation. This created a forced sense of community since everyone had to hover over the book, which meant thankfully, that "book-hogs" were discouraged.

The bar provided plenty of exotic libations for those in need of liquid courage. But most importantly, the spirits helped to fade away the imprint of the cheesy karaoke videos that accompanied every song. Sipping on a cool Miami Vice definitely took away the eerie feeling that you were trapped in a Japanese karaoke box in one of Hong Kong’s seedy red light districts.

The dutiful KJ, who sometimes looked as if he were hosting a kid’s birthday party – the fun and activities were a little beneath him but the clientele was cute nevertheless – always started the festivities by half-heartedly singing a tune in his thick Bahamian accent. His awkwardness almost always inspired a rescuer from the crowd who thought they could appreciate singing more than he. What followed was pretty typical as karaoke goes; a litany of old standards one after the other; Sinatra, Neil Diamond, Beyonce, Jimmy Buffet, Bob Marley and the night would not be complete without a group of women belting out “I Will Survive” while roaming the bar and staring down men’s throats as they scream the lyrical battle cry in unison.

Karaoke Nassau Style

The next evening found us staring at the Canadian Hockey Players’ butt. As me and my fellow karaoke traveler sat  having drinks at the hotel lobby bar, the Canadians had stormed in, stumbling and swaying. The girl vanished into  the ladies room while her partner proceeded to back his butt up in between our barstools and give us a show. Finally he turned upright and dutifully told us that he and his fiancé had gone to the famous Senor Frog’s-land of the yard high drinks- in Nassau and had a blast. Not that he needed to tell us he had a blast as that was readily apparent. But he did leave us with one intriguing note; they had karaoke. We put Senor Frogs on the to do list.

It was the epitome of karaoke lawlessness. A modern day pirate enclave, a never-ending bachelor party, complete with a full gift shop. Located directly on the bay overlooking Nassau harbor and several jumbo cruise ships docked a stone’s throw away, the bar was literally a massive wooden deck built atop the shallow water of the harbor itself. Thumping party music permeated the wooden infrastructure only interrupted by the shrill voice of the KJ host herself who was relentlessly mobile, proving there was no sanctuary for anyone. She chatted up diners at tables as well as the bar patrons, culling them for karaoke. 

The karaoke was wicked.  Most performed right atop a long wooden bar table in the center of the room. Some preferred the professional stage and dance floor area. The KJ host ran the show and provided lyrical backup should anyone be too drunk (most) or too bad to sing at a minimally acceptable level. And this was only at 5pm. My partner “the Kid” was ready to dive into this mass hysteria after just a few moments, so he found a songbook and dutifully put in his ticket to sing his old standby; Neil Diamond.

I had my doubts about whether he would ever get to sing good ol’e Neil. Judging from the college, frat boy atmosphere of the place, I couldn’t imagine Sweet Caroline going over well, but of course I’ve been wrong before.

After three mug sized drinks, about two and half hours of drunken people-watching, and a cool rendition of Proud Mary, we left dejected. Okay he was dejected, not me. But we both felt the stinging tinge of karaoke bigotry; sacrificing one person’s singing opportunity for the sake of “the show.” It was obvious that Neil’s genre was not compatible with the endless Aerosmith and Bon Jovi tracks that littered the air all evening, so we cut our losses, stumbled into a cab and returned to Paradise Island.

Damn Canadians

With another karaoke adventure under belts, and on our last night in the Bahamas, we settled at the lobby bar for a few drinks and good conversation. Acutely aware of the possibility that we might succumb to the wrath of the Canadians, we devised a plan to have the bartender, whom we had gotten to know fairly well during our stay – pour virgin drinks into our shot glasses should the beguiling expatriates attempt to assault us with the tiny libations. We had successfully avoided them all week, and we were quite proud.

And as we sat reflecting on the week’s activities, we started up a pleasant conversation with a great down-to earth couple next to us. They were blue collar workers from the east coast and they kept us company as they sipped on two beers. Soon the Canadians arrive at the other end of the bar, and as they chatted up more victims, we gleefully told our new found friends to beware. The woman just smiled at me in disbelief, I guess she thought I was drunk, but I insisted. “That sweet little lady will come over, chat you up and the next thing you know, your facedown on the carpet.” They both said “we only drink beer,” and I smiled.

It would only be a few moments though before the couple looked at each other in a panic, grabbed their belongings and ran from the bar as fast as they could because they heard we heard. The clarion call. The Canadian had risen up at the head of the bar, with glass in hand, and at the top of her voice yelled “Shots!! …..shoooots for everyone!”