The Future of Karaoke Bars Is Filled With Uncertainty and Hope



Joey Park has a "mild obsession" with survival. He's taken weeks-long courses where established Bear Grylls-types teach aspiring Bear Grylls-types how to stay alive in the wilderness. He's hitchhiked across the country several times, equipped with only a backpack. His friends routinely joke that he'll save the world when the "apocalypse" arrives.To get more news about Karaoke CBD Melbourne, you can visit starsktv.com.au official website.

Eventually, this fixation transposed to his economic prospects. "I bought a bar because I thought it was recession-proof," he told me over the phone, inside a newly purchased Airstream trailer in Bloomington, Indiana. "I didn't know I should be aiming for pandemic-proof."

Seven years ago, he returned to New York fresh from one particularly lengthy coast-to-coast-and-back-again hitching trip, and went straight to Baby Grand, a boutique karaoke bar in SoHo that isn't much bigger than the Airstream he currently occupies. It was his local bar of choice. And that night, when the "adorable married couple" who owned the place announced their intention to retire, Park made a move that reads like a bad sitcom pitch: He got some friends together and bought his favorite karaoke bar. Business trended up during his tenure. The place was always packed. They even opened a second location in Greenpoint, Brooklyn with imminent plans to expand to New Orleans. It actually worked out. Until it didn't.

If you had the privilege of going to Baby Grand during Joey's reign, you'll know it was one of the most fun bars in the city… and potentially the most COVID-friendly (meaning, bad). Up to 40 patrons would pack the 240sqft space to belt out old standards from Dean Martin and System of a Down. Flight Attendants on layovers would file in, luggage in tow, to chug vodka sodas and botch "Rocket Man." It was the kind of place where people would actually buy a round of shots for everyone at the bar, and you could probably make out with someone within 20 minutes if you were so inclined. Everybody knew your name, mainly because they had to call you up to the stage. It was sublime (as long as no one sang Sublime).

When COVID-19 hit, it didn't take Park -- the constant survivalist -- long to grasp the inevitable. "Rather than hobble along, we decided to sell the spaces and take what we could, with the plan of opening up again one day when it's safe," he said. Park bought a trailer and relocated to Indiana. He brought the iconic "Baby Grand" sign with him, with the intent of using it again one day.

He is just one of the thousands of karaoke bar owners -- along with millions of small business owners -- who were forced to close during the pandemic. The rest, of course, are currently struggling to survive."At the end of the day, singing karaoke is really just harmonic shouting," said Jason Tetro, author, microbiologist, and self-proclaimed "Germ Guy" who's done extensive work involving emerging pathogens like SARS (the last song he sang at karaoke was Linkin Park's “In the End,” by the way). "You combine this release of airborne droplets with indoor spaces without proper ventilation, lots of people, alcohol, no distancing, it's a very high-risk activity."

Basically, bars in any form are dangerous right now. Encouraging everyone to shout "Mr. Brightside" at the tops of their lungs inside these confined indoor spaces is like pouring Everclear on a dumpster fire.

"Think about that church choir practice in Washington that ended up killing a couple people and potentially affecting hundreds more," said Calvin Sun, an emergency room MD who was on the front lines of the pandemic in NYC and runs the grassroots travel community, Monsoon Diaries. "They were singing inside for a few hours and you can see the results."