Basement Files: Karaoke king

WINSTED, Conn.--It's 8:12 on a Thursday night and Roslyn Bouska is singing Patsy Cline. Tonight is karaoke night at Carmichael's Tavern and Bouska is, as always, the first to subdue her nerves and take center stage. Swaying at the mic with a shy, almost girlish turn of the hips, Bouska warbles her way through "Walking After Midnight." She's deadly earnest about the song, but her voice is one that could use the filter of a winking irony.

Next, a young man wearing a Westfield State T-shirt bounds onto the stage and solemnly requests the scrolling lyrics for Five for Fighting's "Superman." But within a few measures, it's clear he's simply mugging for his college pals, who laugh uproariously at a nearby table. It's a tiresome performance, enlivened by neither talent nor wit.

At table 17, Winsted, Conn.'s favorite son, sips at bottled water and stares with a pained expression at the young man's drunken excess. "You're looking at the only two approaches to karaoke in Winsted," Ralph Nader says disgustedly. "First, either they overestimate the quality of their voice and take it way too seriously, or second, they think being drunk and wacky will somehow make it funny." Nader takes a long pull from his Aquafina and says, "Well, I'm gonna tear their shit up here in a second."

Within minutes, Nader emerges from behind the speakers in his trademark rumpled suit and scuffed wingtips. He nods to the DJ and intones, "Watch out, here I come," even modulating the last syllable into a haunting, electronic echo. Immediately, the pulsing beat of Dead or Alive's "You Spin Me `Round" begins throbbing from the speakers. Taking advantage of the song's minute-long intro, Nader spins across the stage in a surprisingly energetic and loose-limbed dance.

A born entertainer

As the crowd responds, Nader starts to vamp, cupping a hand behind his ear as if he can't hear the crowd's already deafening roar. With a spin worthy of the Temptations, Nader turns his back to the crowd, lifts the hem of his jacket and lewdly rubs his palms over the well-muscled globes of his buttocks.

"The guy's a born entertainer," foundry worker Eric Sauro shouts over the din. "I don't agree with his politics, mind you...in fact, what he did to the Chevy Corvair was a goddamn crime...but he gives you everything he's got onstage. I mean, this ain't an easy song, with all that `right round, baby, right round' stuff, and he just nails it. Christ, look at him up there."

Feeding off the crowd's energy, the sweat-soaked Nader begins shimmying his shoulders until his jacket slides halfway down his arms. Even with his arms thus constrained, Nader manages to lick both forefingers and draws imaginary circles around his nipples. As he pretends to tease the nipples into greater hardness, Nader mouths the words, "Fuck me."

Just can't get enough

"Look, I don't claim to have a great voice," Nader says as he towels off back at his table. "What I do have is a knack for picking songs that match my limited vocal range. I look for something heavily synthesized, with an infectious techno-beat. Say, Depeche Mode's 'Just Can't Get Enough.' Something light and fun, where the original singer was pretty crappy too.

"A lot of people will get up here and try to plod their way through a Savage Garden ballad," Nader continues. "It's a mistake on two counts. First, it requires a legitimate voice and, second, it's too slow. People want a serious uptempo vibe on karaoke night, and that's what I give them."

Despite his populist sentiments, the locals know that Nader can be a bit aloof, even prickly, between sets. Most do what they can to give him a wide berth offstage. Kurt Schranz remembers sitting at the bar two weeks ago when Nader wedged between Schranz and his date to order a water.

"I was smoking a cigarette and Ralph starts with this operatic coughing," Schranz recounts. "I look up and he's waving the air all dramatic and shit. And he says, `Maybe you don't mind inhaling 300-degree formaldehyde vapors, but I do.' And he says I should be outraged at the way I've been manipulated by the tobacco companies into lining the pockets of George Bush's corporate puppet masters.

"And I'm like, `Dude, I'm just here to party.' He just shakes his head and mutters something about America partying itself right into a poly...garchial...something or other.

"And I say, `Hell yes, we are. Nobody parties like the US of A, motherfucker.' But Nader just walks away, like I'm nothing. And I was gonna stake that dude to a shot of Jager, but forget it now. I'm serious."

Some peanut butter

Shortly before 10, County Assessor Allan Harshaw begins a jaunty, finger-snapping version of Bobby Darin's "Beyond the Sea." It's a passable version, but it's sadly lost on a crowd already abuzz about Nader's next set. The activist has been missing from his table for 10 minutes and the audience knows to expect something special.

With the lights dimmed, the propulsive opening strains of the Talking Heads' "Life During Wartime" begin blaring from the speakers. A lone spotlight reveals Nader moving robotically in a giant, boxy David Byrne suit, his head comically reduced in scale by the absurdly padded shoulders. The crowd roars its approval, singing along with the refrain and shouting, "I got some groceries, some peanut butter."

Perhaps losing himself in the moment, Nader begins chopping at his left forearm with his right hand and screaming, "This is not my beautiful wife." It may be the wrong song, but in this crowd's eyes, Nader can do no wrong. He's Winsted's favorite son. Their principled crusader. Their karaoke king.