By Edward McKinnon

“Happiness, more or less,

it’s just a change in me, something in my liberty.

Happiness, coming and going.”

—The Verve, “Lucky Man” (1997)

I sit inside a bar on Fayetteville’s busy Dickson Street just before things get really busy. Blinking, colorful lights illuminate a wall of spirits in front of me. A woman several stools down is armed with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. The only other customer in the bar at 9 p.m. on a Thursday night, I am armed with my first whiskey and coke of the evening in one hand, my iPhone with an open Spotify playlist in the other, and a building sense of anxiety on the inside.

Several thoughts race through my head: “What am I doing alone on Dickson Street?” “What am I doing at a bar with no college students?” “Am I really about to sing in a public space?”

Bar and club environments are not exactly my speed since frenetic settings can trigger my social anxiety, so trying a place with other social tools was equal parts scary and exciting. I was in the middle of working on a story about music therapy so that subject matter was top of mind, and that night, I suppose I was in search of my own music therapy.

The bar I am sitting inside is appropriately called Infusion since it specializes in infused liquors. But like almost everyone who walks through the door, I am there for the bar’s other specialty — karaoke. 

I search my playlist for the perfect first song to perform. I scroll past several dozen Green Day, Oasis, U2, Beck and White Stripes tracks that all look enticing, but when I see “Lucky Man” by the Verve, I suddenly become confident. I have listened to the song on a loop and have grown to love it due to its uplifting nature. The lyrics are vague enough for me to conjure up my own idea of what the song means, but the song’s central theme of happiness, and how difficult it can be for people to find level emotional ground, is universal. The refrain, “Happiness, more or less, is just a change in me, something in my liberty,” provides a good mantra. As someone who struggles with depression, I try to gravitate toward songs such as “Lucky Man” that elicit positive feelings. The best part: I can hit every note relatively easily as an inexperienced baritone.

Not long after picking my song, the DJ kicks off karaoke, and I am called to the mic. I feel a bit stiff and sit at a bar stool for most of my performance, but my vocals are rock solid. Four minutes and 53 seconds later, I am proud of my performance and immediately request another song. As someone who is generally shy, I view singing in public as an effective method of public exhibition. Additionally, because people bond over shared music interests, people you might never talk to might approach you if they like your song choice, performance or both.

There is a surprising amount of research on the subject of karaoke and its positive impact on people’s social confidence. One centered on Finnish karaoke singers — published in The European Journal of Social & Behavioural Sciences in 2013 — concluded that “alcohol drinking is not part of the behavior model of karaoke singers. Karaoke singing is rather a joyful way to spend time together.” Researchers observed that participants in the study almost unanimously alluded to “star moments,” instances where vocal performances are met with positive audience feedback as a primary motivator for the surveyed karaoke singers.

After one song, I felt I had achieved one of those “star moments.” But four minutes and 31 seconds later, I felt humbled. My decent attempt at a British classic was easily topped by the woman at the other end of the bar who bodied Whitney Houston’s 1992 cover of “I Will Always Love You.” Doug Teaster, an older man I will eventually become more familiar with, gives back-to-back impeccable deliveries of Pearl Jam classics “Better Man” and “Jeremy” not long afterward. More people come through the door and give enthusiastic performances of rock, pop, hip-hop and country staples. Some exit on top, others hang around. I now notice the standard is much higher than I expected.

Alas, as I began drinking more throughout the night, my performances weakened. I stumbled through Oasis’ hit “Champagne Supernova.” I pushed my vocal boundaries further on U2’s 1991 deep cut, “Acrobat.” I even sang “D’You Know What I Mean?” which is Oasis’ overindulgent seven-plus-minute mess of a rock anthem that begins with a full minute of random helicopter and Morse code sound effects. “The music video is badass, though,” I thought to myself upon choosing the song. My performance was not.

My night ends with a small sense of regret. My performances were not maligned since the karaoke bar atmosphere is generally non-judgemental, but I feel a bit self-conscious about my song choices. I am not in good enough shape to socialize either. But I still have an itch to return the next night to improve my performance and talk to more people. I sense a change in myself. Happiness, more or less? If I want to socialize, I must keep singing.

The socialization benefits of karaoke are more relevant than ever. In the past several years, social isolation brought on by the COVID-19 pandemic caused more people to report feeling depressed. Fittingly, as COVID restrictions have been lifted worldwide, the karaoke business has rebounded and is expected to grow significantly throughout the 2020s. In Fayetteville, Big Box Karaoke opened its doors in 2018, offering private karaoke rooms for group gatherings, and has remained a popular destination even after the pandemic. JJ’s Grill and Tin Roof on Dickson Street also offer weekly karaoke nights, attracting college students looking for a fun night out midweek where they can deliver either ironic or sincere renditions of their favorite songs in front of hundreds of their peers. Performing music does not just produce an endorphin high in participants. It generates social opportunities.

Over the past couple of decades, the introduction of new technology has greatly impacted how we socialize with one another. Early research has shown that overexposure to digital technology can prevent people from developing and refining social skills. I have anecdotally become aware of karaoke’s power to combat social disconnectedness through my conversations with the regulars at Infusion, hence their patronage. One who I’ve heard echo this sentiment frequently is Doug Teaster, a 66-year-old attendee at Infusion.

“Learning to walk again.

I believe I’ve waited long enough.

Where do I begin?”

— Foo Fighters, “Walk” (2011)

Two months since my first visit to Infusion, I have essentially made it a part of my routine, where I go once or twice a week. Just as I have suspected, I find Teaster sitting at the bar, sipping on his usual drink — water. He does not drink alcohol, or at least has not in six months, and has no desire to go back. Drinking has mainly served as a social tool for him in the past. Singing is a better one, he said. At the bar, he is contemplating his next song choice.

I greet him, and we jump into conversation. Neither of us is extroverted, but after several previous interactions, we know each other well enough to talk about many things before shifting the discussion to his nearly two decades of experience as a karaoke singer.

In 2006, Doug Teaster walked down an almost unrecognizable version of Dickson Street, searching for a sense of fulfillment akin to a coming-of-age college student. Off the heels of a divorce, he wanted to get out and meet new people. He found fulfillment initially in a now-closed karaoke bar, but another karaoke bar, which would later become Infusion, would pique his interest.  

One night in 2009, he walked in. The subsequent series of events would ensure that amending his usual karaoke routine at the other bar would be more than worth it. He fondly recalls his first social interaction with the karaoke DJ.

He handed him a song slip since the place had yet to adopt a computer-based system. The slip read “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” He looked at the song, then looked at Teaster, then looked at the slip again.

“This I’ve gotta see,” the DJ said, amused.

“You will,” Teaster clapped back.

 He proclaims this series of events solidified Infusion as his go-to bar.

I have never heard Teaster sing “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” but I am familiar enough with his vocal range and usual — or unusual — song selections to know that he did not just pull off the performance but truly owned it. He challenges himself with the microphone regularly by pulling from every rock subgenre you can think of. For years, his favorite song was “I Want to Hold Your Hand” by the Beatles. He still sings Beatles songs but will follow them with equally competent renditions of grunge, post-grunge, nu metal, punk-rock, metal and new-wave anthems.

Following his divorce, his music taste expanded when he began listening to whatever was on the radio and soaking in the karaoke scene on nights when he did not have his kids. “I actually discovered ‘90s music in the 2000s. I learned about grunge in 2006,” he quipped.

During a conversation, I notice Teaster looking through a list on his phone. He tells me he has compiled a list of the songs in his repertoire. He estimates he has sung over 500 tracks that he would not try again, leaving only 150 songs in his regular rotation. A rangy tenor, he identifies songs from artists such as Guns N’ Roses and Aerosmith as being in his wheelhouse. But he also has the range and vocal power to emulate the gruffness of iconic grunge-adjacent vocalists such as Chris Cornell, Eddie Vedder and Dave Grohl. “Walk” by Foo Fighters is his current go-to song.

In the past few years, Teaster has developed a lung condition, bronchiectasis, which affects his vocal abilities. But you would never know this based on the ambitious choices he makes. Just when I think I have him figured out, I watch him mimic Chester Bennington’s screams on “One Step Closer” without breaking a sweat before tackling a much smoother track, Post Malone’s “Better Now.” Each performance begins with cheers from patrons who recognize Teaster. When he finishes, he receives some of the largest cheers of the night.

In his 15 years of going Infusion, Teaster has witnessed the place transform from a small pub with the occasional karaoke offering into a full-fledged karaoke bar where self-proclaimed vocalists take up residency. While he has played the role of customer and vocalist for the most part, he did take a turn at DJing for several months in 2011 when the previous one walked out.

“In the beginning, I just did it to help the owner,” he said. “I told her I would cover until she could find a replacement. But then, when I got into it, I discovered it was my favorite job that I had ever had. So it was for fun. I was getting compensated. Not a lot, but it was still about $600 extra a month to spend on my kids.”

In the years since, Teaster has seen plenty of customers and employees come and go. Management shifted hands in the mid-2010s when Amber Hurlbut, one of the bartenders, purchased the place. After all of his children moved to college, Teaster made the karaoke bar a bigger part of his lifestyle. Two to three times a month became two to three times a week. In a good week, he gets to perform more than a dozen songs, which gives him a dozen opportunities to be approached by someone new after hearing him sing. Attending the bar is not indulging in a vice. It is his hobby.

“I am an addict though,” Teaster said. “I’m addicted to this bar.”

Though bars ideally offer a good social atmosphere, karaoke can add another dimension to these establishments if they choose to adopt it. Selling drinks keeps the business afloat, but judgment-free vocal exhibition enables individuals to meet new people in a musical context, find their social confidence and indulge in a healthy dose of braggadocio. The regulars insist that karaoke bars such as Infusion are different. Performance art is a jumping-off point to talk to unique people. On my best days, this is why I go to Infusion. For regulars such as Teaster, this is what it is all about.

Through more than half a year in total I have spent going to Infusion, I have become a recognizable patron. The workers know my name and face, but I am not a frequent enough visitor to fear I am adopting a bad drinking habit. As weeks pass, I notice the bar’s clientele is shockingly age-diverse, ranging from 21-year-olds, who are hoping to shake up their weekend evening routine to folks Teaster’s age, and anyone in between. 

It does not take a genius to figure out why Infusion has a different, arguably better aura than neighboring establishments. The drink selection is good, and the tight space creates a very intimate vibe, but it is also one of the only all-nights-a-week karaoke spots in the area. The social benefits are evident.

For instance, business owners and even the military have cited karaoke as a method for boosting morale and retention. But, from a social-scientific standpoint, there is strong evidence that singing as performance art is more than just an activity that adds an additional element to a fun night out. One qualitative research study published in the European Journal of Public Health  found that group singing activities such as karaoke can help individuals “develop a sense of belonging and enhance self-confidence in participants.” Around the same time as my sit down with Teaster, another character approaches me who also preaches about these benefits, and then some.

“We’re all in the mood for a melody

and you’ve got us feelin’ alright.”

—Billy Joel, “Piano Man” (1973)

Though I am starting to get acclimated to the familiar faces at Infusion, I feel relieved when someone else is eager to make conversation. Brian Jackson, a 26-year-old diesel technician in Tontitown, Arkansas, thinks the bar is a good place to blow off steam. He rings off a familiar mantra I can picture coming from an old man making love to his tonic and gin: “Anytime I have a stressful day at work, I don’t like taking it home.”

Jackson tells me he spent six years in the Army before moving to Northwest Arkansas, stationed through most of his tenure in Oklahoma while having brief stints in Iraq and Europe. Growing up, he developed a strong interest in music, first gravitating to ‘90s alternative rock. Later in youth, he became infatuated with punk rock and thrash metal. He said his music taste has matured with age, and he now has gotten into more synth music and slower rock. While in the Army, he formed a punk-rock band with fellow soldiers called Iggy Six and the Ground Pounders.

Jackson plays bass, keyboards, and some guitar and is a confident vocalist. While he acknowledges that music is a hobby, he enjoys working with other artists and making friends through common musical interests. Infusion is one of his go-to spots not just because he likes to perform but because the usual clientele includes aspiring musicians he hopes to work with.

Our conversation is interrupted when the DJ calls for Jackson. I have seen him perform enough times to know that his go-to song is Billy Joel’s classic “Piano Man.” Unlike Teaster, I’ve mostly seen Jackson stick to bonafide crowd-pleasers. His other go-to song is Paul Anka’s “Put Your Head On My Shoulder.” By selecting the favorites, he lives the dream only the greatest rock stars get to fulfill — hearing the audience sing the lyrics back at him.

This is why people come to karaoke bars. The environment ideally provides a safe social space. I remember the four rules that Teaster had during his tenure as DJ: Respect the equipment, respect the singer, there is no such thing as a bad singer and don’t fuck with the DJ.

Good karaoke bars operate under this kind of social contract. Everyone within the walls is encouraged to sing. Applause is mandatory. Heckling and mic drops are forbidden. I have yet to hear boos from crowd members at any karaoke night. The environment is engineered to negate negativity.

Still, Infusion is different from the average karaoke bar. Customers, bartenders, security guards and DJs all sing — and well. Teaster recalls a conversation with a professional tennis player from New Zealand who approached him after finishing his song. Blown away by the experience in the bar, he turned to Teaster to ask how all of the singers are so good. 

Jackson also agrees. An attendee at Infusion since February, he has concluded the place doubles as a place to meet everyday people and a viable medium for connecting with fellow artists.

“This is a good way for independent musicians and beginners to network,” Jackson said. “This is the place to come.”

“How many lives are living strange?”

—Oasis, “Champagne Supernova” (1995)

After my less-than-stellar showing during my first night at Infusion, I decided to exercise some restraint. I limit myself to two beers. I am there to have a good time but also want to sing better. I fare better, make a few social connections, then dip.

I want to believe that karaoke bars such as Infusion are different. Most regulars claim they get the most value from the establishment by singing and using people’s performances to start conversations. Teaster goes as far as to tell me that karaoke is so beneficial that he can confidently call it a lifestyle. His assertion is supported by a study published in the International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health that found karaoke offers a “fun, arts-based intervention that can improve well-being” as a component of the “Creative Aging” movement — a trend encouraging older adults to express themselves through painting, drawing, acting and music.

Even at 21 years old, this is the mindset I adopt when I enter a karaoke bar. One Saturday night, I am lucky enough to fit in four songs the day after a less-than-stellar showing. At the beginning of the night, I perform “Lonely Boy” by The Black Keys and feel less lonely when the sparse crowd applauds. As the night goes on, more people file in and applause grows louder for each performer. I sing “All These Things I’ve Done” by The Killers and feel as though the lyrics “I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier” are mine for a brief moment. I sing “Wake Me Up When September Ends” by Green Day knowing many people in the bar were raised by the American Idiot album. I conclude with “Champagne Supernova” again, which I now have gotten the hang of, and the nonsensical lyrics of the chorus suddenly mean something when I hear multiple people around me also sing along with conviction. I see dozens of lives around me happy to be living strange.

After hearing applause one last time and sensing the night is coming to a close, I begin to file out. I tip the DJ and thank them for hosting. I close my tab at the bar. I bid farewell to some fellow regulars. I head for the exit and back to my apartment, allowing my memory to rest. When I am ready to visit some old friends, make new acquaintances, and feed my ego for just a few minutes at a time with a microphone and a supportive crowd, I know a karaoke bar will be waiting for me.