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There were lights, and there was singing: not professional
singing, but the kind of lonely amateur wail one grows accus-tomed to living in South Korea. Karaoke, no question. Outdoors,
in the late autumn humidity, at 10 p.m., someone was singing
their heart out.
We followed the sound to a mammoth concrete underbelly of
a major Kuala Lumpur highway. Food stalls squared off a collec-
tion of mostly empty plastic patio furniture and a red wooden
stage adorned with Christmas lights and a bold triangular sign:
YHA ENTERTAINMENT KARAOKE. We did a round through the
stalls and watched a handsome young Malaysian boy deliver a
strong baritone rendition of some native pop song before de-
ciding to, why not, have a go ourselves.
In the DJ booth sat a middle-aged, raspy-voiced man hypno-
tized by the dim blue light of his cheap laptop, a caricature of
bohemian disc jockeys, with a
floppy black toque almost whol-
ly covering his squinty eyes and
slim rectangle glasses. He looked
at us and stood up, extending
for a handshake. Hey, whats up,
guys? he said quickly, grabbing
our hands. Im the best compos-
er in the world, call me Mr. Song. And this is the best producer
in the world, Mr. Robert. He swung his arm across to his friend,
who stood awkwardly beside him. Mr. Robert hid his nervous
laugh with a bowed sip of beer.
How much for a song? I asked.
Three ringgit, three songs, he replied, focusing his attention
back on the laptop.
We just want one.
Here, he said, handing me a notepad. Write what songs you
want.
Do you have English songs?
Yes, Ive got English, Ive got everything, he assured us. Just
write.
We sat down front-row, next to the only group with a median
age of less than 30. We exchanged smiles and the song ended;
their friend was the handsome boy onstage, and they laughed
and clapped at him. The next song was geared up and a girl
from the group, plainly dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, gig-
gled as her friends pushed her onstage to join the boy. They be-
gan a duet.V and I settled on universal karaoke hits: Moon River, Burnin
Love and New York, New York. We handed Mr. Song our
choices and sat back down. A rotund Malay man bought us two
bottles of water; we thanked him, he grunted. I leaned over to
ask the students next to us how often outdoor karaoke went on
under this bridge.
I dont know, one boy said. This is first time for us. I think
every day.
I inquired why theyd bother coming all the way out here, to
the outskirts of downtown, near nothing but an unfinished mall
and intersections of long, looping highways.
Its cheap, the boy replied. They were students whod rented
two hotel rooms nearby our own. Their friends finished their
duet, bowed to wild applause
by their company, and took their
seats. Mr. Song called up another
name, and a glum-faced senior
in a poorly-fitted t-shirt with a
slightly younger, portly woman of
dyed black hair waddled onstage
to sing an old standard by an art-
ist I can only assume to be the Malay Frank Sinatra. Above them,
hanging from the roof of the stage, were strung up Malaysian
state flags and the occasional bold 1 icon, remnants of their
Malaysian Day celebration of two days ago. The man sung with
a powerful bass; hed clearly performed this song before.
When their two songs finished, Mr. Song announced some-
thing in Malay, ending with New York, New York!, which we
took as our cue to stand up against a burst of applause at the
novelty of white people singing Malaysian karaoke. We sang
our first song awfully, in a key neither of us recognized; I com-
pensated by bellowing a powerful Elvis impersonation, and V,
as she often does, outsung me on Moon River. The whole per-
formance was scattershot; neither Mr. Song nor any of our new
horny student friends seemed bothered.
After we took our seats, Mr. Song took to the stage. That was
excellent, he lauded. And now, I want to give you a song, for
our special Canadian guests, thank you for coming. Thank you.
Suddenly wailed a familiar G-chord electric guitar, an intrinsic
HTravelINTERNATIONAL
Under a noisy Kuala Lumpur highway, one man dreams bigger than his karaoke stage can
fit. Michael Fraiman stumbled onto the scene and found a lonely, musical world.
Under the Bridge:A Malaysian Karaoke Odyssey
Story and Photography ByMichael Fraiman
How much for a song? I asked.
Three ringgit, three songs, he replied,
focusing his attention back on the laptop.
We just want one.
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7/25/2019 Busan Haps - "A Malaysian Karaoke Odyssey"
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2014 winter _ busanhaps.com 35
Michael Fraiman is a freelance writer
and former Haps editor. Read more of
his travel stories at www.alongway-
back.com, and check for his upcoming
book, A Long Way Back: Stories of Trav-
elling Home.
urge to slow dance washing over us, and Mr. Song pointed in our
direction and firmly locked eyes for the entire three minutes andforty-five seconds of Eric Claptons Wonderful Tonight.
Its late in the evening, shes wondering what clothes to wear
V and I shifted awkwardly in our seats. We exchanged a quick
glance of glazed smiles and tried our hardest not to laugh or
look emotionally molested. We looked at the horny students,
at cars rolling past, at the ground, at anything; every time
we turned back, Mr. Song stared directly at us, through us,
gyrating his hips and slowly crooning:
My darling, you look wonderful tonight
The next morning was our last in the frantic Kuala Lumpur,
the largest city wed seen in days, and the largest we were
bound to see for at least a week more. We walked from our
hotel to an Indian restaurant down the way, but glimpsed, by
chance, Mr. Song again, across the street, standing and smok-
ing alone in his bohemian black toque and rectangle glass-
es. We approached him; his response was a measured nod,
as if hed been expecting us.
This DJ thing is only for now, he told us between cigarette
inhales. I play the guitar, too. Karaoke is just the launching pad.
I have some songs down. I want to record them, man! I have
some friends, but its hard. In Malaysia, the music is small, man,
its hard to sell music, to make the money. I have a whole mini-
album planned, man. Songs From Under the Bridge. Yeah? I
like the image, the name is cool: Songs From Under the Bridge.
Like, this is where we come from, like trollstrolls, yeah? Inde-
pendent songs. Not radio pop. Its about suffering. I suffer a lot,
man. Nobody knows, you dont knowI suffer every day. I think
people will respond to these songs, man. Songs From Under
the Bridge. Itll cause a sensation.
I told him I was a writer and gave him my business card, which
excited him; I invited him to email me his music any time he
liked, and looked forward to hearing his tracks, that Id even con-
sider interviewing him for publication, really getting the word
out. He breathed in a drag of smoke, shook my hand and told
me he would email me. He never did.
Michael Fraiman is a freelance writer and former Haps editor. Read
more of his travel stories at www.alongwayback.com, and check for
his upcoming book, A Long Way Back: Stories of Travelling Home.
