As the Papa Roach show lets out of the House of Blues, people file past the entrance to the venue's restaurant—and past a chance to be their own rock star.
Every Monday night, the HOB's restaurant is home to Rockstar Karaoke, where wannabe Robert Plants and Christina Aguileras get the chance to grab the mike and sing along in front of an audience. So far, that's no different than any other karaoke night at any other bar in the world. What sets Rockstar apart is those brave, possibly tone-deaf souls do all of this with an accompanying live band.
Hosted by slim, tattooed rocker chick Heather Rae, the event is only in its ninth week but has already attracted a loyal enough following to pack the 500-seat room—including curious tourists.
"I've been to lots of karaokes before but I've never seen one with a live band," says Jeff Hanson, a grad student visiting Vegas from Huntington, West Virginia. One of the first to take to the stage on a recent night, Hanson performed Mötley Crüe's "Home Sweet Home," swaying in time with bass player Tony Santoro and guitarist Jimmy Oleson, and helping himself to a shot of Jack after the song. For Hanson, who learned about Rockstar from an ad in the back of the Weekly, the chance to perform was also a eulogy of sorts, in honor of the bass player in his own band who recently killed himself.
Setting the beat for Santoro and Oleson is Johnny Fedevich on drums. Their repertoire numbers 100-plus songs, says Fedevich, and covers every genre from classic rock through punk and disco to rap. Though the trio only plays together these Monday nights, they are as tight as any band you can find; a level of professionalism demanded in part by sometimes having to perform alongside drunken bachelorette parties, among other horrors.
"Those are the worst," says Santoro, though he is quick to add that "there are more good singers than bad."
Indeed, this night will prove Santoro correct on both counts.
Shortly after 10 p.m., a middle-aged man is the first to go. Clearly a regular (he knows right where the complimentary bottle of Jack Daniels is), he starts in on Santana's "Smooth" a few bars early but quickly corrects himself. Next up is his companion, a similarly aged woman who blasts her way through Pat Benatar's "Hit Me With Your Best Shot." Neither looks at the monitor with lyrics at their feet. They're followed by a twentysomething man in club attire who frankly does a great Jim Morrison on "Light My Fire."
Later, another young man with a crew cut and wearing cargo pants reveals his inner headbanger with Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train," and gets the first group out onto the dance floor.
They can't hold a lighter to Kevin Tice. Tall, with tattoos and wearing a black knit cap with flames, Tice is more than a regular—he's a favorite. "Get ready to fasten your seat belts and put on your safety glasses," warns Santoro before Tice launches into that Axl anthem, "Welcome to the Jungle."
In real life, Tice is a valet at Déjà Vu, and has no rock god aspirations. But every other Monday, he blows the lid off the HOB, though he'd much prefer rocking out to Metallica or Alice in Chains.
Then Santoro's second prediction comes to pass, as first a slightly inebriated group of men and women mutilate "YMCA." They try to do the "YMCA" dance moves, but they're too drunk and the stage is too small. A young, bare-midriff blonde takes over Oleson's guitar. She can't play and yet it makes no difference whatsoever. They're followed by three middle-aged women who talk their way through "Dancing Queen," too enamored by the lights and audience to remember they should be trying to sing.
And just when you think things couldn't get any worse, they do. Or don't, depending on your point of view, because Steven Littel takes the mike.
Short but built like a weight set, he's dressed in a nondescript white polo shirt and charcoal slacks, aviator-style eyeglasses and a trim, neat haircut. In town from Madison, Wisconsin, to see his son Russell, who is due to be called up in the Army Reserves, Steven looks absolutely normal. There is no hint he's going to let loose with a version of Kool and the Gang's perennial fav, "Celebration," never before seen by man or beast. He moves in ways no white man ever should. Santoro and Oleson can't look at one another without risking breaking into hysterics. He doesn't sing so much as shout. When the lyrics "Celebrate good times, come on!" scroll by, it sounds like a command.
But it works. Littel's enthusiasm and energy are contagious. The dance floor is packed. A semi-truck driver from Madison, Wisconsin, Littel holds the House of Blues in his palm.
Papa Roach couldn't ask for more.