The Crooner
The next song that I’m going to do is about the time when I almost became a professional singer. The year was 1993, and I was a young man looking for work. I had a job interview in Mexico City’s tourist district, known as “Zona Rosa,” the Pink Zone. It was raining buckets, so I ran from the taxi to the small building where the interview was to take place. I was concerned about ruining my one and only suit. It was a double-breasted blue pinstripe, with gold buttons.
I remember little about the job interview, which as you will see, was the least interesting part of the day. All that I remember is that it was very brief and that nothing came of it.
After the interview, back on the street, I decided to take shelter from the rain. I went into a dingy little bar, the type that has little stools by the entrance and a TV silently playing some show. The bartender was stereo-typically cleaning the counter with a towel when he saw me. “If you’re here for the job you’ll have to talk to Eric,” he said. I had no idea that they had a job available, but I jumped at the opportunity. “Where is he?” I asked.
“Right by the stage.”
So I walked a few steps inside the dimly lit bar and saw a balding man with a goatee.
“Eric?”
“Yeah. Look bro, I have to be somewhere, so let’s make this brief. Show me what you’ve got.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. Seeing my hesitation, he said, “All yours,” as he pointed to a small stage, complete with a microphone and a piano. I thought, “They think I’m here for a singing job!” Having time on my hands and nothing to lose, I got on the stage. I figured that I’d belt one out and have a good laugh, or get laughed off by Eric, and be on my way. I knew the lyrics to Frank Sinatra’s My Way. It was the ultimate joke: Me, a 20-year-old kid, singing the lines of a middle-aged guy who’s ready to check out.
“And now, the end is near,” I started singing, in as deep a voice as I could muster.
Eric looked at me intently. When I got to the line, “And more, much more than this,” he stopped me. “Be here on Friday at 9 PM sharp, and wear something black. We’re not selling Cadillacs here.” Was he kidding? No, he didn’t look like he was kidding. But I was. I decided to show up on Friday and see how far the joke would go. As I walked out, I took note of the bar that I had stumbled upon. The overhead sign said, “El Rinconcito,” in pink neon.
During the week I looked for videos to “rehearse” for my singing gig. The video store had nothing with a crooner in it. The closest thing they had was the musical Guys and Dolls, with Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando. It wouldn’t do. I lucked out a few days later when I caught an old Bobby Darin performance on TV, singing Mack The Knife. I paid attention to every detail as I watched him. His mannerisms, his footwork, his hand gestures. I practiced Mack The Knife dozens of times alone in my room. But I had the Louis Armstrong record, not Bobby Darin’s. I had to imagine Darin’s performance as I listened to Armstrong’s raspy voice; not an easy feat.
I showed up on Friday at El Rinconcito, in the same blue pinstripe that I had worn days before. There were only a few patrons sitting by tiny little tables next to the stage, but it was early and the bar was filling up. Eric came in and said, “Fernanda will be here in a minute.” Fernanda turned out to be the pianist. She was gorgeous. She was also hateful. She said something about meters and keys, to show that she was a trained musician. “What’s your experience?” she asked. “The shower,” I replied. It was true.
The first three “warmup” numbers were hers. She played elevator music, Richard Clayderman fare, quite skillfully.
When my turn was up, I went next to her and whispered, “Mack The Knife.” She started the tune. I got in position and snapped my fingers in rhythm.
“Oh the shark babe, has such teeth babe...”
I tried to focus on telling the story of Mack the Knife. I swayed as I sang, I did the penguin walk, I smiled. All a la Bobby Darin. I finished the song with a crescendo. As I outstretched my arms, I almost yelled, “Look out! Old Mack is back in town!”
Some people clapped. A young tourist type in a Hawaiian shirt approached me. I leaned toward him. “Where do I sign up?” he asked.
“Sign up? For what?”
“For the karaoke! I want to go next.”
It was going to be a long night. I don’t know how I ended my set of five songs. I remember that I did Let Me Try Again half decently.
My skills slowly improved after my first night. I learned that singing is more about telling a story than about showing off your vocal skills. I learned to feel the emotions that each song calls for. After a few nights, I began to forget the audience, singing as if I were alone, not belting out lyrics, but genuinely internalizing what they say. My movements became less studied, and more spontaneous. Singing became a new form of conversation: “Let me tell you a story.”
The regulars started warming up to me. I started getting requests. People actually came back to see me. They started singing along. I began to understand that performing is an act of communion, of being with the crowd, not just in front of it. The tip jar started getting full, the handshakes more frequent, and the audience’s silences became about listening, not ignoring. The cheers and applause came not just because of a good performance, but because of a wonderful moment shared.
The gig didn’t last, though. I found a “real” job, one that paid real money. I went back to working in an office, in the daytime.
Years later, I found myself in the area again. Curious to revisit old times, I walked to where El Rinconcito once stood. Not a hint of the old neon sign remained; there were no more forlorn patrons sipping on a drink. The place had been turned into a sandwich shop. A few office workers waited for their orders. I walked to the back of the dining room, where the stage once stood. Good old Bobby Darin came to mind. “Oh the shark babe, has such teeth, babe…” I quietly sang to myself. “I was a crooner there for a minute,” I thought. Maybe I still am.
