"Car Karaoke ... dare I ask?"
"No, it's with a K. Kah-Kah. ... Kar Karaoke."
"I find a song. Give it a bad case of OCD treatment, right? Play. Restart. Play. Restart. Learn the lyrics, ape the vocal nuances, really get into the character's head until I'm not just some me in 7-minute car ride, freaking out other drivers at stop lights. And I'm not even Lindsey Buckingham. I'm my own interpretation of Lindsey Buckingham's character. This dude, right? Start. Restart. Miss a cue, restart. Go off key, restar--"
"This sounds ... intense?"
"--lose my head space. Restart. Forget what I'm feeling. Restart. Take back roads to get in one more spin. Play. Restart. Play. Restart ..."
"And has this worked for you? In the past, I mean?"
"Definitely. At one point I could be both Gladys Knight and the Pips. And that's hard, man. It's tricky. There's some lyrical overlap there. Well. I used to drive more back then. That took an entire trip to Minneapolis to really groove on."
"Hm ... That would be hard. What about failures? Ever 'Give it a bad case of OCD treatment' and never nail it?"
"Pshyeah. All the time. All. The. Fucking. Time. I had some Beyonce down, like whoa. It was magic. Practically sounded like we were the tag-team alto section of a girls' choir, right? Finally, one night I find the the song in a book. 'Irreplaceable,' the song is 'Irreplaceable,' ... you know Ear.A.Place.A.Bull.A.Ull. So I'm standing there. Beer in one hand. Mic in the other. The music starts. And it's been awhile, right? But still. This thing is imprinted. It's in me. It's on me. It's the tribal tattoo on the small of my back, it's my middle name. It's the color of my hair when my roots have grown out. Anyway, music starts and: Blank. Nada. I can't remember the pace. I mean, the lyrics are in front of me, but they make no sense. To the left? To the left? What the hell is this?"
"So what did you do?"
"What do you mean, 'What did I do?' I sang it. I finished it. I got polite applause from, like, someone's wasted mom. Then I went home, downloaded it, and critiqued my performance versus the recording."
"I'm still working on it."
"And that night? Did you sing again?"
"Fuck, yeah, I sang again. Over and over. I closed out with 'Lets Hear if for the Boy,' a real crowd pleaser, right? Everyone loves fucking 'Footloose.' Kevin Bacon. That skinny tie. The girl with hip bones like the hollowed out head on a cattle carcass ... 'Lets daaaaaaaannnnncccceee!' I went all in. Nailed it. Even that high note at the end. Glasses broke. Dogs barked. That fucking bar. They thought they had a goddamn mermaid on stage that night."
"And that's ... good?"