It took off in Asia but was slow to take root in the U.S. Karaoke itself a relatively recent phenomenon, invented in Japan in 1971 by a near-broke musician whose other patents included a cockroach-killing machine. I can’t begrudge Upstairs Bar for changing with the times. Hundreds more have disappeared into the ether, but karaoke itself remains death-proof: No matter how uncool it may seem, there will always be a market for activities that provide a respite from the career pressures, breakneck pace and occasional crippling loneliness of life in the city- and now, perhaps more than ever, karaoke feels like a relevant act of liberation. That’s just fine-there are dozens of karaoke bars in New York, some slick and some scuzzy, some private and others public. I have friends who ardently avoid the open-room setup at Upstairs Bar and Planet Rose. For that, however, you can still go to Planet Rose in the East Village, which has plenty of dingy animal-print sectionals and drunk NYU students chanting along to Weezer. There’s still open-room karaoke fueled by a surprisingly passable cocktail menu, but I learned the hard way during a recent post-renovation visit that the unhinged thrill of singing to strangers inside a dimly lit, grime-caked dive is gone. Winnie’s was “famous” for a few things: a limited karaoke selection that was housed entirely on LaserDiscs, a drink called Hawaiian Punch that involved eight liquors, including crème de banane and amaretto and a dark past as the site of several gang-related shootouts in the early-1990s.Ī few months ago, shortly after Winnie’s closed, Rena decided it was time to clean up the place: The couches were banished, the bar extended, the tiki vibe replaced with a more “sophisticated” sports bar aesthetic. It felt like a soul sister to Winnie’s, one of the city’s longest-running and most beloved* karaoke dives until it closed last year.
The place used to be a bona-fide shithole-one open room with a vague tropical motif, drinks by the bucket and couches with powdery plastic drug baggies shoved between the seat cushions.
Upstairs Bar is a second-floor karaoke joint in Manhattan’s Chinatown, above one of those budget bus operations whose vehicles occasionally bursts into flames mid-route. Behind us, a glassy-eyed Spaniard warbled ungracefully through George Michael’s “Careless Whisper,” but it didn’t matter how off-key he sounded unbeknownst to him, Rena cut his mic 20 minutes ago. I do not like Jäger shots, but Rena is the owner, and when she’s pouring, you’re drinking. at Upstairs Bar, and Rena, resplendent in a leopard-print top that strained across her broad shoulders, had just bought us a round of Jäger shots.
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