Is This Thing On? The Best Karaoke Joint You've Never Heard Of

My mama always used to say that karaoke is like sex—usually fun, occasionally mortifying and better in a group. Never one to flout a mother's wisdom, I dragged cohorts Kemp and Sandy to the self-proclaimed "world famous Cottage" for Thursday Night Karaoke. Bartender Vic started chatting us up immediately and didn't even blink when I requested a Johnny Walker Black with a well whiskey back "for medicinal purposes."

Veteran chanteuse that I am, I instinctively whipped out my tip dollars and scanned the room for the schlubby guy in the corner coughing into the mic while he cued up Pat Benatar and Sir Mix-a-Lot. Instead, I found Hurricane.

Hurricane is the Cottage's resident karaoke DJ and he doesn’t fuck around. He dresses for the stage, gets down with the ladies and does a Luther Vandross that'll make you weep like Aaron Neville at Easter Mass.

His selection book is as dense as Gideon's Bible (albeit with more pages devoted to Stevie Wonder— finally!) and he keeps—get this—free fried chicken next to the sign up slips. Yes, this means that, in theory, you could sing “Danny Boy” and “Darling Nikki” back to back AND bludgeon hecklers with a chicken leg during the instrumental breaks! The tracks of my tears were easy to trace on this night of nights, my friends, because they left a trail of grease in their wake.

Despite the unfortunate exclusion of Lenny Williams from the song selection, we had a great time. Kemp's Terence Trent D’arby impersonation was so good that he had Phantom Dreadlock Syndrome for hours afterward (it's no laughing matter, I had it once after singing Counting Crows on a dare). Sandy had Hurricane help her out with Otis Redding’s “Tramp,” which was pretty cheeky considering she had fryer grease on her Harley Davidson t-shirt while Hurricane was sporting a three piece suit, but she pulled it off.

Ever the romantic, I warmed up with a demure rendition of Dusty Springfield’s “Son of A Preacher Man” and a few drinks later I was regaling every woman in my sightline with my most sensual Chris de Burgh impression. The verdict? My version may never achieve the supermarket/wedding party/dentist office waiting room notoriety of its predecessor, but Cottage royalty Melody and Tina liked it. I have the bootie-bumping bruises to prove it.

A few notes on the Cottage scene: Brass Monkey it ain't. The DJ and the equipment are top-tier, but the ambiance is more basement speakeasy than kitschy cocktail bar, which should suit you just fine if you can shimmy and wail half as convincingly as the regulars. The karaoke crowd is small, but rowdy and the wait time for songs is negligible. Expect a house party atmosphere and some better than average performances from people who have clearly done this before. Don’t expect to hear multiple renditions of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” - that honor goes to “Sara Smile” by Hall and Oates — and above all, do not expect a duet with Earl.

No amount of cajoling could loosen this guy up, despite his having promised to serenade me with Sam Cooke in exchange for a mini bottle of Beringer White Zinfandel. Way to drink and ditch, Earl! Luckily, the Cottage’s drinks are cheap enough to accommodate such antics and strong enough to make you sympathetic. Just do yourself a favor and don’t overdo it, lest you forget such sights as the woman with a cast on one leg and a high heel on the other interpretive dancing to the dwarf and the identical twins' cover of “Papa Was a Rolling Stone.”

The Cottage
5050 W. Pico Blvd.
Los Angeles 90019
Karaoke night: Thursday 8pm-close.