Oky Doky Karaoke at Thai One On

For years, Robert Dayton has immersed himself too fully into all things karaoke. Now, we unleash his deeply troubled karaoke experience and expertise to document Toronto’s sing-a-long environments, hosts, and followers that frequent them.

What better place to start our journey in Toronto karaokedom than at Oky Doky Karaoke, which happens every Tuesday at 10 p.m. at Thai One On restaurant on Queen West?

Thai One On. Thai Me Down.  Tongue Thaied. There’s an endless string of Thai restaurants that use puns for their name. As for Thai One On… Thai what on? Let’s find out.

Karaoke is the great equalizer; it’s very accessible, and it can happen almost anywhere. Yes, even in Thai restaurants. And it feels like anything can happen at Oky Doky Karaoke. It’s weird, but it’s a very welcoming weird. Orbiting neon lights like green shards bombard the tile walls of this intimate establishment. The host is Dante Krysto, who had a CanCon techno non-hit back in the early ’90s called “We’re All Kings.” You know what else we all are? Stars, we’re all stars. The time is now and his circus is electric.

This lithe and wiry little man with stringy dark hair flying down past his shoulders has an aura not unlike Damo Suzuki from Can. Sometimes Dante wears make-up. Tonight he has donned a tiara and sandals. He’s a mover. Dante is a cat, ninja-as-showman, tossing off non-sequiturs with no tape delay. He’s said such things as, “You know what I’d like right now? A bowl of ice cream,” and, “Tonight we’re going to party like it’s on sale for $19.99.” This evening he proclaims, “Amy Winehouse has been sober for 15 and a half weeks now.”

Dante is religiously obsessed with Amy Winehouse and Lady Gaga, though he left his growing Lady Gaga shrine at home tonight. During set-up, numerous versions (polka, etc) of “Born This Way” play along to a static screensaver photo of Dante singing karaoke in the comfort of his own home. This is a man who loves karaoke. Out-and-about Dante exposes a heart of gold that beats like a little bird, with his teeth forever grinding. (You say karaoke, we say ‘caine!) Karaoke hosts can often exhibit a peculiar Napoleon complex (even the ones over six feet tall), but this man is refreshingly attitude-free. Because of all this, Dante has his devotees who’d previously tried other people’s karaoke nights. Now they are his exclusively.

Karaoke is social. If you don’t want people to talk to you, go rent a karaoke box. I hesitate at making my favourite spot public for risk of its flavour being diluted, but Thai One On is in full-view right on Queen Street. And Dante does his thing all over town on different nights—Wednesdays at Rovers; Fridays at Annie’ Bar And Grill; Saturdays at Mounties; and Sundays at the newly reopened Green Room. Take that, Board of Health!

The regulars at Oky Doky Karaoke have a gypsy-like quality. You will not find such characters anywhere else. One woman wearing a hat covered in stars bangs a tambourine along to every song. At another table, an electro-funk dude in a broad-shouldered trench coat, hair all gelled and straightened, hooks up with a woman who croons like Shirley Bassey. (Yes, hookups can happen here.) Ringers sing sweet soul. Pretty young ladies belt out rockers. An older regular who sings Sisters Of Mercy was a no-show tonight. Everyone genuinely chooses interesting songs, no real lulls or duds.

Dante’s new system has tapped into the Matrix, and he can supply you with just about any song that you request. He has a list of over 25,000 songs up at his website. My own over-blown synapses require a songbook as a basis, however. These books are nowhere to be found tonight, because some guy named Pablo took them out and misplaced them. Pablo is a man clad all in white except for a brown vest; he may have liked magic (or Magic, or magick) a long time ago and some of that pixie dust remains. Pablo’s permanently dancing beside each singer until his own number comes up. He prefers a slurred double-mic approach. A gaggle of rather average-looking, young, and potentially Australian males walk in. They turn around. Then they walk out.

I randomly bump into an old friend who, since moving to Toronto over a month ago, discovered this night by accident and has been coming religiously every week. He tells me, “Someone burnt a toque outside one week and this woman was screaming along to every song. She knew every song. The waitress blamed me for attracting the schizophrenics, but she’s really cool.” She is calm, cool, and clearly enjoying herself. Every table has a bowl of unsettlingly warm nuts. The drinks are cheap.

Towards the end of the evening, a mob of men in suits wander in. Perhaps they are in advertising? They are friendly. With no actual headphones to be found, they still use the ear cupping technique while they sing “Comfortably Numb.” Dante’s commentary becomes more random and less decipherable. The line-up to sing is scant, but as the shooters wear on, he gets rather devil-may-care with the song order, flipping up requests like he’s playing 52 Pick-Up with himself. When Madge, who turned me on to Dante’s karaoke nights, finishes her song, he tells everyone to give her a “standing ovulation.” He also gets pleasure out of calling the microphone a microscope.

Days after, the dust has not had time to settle. Does it ever? Horrifying photos awash in red eyes and crotch shots pop up on his Facebook page, confirming that, yes, this has really happened.

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