Sabrina Imbler

The evolutionary basis of any animal song is a bid for a mate. Karaoke is famously an outlet for rage, the rare public place where screaming will be met with applause. But in my experience, the night always ends with love songs. thinning, bleary crowd, some too many drinks deep, listening to a ballad of the unrequited.

The evolutionary basis of any animal song is a bid for a mate. Karaoke is famously an outlet for rage, the rare public place where screaming will be met with applause. But in my experience, the night always ends with love songs. thinning, bleary crowd, some too many drinks deep, listening to a ballad of the unrequited.

In my 20s, my favorite karaoke ballad was Hinder's Lips of an Angel, a grungy confession sung by a man to his ex-girlfriend over a whispered phone call. Whispered because there's new girls in the next room. Lips is so wretchedly self-serious in its generic valorization of cheating that it is transmuted almost endearingly into camp.

In my 20s, my favorite karaoke ballad was Hinder's Lips of an Angel, a grungy confession sung by a man to his ex-girlfriend over a whispered phone call. Whispered because there's new girls in the next room. Lips is so wretchedly self-serious in its generic valorization of cheating that it is transmuted almost endearingly into camp.

In my 20s, my favorite karaoke ballad was Hinder's Lips of an Angel, a grungy confession sung by a man to his ex-girlfriend over a whispered phone call. Whispered because there's new girls in the next room. Lips is so wretchedly self-serious in its generic valorization of cheating that it is transmuted almost endearingly into camp.

I listened to the song in middle school on some torrented copy of Now That's What I Call Music. I was not necessarily drawn to the lyrics, can't cheat on your girlfriend if you don't have one, but rather its naked emotional core. It's a song about yearning, which was then my favorite pastime. I yearned for everything, a crush, adulthood, a body, and self I could love more.

I listened to the song in middle school on some torrented copy of Now That's What I Call Music. I was not necessarily drawn to the lyrics, can't cheat on your girlfriend if you don't have one, but rather its naked emotional core. It's a song about yearning, which was then my favorite pastime. I yearned for everything, a crush, adulthood, a body, and self I could love more.

I listened to the song in middle school on some torrented copy of Now That's What I Call Music. I was not necessarily drawn to the lyrics, can't cheat on your girlfriend if you don't have one, but rather its naked emotional core. It's a song about yearning, which was then my favorite pastime. I yearned for everything, a crush, adulthood, a body, and self I could love more.

My friends and I loved to karaoke to the pop divas we grew up blasting from our boomboxes. But the first time I heard one of them sing Lips of an Angel, a song I had not consciously listened to in nearly a decade, I felt a swell of my old adolescent kinship.

My friends and I loved to karaoke to the pop divas we grew up blasting from our boomboxes. But the first time I heard one of them sing Lips of an Angel, a song I had not consciously listened to in nearly a decade, I felt a swell of my old adolescent kinship.

My friends and I loved to karaoke to the pop divas we grew up blasting from our boomboxes. But the first time I heard one of them sing Lips of an Angel, a song I had not consciously listened to in nearly a decade, I felt a swell of my old adolescent kinship.

I started my own surreptitious relationship with it, singing it in rooms and bars full of strangers until it felt as inextricable from my identity as my haircut. I grew to relish the way some people, often men, reacted to my performance, nodding along to the melancholic opening chords before surprise plastered their faces when they saw who held the mic.

I started my own surreptitious relationship with it, singing it in rooms and bars full of strangers until it felt as inextricable from my identity as my haircut. I grew to relish the way some people, often men, reacted to my performance, nodding along to the melancholic opening chords before surprise plastered their faces when they saw who held the mic.

I started my own surreptitious relationship with it, singing it in rooms and bars full of strangers until it felt as inextricable from my identity as my haircut. I grew to relish the way some people, often men, reacted to my performance, nodding along to the melancholic opening chords before surprise plastered their faces when they saw who held the mic.

At the risk of being reductive, Lips of an Angel is a boy song, not a girl song. When I first began to sing, my face soft and eyebrows painted on, I felt a certain frisson, as if just for this moment I was stepping into another body. As an alto, close to a contralto, I had always felt more comfortable singing songs written for men.

At the risk of being reductive, Lips of an Angel is a boy song, not a girl song. When I first began to sing, my face soft and eyebrows painted on, I felt a certain frisson, as if just for this moment I was stepping into another body. As an alto, close to a contralto, I had always felt more comfortable singing songs written for men.

At the risk of being reductive, Lips of an Angel is a boy song, not a girl song. When I first began to sing, my face soft and eyebrows painted on, I felt a certain frisson, as if just for this moment I was stepping into another body. As an alto, close to a contralto, I had always felt more comfortable singing songs written for men.

I wonder now if my singing voice was the first plane on which I would claim to have passed, even briefly, as something other than a woman. Each time I sang lips, I practiced embodying this man, this self-defeating, aspirational cheater, too afraid to leave a relationship that rendered him dispassionate. During the chorus, I gripped the sweaty neck of my beer and held it like a candle.

I wonder now if my singing voice was the first plane on which I would claim to have passed, even briefly, as something other than a woman. Each time I sang lips, I practiced embodying this man, this self-defeating, aspirational cheater, too afraid to leave a relationship that rendered him dispassionate. During the chorus, I gripped the sweaty neck of my beer and held it like a candle.

I wonder now if my singing voice was the first plane on which I would claim to have passed, even briefly, as something other than a woman. Each time I sang lips, I practiced embodying this man, this self-defeating, aspirational cheater, too afraid to leave a relationship that rendered him dispassionate. During the chorus, I gripped the sweaty neck of my beer and held it like a candle.