Goldman's song -- the only one he'll end up singing the whole night -- comes on, and it's completely unexpected: Simon and Garfunkel's "Mrs. Robinson." He lights up as he sings it, nailing the lyrics without looking at the screen. He's not just a karaoke singer, though, he's a celebrity, and -- in as egoless a way as is possible -- he knows it, looking at cameras as they flash while he sings through the song. He finishes, and walks back to us, drink in hand.
"That was great," I say.
"Thanks, man. But I'm really just a bassist."
Later in the night, while I'm doing "The Humpty Dance," Goldman ghosts out; he has a shoot he has to get to early the next day, and it's clear that karaoke is not as much his thing as I thought it would be. But Kalman hangs on, strong, singing Weezer and Alice in Chains songs, buying rounds, and schmoozing with friends who keep stopping by to say hi. My chicken-scratch notes get less readable as the night goes on, but the last one says something like this: