Lounge singing is one of the perennial occupations of pop culture. Most elegantly embodied by Frank Sinatra, and most cheesily realized by karaoke, lounge singing is a cultural touch-stone, a greasy but instantly recognizable symbol. What is it about the sight of a man leaning up against a piano, tie slightly askew, a once primo cocktail disintegrating into the watery dregs, that digs so deeply into the soul? It is every man’s dream to prowl a softly-lit stage, tossing off harmonic platitudes to a crowd of clingy drunks?

When viewed abstractly, lounge singing seems to be a parable about the struggle to bring meaning to one’s existence. The lounge itself is the place to be on Saturday night, and the audience, the people to be with on a Saturday night. Never mind the paucity of conversation, the tired sashay of the cocktail waitresses, the unyielding stare of the bouncer; this is where it all happens, baby, so be glad you’re inside.

Meanwhile, the lounge singer, the chief of this low-lit kingdom, has somehow wound up here: his slack posture says it all. Lounge singing is less of a choice, and more of an inevitable phase; everybody, at one metaphorical point or another, will be up there, working the showtunes, hoping to break out of the regional circuit. But isn’t every place just like this one? Maybe the lights are brighter, maybe the drinks are mixed better, but isn’t this it, the existential nightmare, the realization of futility and mortality all in one climactic chorus of “Beyond the Sea”?

There’s no mistaking that spotlight as a stand-in for the blinding enormity of the universe. Maybe you’re up on that stage, singing into the infinite, or maybe you’re on the floor, happy to clap along when the sound stops. Whatever your deal is, best of luck on figuring out what the hell it all means.