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The common belief is that arrogant music critics, who seem to criticize popular musicians, are simply unsuccessful musicians themselves. However, I find this to be a false accusation – not towards critics, who can indeed be bitter and harsh, but towards so-called “failed” musicians. After all, how does one truly fail at music? To suggest that success is determined by things like skill or fame greatly underestimates music’s allure, and this is especially evident in karaoke.
This is a place for musical excellence where being inept is the norm. Fanciful aspirations, off-key performances, and odd stage demeanor are all welcomed. On this highly esteemed stage, “unsuccessful musician” becomes the most captivating role in the industry.
It was concerning to hear last week that the creator of the karaoke machine had passed away at the age of 100. This made us realize that we often take this admirable invention for granted. The inventor, Shigeichi Negishi, was a Japanese expert in consumer electronics who introduced the Sparko Box machine in 1967. This invention has allowed people to sing and have fun in a whole new way. There are, however, some disagreements surrounding the origins of this machine, as another inventor named Daisuke Inoue had also independently created a karaoke box in 1971. However, Negishi is usually given the credit as he was the first to make a commercially available machine. We can only imagine a world without such a beloved invention and the impact it has had on karaoke culture.
At times, blame is also directed at Negishi’s invention. Many critics have spoken out against the Sparko Box, including live musicians who viewed it as a threat to their jobs. Since its creation, there have been constant naysayers who criticize the project on grounds of aesthetics, claiming it to be dull, foolish, and overly decorative. I can understand this negative viewpoint because I too shared it until last year. Karaoke bars can be daunting for anyone unfamiliar with the experience, as they seem to be filled with fearless individuals. There is often an air of discomfort, from the unskilled singer to the bachelorette party convinced they can competently perform Cardi B’s Bodak Yellow. However, I have now come to believe that even the most inexperienced karaoke participants should be admired if they embrace the experience entirely. Self-indulgence is expected and leaving your pride at the door would be a foolish mistake.
Last year, some friends and I succumbed to the tractor beam of a karaoke bar in a crowded east London basement, with a vigilant no-drinks-on-stage policy and catty drag queen hosts to enforce it. Private booths have their loyalists, but in that murkily fabulous venue, witnessing dreams manifest or be brutally dashed, I was forever sold on the magic of the public act. More than a nostalgic ritual, karaoke at its best is a high-stakes spectacle where honour and ridiculousness collide.
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One night recently, I took on the important responsibility of singing Björk’s “It’s Oh So Quiet” at karaoke. The drag queen noticed my heteronormative outfit and cynically shared a story about a man who had tried to sing the same song the week before, lacking the necessary charm. This was clearly a warning, and it speaks to the core of the issue. Karaoke not only challenges our courage, but also our ingrained sense of proper behavior. You must be willing to be silly – to let go of modesty and manners and possibly appear eccentric – in order to have a chance at reaching a higher level of experience.
In a room filled with potential naysayers, the fear, or certainty, of a stranger’s criticism increases the appearance of seriousness. The music begins. Anxiety spreads throughout the room. You find your stance and search for the starting note, realizing that breath control is not simply a technical skill but a secretive and refined art. Perhaps during the chorus, seeking a distraction, you fall to your knees, hands reaching towards the sky. By then, at least in your imagination, your adoring audience is enthusiastically singing along. When it’s over, your friends celebrate the performance with applause and cheers, much like doting parents displaying your childhood artwork on the refrigerator.
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Karaoke’s conjuring of phantom star power occupies a unique space in music fandom, nothing like the communion of a concert singalong. To get on stage and hyperventilate through Olivia Rodrigo’s Vampire – fumbling the bridge, perhaps, but doing so with all your heart – may be an act of love, but it could never be mistaken for one of respect. Whether you go in for a bit of fun or a Stars in Their Eyes throwdown, the role you inhabit is fundamentally one of mischief: kill your idols, amuse your friends and banish all hope of sparking romance in the immediate vicinity.
Karaoke king Negishi practised the discipline until his final years, proving that talent comes and goes but dumb passion is a lifelong gift. His invention helped expand music as we use it, so broad a church that it can absorb failure and folly into its everyday function. Now he is clasping the great microphone in the sky, I hope he ascends to his rightful status as patron saint of iffy singers everywhere.
Source: theguardian.com
