Karaoke King

It was the neighbour’s daughter’s 18th birthday party. We get on pretty well and they, the parents, said, “You’re invited.”

We said, “OK.”
They didn’t tell us it was going to be karaoke. The word karaoke comes from two Japanese words: kara, meaning to “sing sweetly as with the birds” and oke, meaning “OK, not!”*

The evening had barely begun before the karaoke machine was cranked up. Suddenly there were little people on the small stage. Some moved to the music, but most just stood still. Very still. They’d made the step of agreeing to sing and now . . . everyone was watching.
And listening.

One of the problems with karaoke is that wannabe Australian idols** can be heard. Hand them a microphone and you can actually hear the singing. I don’t want to be critical, but if some of them looked as bad as they sang, they’d gladly wear a paper bag on their head. Or be asked to.

Every now and again, someone would grab the microphone and actually be able to sing. That’s when the applause came for talent, not effort.

Somewhere between the lasagna and the sticky date pudding it got nasty. Four men decided they would out-Beatle the Beatles. They didn’t. Their moves were better than their voices, and their moves weren’t that good.
Suddenly karaoke meant making a fool of yourself while holding a microphone. And it proved again that you can’t sing while laughing.

That’s when I’m thinking, Here I am, the critic, who from the safety of his chair can see the faults in everybody else. If I got up to sing, they’d probably want to bag my head and tape my mouth.

It’s too easy when asked to sing, to say, “Do you have that beautiful Tibetan love song, ‘Your kisses taste like yak’s milk to me’? It’s the only one I can really sing.” And the reality—I can’t really sing and it will embarrass me if I try—is hidden in a joke.

I clap extra hard for my neighbour, one of the “Beatles.” He’s willing to give it a go.

I’m reminded again how different we all are. And reminded again that you don’t have to be in the choir to be under the spotlight of God’s love.

*Pants on fire! This is not a translation of anything.
**An attempt by the writer to demonstrate that he’s cool by making a reference to the latest reality TV program. Ask him to name the judges

Bruce Manners (left) is senior pastor of the Avondale College church.

He has one head but many bodies.