Why Jackie Chan and I Disagree About Karaoke

And why he should seriously sing karaoke.

Until a week ago, I liked Jackie Chan. I am not a fan of action films. But Chan’s fight sequences were more entertainment than gore. And he had won me over with his mix of cheekiness, vulnerability, and dead-on comic timing.

So there I was. An unlikely fan of Jackie Chan.

But then he went and spoiled it all by saying somethin’ stupid like I love you to the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). Never mind that the party was choking the life out of democracy in Chan’s native Hong Kong.

Worse, on the day I read about Chan metaphorically serenading the CCP, I read his comment about one of my favorite hobbies, karaoke: “Sometimes I need to … karaoke. Sometimes, I need to relax.”

Now that I can’t forgive.

To be fair, eight years ago, I would have agreed with Mr. Chan. But that was in the pre-karaoke phase of my life.

My life, pre-karaoke…

One evening, eight years ago, hubby Raj — ever the Internet Explorer — discovered a karaoke website you could subscribe to.

I was instantly taken with the idea.

The prospect of in-home karaoke opened up a horizon of possibilities. Armed with a subscription, I could sing:

• In the privacy of my home.
• Any time I wanted.
• For as long as I wanted.

And…

• I could sing to real music — a novel and thrilling idea. (I usually sang to the bathroom singer’s background track of running water.)

To daydream was to act. I subscribed right away, logged in, and clicked on a popular Bollywood number.

My singing voice, although tuneful, is not robust. But I felt confident that the grandeur of the violins and the liquid notes of the sitar would lend their weight and sweetness to my voice. The percussive rhythm of the tabla would lend vigor.

I was going to sound fabulous. I just knew it.

“Just because I can’t sing doesn’t mean I won’t sing.” (Tina Coleman)

Singing karaoke was more challenging than I had imagined — especially given the program’s settings.

The pitch was pegged high enough to give me a nose bleed. My voice cracked in half a dozen places in just the first four lines. And the tempo was so breakneck I had to skip every third word to catch up.

I attempted two “easy” songs with the same results.

I checked the settings in the hope of modifying the pesky pitch and tempo. Both features were set in stone.

I now had two options:

1) I could continue with the cacophony.

OR

2) I could cease and desist the above activity, thus bestowing the gift of kindness on self, family, and friends.

I chose the second option since Kind is the new Cool, and I strive strenuously to be cool.

I let the monthly subscription lapse.

Karaoke with friends…

Two years later, in 2015, we were invited to a karaoke party at a friend’s home. I went along for the company but demurred when my host asked me to sing.

I said that given the pitch, I would sound like an amorous frog in the monsoons. And the tempo would leave me breathless rather than enchantingly breathy.

“No worries,” said my host. “I can adjust the settings.”

The program, he informed me, had grown some serious smarts over the intervening years.

Following the adjustments, I sang like a nightingale — not. Well, at least I didn’t sound like a frog in search of a mate.

But my voice emerged reluctantly from its hiding place. It quivered and quaked. The only percussive rhythm I registered was the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. Every time I slipped on a note or choked in the middle of a word, my cheeks burned.

At the end of my performance (so to speak), I looked around the room. I expected a couple of wagging fingers. A dismayed frown. Instead, to my shock, everyone clapped.

Participation Prize…

More than a dozen people sang that evening. And it didn’t matter how they performed. Everyone was rewarded with applause for participating.

In the time and place in which I grew up, participation prizes weren’t yet a thing. It felt good to get one now.

In the car, driving home from the party, I signed up for the annual karaoke subscription.

At first, Raj refused to hop aboard the karaoke train.

But then, in the program’s database, he found several of his beloved ghazals.

(In south-east Asian and Arabic literature and music, a ghazal is a lyric poem set to music.)

And he came across karaoke tracks on YouTube for his favorite Elvis, Cliff Richard, and Sinatra numbers.

And, soon enough, Barkis was willin’.

“You’re always remembering songs you wanna sing except when you’re actually at karaoke.” (Sebastian Stan)

As newbies, we went to karaoke parties unprepared. The other participants chose their songs well ahead of time — and rehearsed them.

We did neither. But, once we got there, we made sure to waste everyone’s time while we vacillated.

Should we belt out a Bollywood hit? An ABBA or Carpenters number? Or go with a Mehdi Hassan ghazal?

After much deliberation, we ended up singing the same songs that we had sung at previous parties.

Now, as six-year veterans, we’re organized.

We pick our songs ahead of time. We file them under the “My Favorites” tab in the program for easy access. We obsessively fine-tune pitch and tempo. Then, and only then, do we sally forth to sing karaoke.

“You have a deeper connection with people that you have shared experiences with.” (Negash Ali)

When I first heard of karaoke, it was the context of performing in clubs. I was not attracted to the idea. Singing off-key in a room full of strangers was the stuff of nightmares.

Karaoke-with-friends is different. It’s a paradigm shift because the experience isn’t only about singing.

It’s meeting friends over a meal (or sometimes, over just coffee and dessert) and sharing music with them. It’s re-discovering melodies that we listened to while growing up and re-living the memories that these songs evoke.

It’s also about adding depth and breadth to our friendships.

“Karaoke is the great equalizer.” (Aisha Tyler)

The attendees at most of our karaoke-with-friends parties belong to the same generation, as do the hosts. But occasionally, we stir things up by throwing in a mix of younger and older folks.

Karaoke brings us — members of disparate generations — together. But we don’t devote the evening entirely to singing.

We talk; we laugh; we commiserate.

We teeter on the brink of argument while expressing political views. We exchange ideas and information. We catch up on each others’ lives.

Ever since Covid struck, we have held our parties via Zoom. It’s not as much fun, but we get to see friends, even if it’s virtual. And after karaoke, some of us stay back to chat.

In these “trying times,” it isn’t a choice — as Mr. Chan would have it— between karaoke and relaxation. Karaoke is relaxation.

In conclusion, I would like to dedicate this poem to Jackie Chan:

Dear Mr. Jackie Chan,

I wish I could; I wish I can

Agree with you when you say

That singing Kara-okay

Causes too much vexation,

And slim to none relaxation.

But Kara-okay is much better

Than serenading they, who’d fetter

The freedoms of your native land

And rule you with an iron hand.

Please grow a spine, Mr. Chan,

A humble request from a fan.

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