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Rocking the Mike (page 2 of 4)

By Steve Burgess

From Reader's Digest Magazine

Regrets? He’s had a few. But Inoue is philosophical about his lost fortune. "People around me make money," he smiles. "But I don’t."

Nor does he feel any remorse about the proliferation of singers who sound like Mr Bito. "Professionals are paid to sing," Inoue says. "We are paying to sing. Why shouldn’t we have fun?" And it’s only natural that the inventor of karaoke freely admits to being a lousy singer.

Back at the Jankara karaoke club, Mr Bito has mercifully given way to Howell Parry. Originally from Manchester, England, he delivers an impressive version of "Goodbye, Sweetheart" in perfect Japanese.

"In England, karaoke happens at regular bars," Parry says. "If you sing, it’s in front of 100 people. If you had private karaoke boxes like this, it would be more popular."

Japan’s karaoke industry is dominated by several large corporations. Shidax primarily operates family karaoke restaurants; Daiichikosho runs the Big Echo chain and sells state-of-the-art machines; and Karaokekan boasts huge multistorey facilities.

Most clubs offer private rooms rented to groups by the hour. It’s a style that traces its roots back 20 years to the Okayama region, where a farmer hauled a shipping container into a rice field, equipped it with a karaoke machine and rented it to kids. Today the typical Japanese karaoke room is more elaborate, though not necessarily more tasteful.

Take, for example, the giant disco balls at Osaka’s Aria Blue club, or its hot-tub-equipped room where you can evaluate not only your friends’ love songs but also their love handles. Across town, Nari-Para issues costumes to every customer, adding that special romantic touch that can only be achieved when "Love Me Tender" is sung by someone in a ninja suit.

Competition is fierce. Osaka’s Jankara chain coaxes customers with a free-drink policy. New machines permit duets with singers in other locations.

Karaoke was born in Japan, but it has spread faster than kudzu vines. Inoue believes Koreans have a particular penchant for it. "They really sing and everybody gets into it," he says.

Perhaps it is South Korea’s well-established gospel tradition, which is exemplified by the massive Yoido Full Gospel Church, boasting 830,000 members and a full orchestra. Car-manufacturer Renault Samsung has sponsored an annual singing competition in Korea – not something that Renault does in France.

Whatever the reason, Koreans do seem to enjoy carrying a tune. It’s a cold February night in Seoul’s busy Jongro district. Inside Rak Karaoke, voices spill out of the private rooms, overlapping and colliding like the soundtrack to a 1960s drug film. Minjin Joo and Josh Huewe, students at the University of Yonsei, have arrived for a few duets. "Koreans aren’t shy about singing," says Huewe, a Wisconsin native. "Americans are more frightened."

Not as frightened as North Koreans. The Kim Jong-Il regime has shut down karaoke bars "to squarely confront those who threaten the maintenance of the socialist system". But those wishing to visit a North Korean karaoke bar still can – in China. There, North Korean restaurants turn into karaoke bars at night.

Rocking the Mike (page 2 of 4)

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