It’s Come to My Attention You’re All Doing Karaoke Wrong. Here Are the Rules. (2024)

I’ve found myself doing a lot more karaoke since the end of the pandemic. Initially, I thought this was because we were all shaking off the shackles of deep isolation with the one true polyglot love language: screaming pop songs into each other’s faces in total hysteric rhapsody; briefly falling in love with all of your friends. There is probably some truth to that, but the older I get, the more I’ve started to develop a taste for evenings out on the town that aren’t entirely subject to a rigmarole of identical beer-and-a-shot dive bars. I need an activity to buffer the drinking. And getting my name called to sing a Hot Fuss deep cut is exactly what the doctor ordered.

However, I do think the great social reboot of the post-COVID order allows us to institute some ground rules for the art of karaoke. Ground rules that, quite frankly, are long overdue. Karaoke is a uniquely fragile ritual, and it can be absolutely torpedoed by a single rogue agent. A karaoke faux pas can snap the tripwire of reality, returning all of us to our flesh-and-blood bodies—which is not a good place to be on a Saturday night. So please, read and internalize these tips, so we can keep the fantasy alive.

There should be no more than two people on stage at any time.

The duet is one of the critical tentpoles of karaoke. “Total Eclipse of the Heart” would not be complete without someone—perhaps a bit more shy than whoever is taking on the primary Bonnie Tyler responsibilities—echoing the aching “turn around, bright eyes” in the middle distance. One of my eternal go-tos is Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead Or Alive”—my spirit is nourished whenever a loving partner fills in the bellowing, kickass “waaanteds” in the chorus.

What is significantly less cool, however, is when a bachelor-party-sized group of 34-year-olds rushes the stage for an abominable group cover of “Say It Ain’t So,” all of them unleashing throat-scalloping screams during the “wrestle with Jimmy” part, bludgeoning the puny, overmatched microphone into a harsh, feedback-laden roar. It totally defeats the fundamental framework of karaoke as a performance, with the rest of us—standing stageside—singing along in rapturous communion. Yes, this sort of posse-cut is basically fine in a private room—if you and six friends want to get ignorant on “Best I Ever Had” behind a soundproof door, more power to you, brother. But get that sh*t out of here in humane, dignified public settings. College was a long time ago, okay?

Go big or go home.

The worst karaoke performances are rarely authored by people who can’t sing. The harmonically challenged understand that they must attack the microphone with supreme gusto—overcompensating for their sonic cluelessness with fist pumps, karate kicks, spleen-squeezing eye contact, and whatnot—becoming much larger than life in the process. I once watched a “Smells Like Teen Spirit” so ridiculous, atonal, and terrible that it actually brought the house down. Everyone else in the building was blown away—no classical training required.

Instead, the underwhelming, annoying karaoke sets come from those who would visibly rather be anywhere else, but for reasons even they don’t completely understand, have signed up for “Wagon Wheel.” They stare at the floor, mewling out anxious notes in inaudible frequencies, bumming the rest of us out. Listen, it is fine if you don’t want to sing. Sometimes I don’t want to sing! But if you’ve dropped a song name into the proverbial hat, you need to take the ceremonial responsibilities seriously. Speaking of which …

Please, for the love of God, don’t pressure someone into singing.

What is there to gain from this, honestly? You could alienate the person, stressing them out, making them feel trapped and out of place, as if the only way to access common fellowship and acceptance is to be publicly hazed with pop music. Or they might give in to your pressure, and risk the scenario outlined above—a damp, dispiriting performance that is swallowed up by the barroom murmur, humiliating all parties involved. Karaoke is a ritual that is best paired with enthusiasm, and while a teensy bit of good-natured goading is acceptable, guests are allowed to remain audience members exclusively. There is no such thing as chickening out.

No.

R. Kelly.

Ryan Adams.

Chris Brown.

Fine.

Michael Jackson.

Kid Rock.

Eric Clapton.

Maybe feel out the room first?

Kanye West.

If you’re choosing a song over five minutes long, don’t.

I’m not trying to yuck anyone’s yum, here. If it’s imperative that you must sing “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” at every karaoke night—and I am friends with several people who treat that observance like a chemical necessity—then go for it, I guess. The only thing I would remind you of is that “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” is f*cking 7 minutes and 36 seconds long. (It’s also not very good, but that is a take for a different column.) Speaking of which, “Bohemian Rhapsody,” genuinely one of the worst karaoke songs of all time, is nearly six minutes long. “Purple Rain” is eight minutes long and should be sung by almost nobody. My point here is that if we’re in the midst of a ballad pileup on the microphone—and if Céline has already made a couple of appearances—there’s no better way to guarantee all of the evening’s good vibes will become totally unsalvageable than if she shows up again. When we hit the midpoint of an “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” karaoke duet—particularly in the past-midnight, five-gin-and-sodas witching hour—I start to have a panic attack. It’s like all the oxygen suddenly leaves the room. So be perceptive of the night’s subtle rhythms. Feel the nuance in the air. Maybe pick, like, “How Will I Know,” or something.

No! Showtunes! Ever!

This one is self-explanatory. This goes for Disney songs, too. Listen, at least Céline Dion is a pop star. She is someone worth emulating and aspiring toward. But unless we’re at a 5-year-old’s birthday party, I don’t want to hear “Let It Go.” And if the dreaded Rent makes an appearance, I feel like you should receive a lifetime ban from the bar. Unless you’re in a group of theater people, no one knows those songs, buddy! No one!

Be a supportive, engaged audience member.

There’s no vulnerability quite like singing karaoke to a disinterested, vacant audience. Consider the irrational confidence one needs to muster to sing a Katy Perry song in public—the alchemic blend of ego death and alcohol that gets you in the spirit to gloriously bomb. Suddenly you’re on stage, nobody is paying attention, and “Hot N Cold” appears to be 90 minutes long. Ideally, karaoke is supposed to fabricate an illusive glitch in reality where your body is superimposed onto a ridiculously gifted—and ridiculously hot—rock ’n’ roll superstar. This requires a group effort. Because the worst thing karaoke can do is make you feel like the ignored piano man at the grimmest hotel bar on earth. So please, gather around, cheer, dance, hoot and holler, whatever suits your fancy. It’s the least any of us can do.

Don’t hog the mic.

Sometimes this is unavoidable. If you put in two songs, and they’re called back-to-back, then you’re going to be giving the room a showcase of your talents. But in general, try to keep your requests to a reasonable number. You shouldn’t be on stage more than you’re at the bar. Remember, this is karaoke, not an audition.

And never, under any circ*mstances, cut someone off in the middle of a song.

I’ve never seen this happen myself, but after consulting a few members of the Karaoke Illuminati, this is apparently a thing, and it is a crime. I can think of fewer things more debased and perverted than deciding someone isn’t hitting enough marks in “Dancing Queen” and prying the microphone from their hands. Absolutely deranged stuff; potentially friendship-ruining, honestly. If you see anyone doing this at your local karaoke night, please call 911.