The father of karaoke has died. Can his invention please die with him?

It’s 9.15pm and the bar smells of beer and delusion. The din surrounding me sounds so awful it’s as though my ears have been hate-crimed. A man I’ve never met, and never want to, is committing an act of manslaughter before my eyes. He’s murdering John Farnham’s You’re The Voice. He certainly is the voice – the voice of torture.

Pavanoti has been drinking copiously. When it gets to the “whooooooaaaaaaas” in the chorus, what he lacks in ability he makes up for with volume and enthusiasm. Yes, he’s someone’s son, but he sounds like a wounded animal.

I’m witnessing a crime. “He’s murdering John Farnham’s You’re The Voice.”Credit: Jacky Ghossein

Next, a Grease duet between a pair believing they’re Danny and Sandy, but are Kenickie and Frenchy at best. It sounds like purgatory. After that, a solo woman “sings” a nondescript ballad so forlorn that purgatory now sounds like paradise.

Now a fellow gay bounces up to sing an “underrated” number supporting his diva’s flop era. Nobody knows the words, except me, for which I am quite ashamed. However, I do what he should have done. I stay silent.

Finally – oh please God, no – a man whose mother/bestie/girlfriend lied by saying he could sing stumbles confidently on stage. The opening bars of Robbie Williams’ Angels strike up. If my head fitted in my pint glass, I’d drown myself in it.

This scene has been repeated across pubs, bars and, sadly, restaurants worldwide for 57 years, since karaoke’s invention in 1967. Last week, it was announced that the man widely credited with the invention of the karaoke box – Shigeichi Negishi – had died aged 100.

Karaoke literally translates as “empty orchestra” and is every bit as soulless as that sounds.Credit:

His invention, folklore has it, started as a joke, an act of banter-led-oneupmanship between colleagues. Consumer-electronics whiz Negishi was singing in the factory and his chief engineer mocked his tuneless tones. An idea was born: Negishi attached a microphone to a tape deck to hear himself over a radio show, and simultaneously tease his long-suffering colleague by amplifying his voice.

Now those with equally poor singing abilities ruin an otherwise perfectly good night out in a pub. Sad to hear of Negishi’s passing, but wouldn’t be sad to hear that his invention died with him. May they both rest in peace, so that my ears can.

When I venture into a bar, I want to do one of two things – chat with friends over a drink or two or dance to music over a drink or three. I don’t want to listen to someone slaughter a perfectly good pop song after they’ve had a drink or four.

Karaoke literally translates as “empty orchestra” and is every bit as soulless as that sounds. Public bar karaoke should be abolished and instead confined to private room soundproofed booths, so you only torture your own friends. Karaoke at your own house party, yes. Group singalong events drowning out the tuneless, yes. Public bar karaoke in front of a room of strangers – please, no.

Nobody sounds good on karaoke. No hidden-talent singer has ever been “discovered” via a karaoke box in a basement bar on a Thursday night. Adele herself could belt a number via that universally low-rent, tinny sound system and sound mediocre at best.

I am, of course, a hypocrite. Everyone has a karaoke special number and mine – Cher’s version of Walking in Memphis or anything by the Spice Girls – has, after some piña coladas, thrilled countless pub-goers. And I’d revoke every word of this argument to give a pub the pleasure of hearing my best mate Nat’s rendition of Pulp’s Common People, capturing all the irony and satirical commentary. Watching Nat at karaoke was a lesson in charisma.

Negishi himself can teach us a lesson in humility. He sold 8000 machines before deciding to exit the karaoke market in 1975. He didn’t patent his idea. Today, it’s estimated to be a $10 billion global industry.

His daughter said he never focused on how much money he might have made, just “pride in seeing his idea evolve into a culture of having fun through song around the world”.

Cute. But we’ve had our fun now. I’d pay $10 billion to never again hear Sinatra’s My Way scream-sung in a public bar.

Gary Nunn is an author and journalist.

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