We all knew how to sing in Kindergarten and we still do

I did Karaoke last night and enjoyed it. There, I said it and I’m not ashamed. Not too ashamed. OK, maybe a little ashamed.

Longtime readers of this column (Hi Dad!) already know my feelings about Karaoke; that it is, in fact, the work of the Devil and one of the signs of the Apocalypse. That’s how I felt about it before last night.

Now—after experiencing what I can only describe as a pop music-induced epiphany—I’m having second thoughts. Maybe Karaoke is not so bad after all.

Oh sure, there are the singers—I estimate about 50 percent of ‘em—who sound pretty much like a coyote tangled up in barbed wire; and those that take the whole thing way too seriously (the vocalists dressed up in sequined cowboy shirts and Ray-Ban sunglasses); and those that don’t approach the stage until they’ve gone several martinis over the line.

Then there are also the singers that are truly good; those that would be at home onstage with Ella Fitzgerald or Aretha Franklin. Granted, the good singers make up an amazingly small percentage of the overall “talent,” but they are out there.

However, it’s the bad singers I want to talk about today, the really bad singers. No sense of pitch, meter or dynamics. A complete disregard for timing. An inability to count to four (as in 4/4 time). These are the singers that make Karaoke great in my opinion.

Now, there are no doubt some of you who assume I’m going to veer off into sarcasm here, but I’m not. I mean it when I say the bad vocalists are the very heart of Karaoke.

Maybe everyone but me already knows this and I’m coming late to the party. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’m not especially quick to grasp sociological trends. Like I said, last night was an epiphany.

It happened at Cascade Roadhouse, where Karaoke-meister Donna plies her trade three or four nights a week. I was in the joint to grab a burger and Bud Lite before heading home for the night; the last thing I wanted was to spend the evening listening to a bunch of CPAs and Wal-Mart greeters massacring off-key versions of “Feelings” and “Achy Breaky Heart.”

But as each nervous American Idol wannabe paraded up to the stage for his or her moment in the spotlight it occurred to me—this isn’t supposed to be great music, or even great entertainment. What it is is a chance for regular Janes and Joes to let out a little bit of that music that lives inside us all, that fragile, ephemeral joy we all knew back in Kindergarten as we belted out “The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round” with wild abandon.

We were kids and it never occurred to any of us that we might not be budding opera stars. The music was in our hearts and it found expression through our singing, godawful though it may have been.

Karaoke, I figured out last night, is nothing more than an extension of Kindergarten music class. It’s a chance for even the most musically-challenged songster to reconnect with that uninhibited five-year-old he or she once was.

If the end result sounds like train wheels grinding over gravel, well, that’s why so many places that feature Karaoke also offer beer. So grab that microphone, throw caution to the wind, and let what’s in your heart back out into the world where we can all enjoy it!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to rehearse. I’m going back tonight with a killer version of “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves.” Cher, eat your heart out.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.