Politicians have ruined karaoke

Many things that once were cool eventually lose their chic. The exotic becomes mundane; the rare becomes ubiquitous. Karaoke cannot perhaps ever be said to have been cool, but it did have a certain mystique once upon a time. And then politicians ruined it.

The last time I went to a political party conference, more than 15 years ago, it was still all about the discos. I saw well-known – if almost unrecognisably sweaty – journalists dancing glistening cheek by dripping jowl with junior ministers at Labour’s bash; while Young Conservatives stood nervously to the side of their dancefloor, until multiple glasses of warm white wine freed them of their inhibitions.

But these days, our MPs and their hangers-on seem to prefer an out-of-tune sing-song to an out-of-step gyration. It’s tempting to blame Ed Balls, who certainly likes a dance, but who also appears to have been a primary early adopter of karaoke as political conference party piece. Back in 2010, having lost the Labour leadership election, he entertained conferencegoers with a stirring rendition of The Killers’ “Mr Brightside”, while a few years later he was delighting in a self-duet, singing both parts of the Diana Ross/Lionel Ritchie classic, “Endless Love”.

This year, at Labour’s conference, Angela Rayner was a star turn on the mic, belting out Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” during a bash hosted by the Daily Mirror, while Wes Streeting went for that grimmest of all mid-tempo singalongs, Robbie Williams’s “Angels”, turning it into a paean to Keir Starmer.

It’s not clear if there was any similar action at the Tories’ get-together in Birmingham. Perhaps there was originally a plan to hire the karaoke kit, before an unexpected U-turn. Or maybe the old adage about only singing when you’re winning proved a bit close to the bone, given the gloom hanging over Liz Truss and her team. Therese Coffey, who in 2021 was filmed singing “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” at the Conservative conference, must have been gutted.

Fundamentally, there are two types of karaoke. There’s the sort that once upon a time would have been known as an open mic night: a public venue, a stage and a baying crowd (or an empty pub depending on the time of day). And then there’s the version that seems to have originated in Japan, the home of karaoke (literally, ‘empty orchestra’ in Japanese), where a small group get together in a small, sound-proofed room to sing only to themselves.

Both have their merits, and their pitfalls. A friend and I were once met with stony silence in a packed karaoke bar in Amsterdam, the crowd apparently unmoved by our spunky rendition of “Summer of ’69”, but the adrenaline of the performance outweighed the disappointing response. On the other hand, singing for two hours with just two other people in a small booth may be less daunting, but it can end up feeling a tad claustrophobic. What’s more, my haunting encore number, “I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)” feels wasted in such an enclosed space.

I can’t be the only person in their forties whose first encounter with karaoke was thanks to Blue Peter. Back in 1991, the show’s then presenters, John Leslie and Diane-Louise Jordan, popped into a karaoke venue on their Summer Expedition to Japan. So emblematic of the trip was their singalong that a few months later, when Blue Peter acquired two new kittens, they were named Kari and Oke – a permanent reminder of that exotic pastime which I childishly assumed was something that only happened in far-flung places.

It wasn’t until I moved to London at the turn of the century that I realised the karaoke booth could be a feature of British life too, and I merrily murdered many a tune at Lucky Voice’s Soho branch. This week, while preparing for an upcoming return to that old stomping ground (to the aural dismay of my children), I discovered that “Nessun Dorma” has even been added to the playlist of songs available. A step too far? Only one way to find out… And if Ed Balls would like to make it a duet, I’d be delighted to share the mic.