时间：2022-10-05 04:52:49
My heartbeat quickened as I watched the timer slowly count down.
I remembered being excited about my first Chinese karaoke experience that morning. But suddenly， standing before a large television screen flanked by two friends， I began to question myself.
Too late. The music pulled me back into the room.
“Yo， I’ll tell you what I want， what I really， really want，” emerged from my lips， my hips involuntarily bumping along to the Spice Girls classic I’d known since kindergarten.
Spending a summer in China meant I’d do anything in the name of “cultural immersion.” Eat duck tongue？ Sure. Brains？ Pass the chopsticks. Karaoke？
Gulp.
Before that summer night in Beijing， I’d have equated participating in karaoke with enduring a public flogging.
But China changed everything. It was there that I broke fear’s chokehold on my vocal chords. Now I preach the karaoke gospel. I’m the KTV ambassador.
Karaoke’s roots are Japanese but its branches reach all corners of Asia. It has been a social mainstay of China， Taiwan， Korea and the Philippines since the 1970s and 80s. In China it’s called “karaoke television” KTV.
“We sing a lot to express our emotions and with friends we can have beer and sing and have fun together，” said Siwen Wang， a fellow China Daily intern and University of Iowa student from China.
It’s serious business. The lobbies of major chains rival a posh hotel in terms of luxurious decor. Private rooms are stacked into multi-story complexes that illuminate Beijing’s hazy nights. The staff treat patrons like royalty.
Although the Chinese don’t need an occasion for KTV， having an excuse to celebrate is all the more reason to go. Wang’s 21st birthday was the perfect excuse.
The birthday girl picked a two-hour slot at a branch of Melody， the “hottest karaoke joint in the imperial capital，” as described by Xun Zhou in her book Karaoke： The Global Phenomenon. We were led down a sweeping staircase into the pulsating bowels of the building.
I had begun to feel nervous， then curious， as we filed past an in-house convenience store with snacks， alcohol and tea for those who would sing well into the wee hours. As the four of us strolled down a long corridor to our designated room， my reflection flickered back at me from the mirrored walls that nearly camouflaged doors to private suites. I caught flashes of patrons lounging on couches， microphone or cigarette in hand. Their eyes were fixed on the lyrics crawling across their dedicated screens as they belted out indecipherable local hits.
Karaoke’s literal translation from the Japanese is“empty orchestra.” I quickly realized the Chinese are not shy about filling that emptiness. This wasn’t a dive-bar in the US， with bored drinkers heckling the courageous warblers who dared take to the sticky stage in public. My musical talents， such as they are， were， I felt， best confined to an audience of the steering wheel and dusty dashboard of my own car.
But as the lights dimmed and the music swelled as I stood beneath the miniature disco ball on exactly the other side of the world from where I learned to keep my singing voice to myself， I found my courage. The friends lounging behind me halflistened while perched on the couch， browsing the Internet on their smartphones.
So I sang. The words flowed cautiously but by the end of the song I felt inexplicably at ease. The pace of the night varied as my pop hit selections of Destiny’s Child， the Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears juxtaposed with the slow， emotional Chinese ballads chosen by Wang and co-worker Lu Chen.
Unsurprisingly， we found common ground with Coldplay’s “Yellow.”
The two hours disappeared and before long my friends and I found ourselves back on the street， scooters zipping past as elderly citizens gabbed with their neighbors and fanned themselves on their nightly stroll.
As I stood with my hand in the air to snag a cab I felt rejuvenated， revived. What had changed？ It certainly wasn’t my vocal talents.
“It’s therapeutic，” Wang said.
I realized she was right.
I suddenly found myself an eager fan of KTV. In America， if someone doesn’t have stunning vocal range then it is simply easier to play it safe and perform as if the whole thing is a farce. Nestled in a small KTV room with close friends， there’s no need for dramatics. Karaoke in China is more about the singer than the audience. It didn’t take me long to embrace that perspective.
The night before I left China， friends treated me to an evening of karaoke as a sendoff to remember. Walking home along the dark and vacant streets I realized the KTV mentality didn’t have to stop once I put down the microphone.
Indeed， whoever’s holding the mic， in life as in Melody， should be allowed to have their moment.