Song of Myself, on Tape

By J.D. Reed

Many Americans are frustrated crooners who sing in the shower and warble along with their Walkman tapes. But aside from belting out the national anthem with the crowd in the bleachers or cutting loose with the congregation on Sunday, most have been too shy or too sober to sing in public. Now thousands of closet Sinatras and Madonnas are publicly vocalizing, thanks to a nifty electronic device from Japan called the karaoke.

The name means "empty orchestra," but Americans are getting to know the device as music less one -- the one being the amateur performer who sings along with the prerecorded music of professional instrumentalists in the background. The machine then blends the sounds, and the result can seem as slick as an MTV sound track. In 1984 some 25,000 machines from a handful of Japanese companies were sold in the U.S., and J.C. Penney and Sears now carry models in their catalogs. Karaokes, which range from $150 to $2,500, incorporate a cassette player, loudspeaker and microphone in a single unit. All a budding balladeer need do is adjust a few simple controls, start the tape of background music and sing along with the lyric sheet. Thousands of pop songs, from Rock of Ages to Jump, are available.

Neophyte entertainers seem drawn to the machines. "The teenagers love singing Billy Joel and Bette Midler tunes," says Musician Irene Regal, who with Husband Mike takes a Starmaker brand karaoke along to gigs at New York bar mitzvahs and parties. Properly lubricated, adults like to giggle through a moonstruck verse or two of a ballad. "It's the only way to go," says Cathy Ruggieri, 40, a hair stylist in Stony Brook, N.Y., who uses her $600 model at home and at her salon. "It makes you sound so good. I wasn't that outgoing before, but now I'm not so shy."

Karaoke units are finding their way into other arenas. Some small churches employ them to give choirs a more inspiring sound. Emotionally disturbed children at the University of Nebraska's Psychiatric Institute work out problems by creating commercials and playing deejay with Starmakers. At Songmasters' Graceland Recording Studio & Singalong Shop, across the street from Elvis Presley's Memphis mansion, the machines have become as much a part of the scene as the "King's" aging groupies, who tape their versions of Elvis' hits on them. Finished tapes cost $9.95 a song. Owner Gary Hardy woos reluctant patrons with his own versions. Says he: "A striking rendition of Teddy Bear usually does it."

Whatever is doing it, Americans are ready to sing along. Three times a week, young patrons let loose to hot backgrounds at Carlos Murphy's, a restaurant in La Jolla, Calif., where technicians enhance the performances by projecting singers' images on a giant video screen and playing applause tapes afterward. "If the sing-along machine were put in every nightclub, it would cut into psychiatrists' business by 50%," says Ed Masterson, who produces the club's sing-out. "It's a tremendous release. You become someone important, even if it's only for a night." And for an encore? "I did it my way," of course.

With reporting by JoAnn Lum/New York