IT IS always a plus, of course, if the audience is friendly, considering that those taking center stage are amateurs. Unfortunately, not a few murders have occurred because the hapless videoke singer was hopelessly offkey. Last year, it was even reported that local videoke bars had taken Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” off their song catalogues because this often led to serious fistfights, if not outright murder attempts. Some videoke habitués have also gone after their fellow amateur singers who refused to let go of the microphone. (Videoke-related violence, however, is apparently not a purely Pinoy phenomenon. In Thailand, one man reportedly went on a killing rampage earlier this month after his videoke-addicted neighbors refused to sing with less gusto.)

Despite such risks, Ajoc says she does not see the point in singing alone, not even if she has a videoke player and mike at home. She says she takes these out only when she has guests, pointing out, “You want to be heard by others, that’s why you sing. Whether or not they want to listen to you, so long as you feel it’s okay for you to sing, you go and do it. You need an audience, to boost your self-esteem. If you hear good feedback, your notion of what you are rises.”

“Videoke is very democratic because it allows even those without talent, basta malakas ang loob (so long as they have the nerve), to sing in front of an audience,” Tan says. “No one ever really mocks anyone no matter how bad they are in singing. Everyone jokes about it and the singer will take it well.”

Well, most of the time, anyway. Aside from the risk of being bludgeoned or shot by a sourpuss (and often inebriated) stranger, there have also been cases of longtime friends parting ways because a “performance” had been met by snickering. Ajoc herself says she keeps her criticisms to herself if the singer is not really that close to her. This is even though good-natured ribbing is part of Filipino culture and those on the receiving end are supposed to take the teasing without complaint. Aguila, however, says that sometimes videoke singing does provoke one-upmanship among the participants, leading to less than positive outcomes.

This being the Philippines, though, a really good singer is bound to be part of any videoke barkada. Escudero in fact believes that it is precisely because “there are a lot of people who are excellent singers” that videoke bars have become so popular. “These have become their outlet (for their talent),” she says.

“Dapat meron sa grupo na mahusay talagang kumanta dahil mas enjoy ‘yun (There should be someone in the group who can really sing because that’s more enjoyable),” comments Esteban. “Ako, enjoy akong makinig (Me, I enjoy listening myself).”

The naturally talented, however, needs to observe a certain ritual, says anthropologist Tan. In a country where showoffs are shouted down and shoved aside, good singers are at risk of being cast an evil eye if they dare take the mike too often. And Tan says there first has to be a pilitan (mock forcing), where the audience or the rest of the group cajoles the really talented to perform. It is only after a few minutes of this pilitan that the “reluctant” singer gives in and belts out a tune, to the delight of the audience. Afterward, the singer must remember to let the others take their turn — and to egg them on.

Videoke enthusiasts stress that while singing to an audience allows the individual to bask briefly in the spotlight, the experience remains communal, with everyone’s level of enjoyment dependent on the participation of each member of the group (whether as performer or commentator). Those who insist on hogging the mike therefore have no place in a videoke joint, and may be better off trying out for “Pinoy Idol” or “Wowowee.”

Perhaps that’s why “My Way” makes some videoke joint-goers homicidal; they’d rather have it sung as “Our Way.”