(LI SHIGONG)

Although I was prepared for plenty of culture shock when I first moved to China, karaoke was not on the list. Associated more with South Korea or Japan, where people take the entertainment form so seriously that some folks have been stabbed for hogging the mic, I was surprised to discover the extremely well-established karaoke scene of Beijing.

I'll admit, it wasn't love at first sight. Dragged along with my equally skeptical classmates and a group of highly enthusiastic Chinese students during a study trip to Beijing in 2011, I found it a strange experience. In my culture, karaoke revolves around a central stage in a sketchy bar, an often bored audience and copious amounts of alcohol. Most importantly, an unspoken rule states that there is no limit to how bad the singing may be. No one expects any real talent. But in Beijing, I instead found myself in a fancy private room with smartly dressed waiters serving drinks, snacks and exotic fruit platters. Overwhelmed by the experience, we Westerners remained relatively shy and quiet while our local friends sang their hearts out. They were good—very good. They clearly took the singing seriously and may have practiced beforehand. The pressure on our group of outsiders was daunting; we were clearly out of our element. Only after throwing back a few drinks did we dare to self-consciously perform hits from the 1990s, eagerly encouraged by the Chinese students. Despite the fascinating cultural insight, it was a rather awkward experience. Though my first encounter with "KTV," as karaoke is commonly known in China, did not necessarily give me appetite for more, I would later develop a rather serious addiction.

When I returned to Beijing in 2012 as a long-term resident, circumstances forced me to give the art of karaoke a second chance. After my friends stubbornly insisted, I found myself in a bizarrely decorated, Audrey Hepburn-themed room in a KTV bar in Sanlitun. With a small group of closer friends (none of whom were undercover Chinese pop stars this time) and a well-composed line-up of 1980s power ballads—one of my soft spots—I found it much easier to relax and engage in singing. I have always had a borderline phobia of singing in public, but KTV suddenly felt much less frightening. After a few cheesy love songs and gin & tonics, I realized I was enjoying myself. A lot. Toward the end of the night, I even suggested paying for just a few more hours. It was the beginning of a passionate love affair with KTV and several late, expensive nights in karaoke bars.

I have since frequented KTV bars in six different provinces in China and even more cities. As a karaoke connoisseur, I can testify that the interiors as well as the service and song selection vary immensely from venue to venue. In the KTV bars around the Russian Embassy area of Beijing, waitresses may speak Russian and visitors can find Russian music. For the LGBT-community, Seven Colors features a somewhat more flamboyant décor, with glittery furniture and dim lights. My personal favorites are the themed bars. I have visited Lion King, Hello Kitty, Super Mario, and Japan-themed bars. In terms of true commitment to authentic karaoke culture, the best KTVs are in predominately Korean-populated areas of Beijing. The equipment is normally of high quality, and the music videos are better too, with a distinct vintage feel to them.

All in all, I now understand why KTV is so popular. In a country like China where drinking at bars is less common, it is a brilliant and perhaps more exciting alternative to other common non-alcoholic activities, like cinema or cafes. The variation in song selection makes it appealing to young people as well as the middle-aged clientele. Many of the better hotels seem to have karaoke bars for businessmen to unwind after a long day. KTV has proven to be one of the strangest but most wonderful aspects of Chinese nightlife, and perhaps the thing I will miss most when I eventually leave Beijing.

The author is a German living in Beijing

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