Singstar: Rock Ballads review

Christ, I hate these parties. We’re four Tequila and whatevers into a humid Eastside Friday and already Kath’s eyes have that telltale flicker. I’m wearing wing tipped polyester because Kath insisted the theme was nostalgia and I’m not a fan of irons. I may as well have worn glad wrap. “It’s an EIGHTIES theme,” berates a chipmunk face in my direction. Looking around, it looks more like the theme was non-attendance.

An hour later I’ve downed another two of those vile mixtures and my eyes have flicked towards a flashing blue light coming from the living room. Before I’ve even figured out what’s going on, Renee has shoved a red banded microphone in my hand, her nest of blonde hair frozen in a permanent gale. “Singstar! Rock Ballads!” she shrieks in some form of explanation. The obscene bravado that only the demon drink provides stiffens my stance and attempts to attach the two swirling images in front of me in a readable fashion.

Soon, the farts of fretless bass boom from the speakers and an imperceptible mass of slogan teed strangers on the couch are jeering, taunting, pre empting the chorus: “Take these broken wings!” “Mr Mister were a goddamned footnote in that decade,” I thought to myself, “why the hell have they got two tracks on here? Whose arse end of what barrel is being scraped?”

Scarecrow Nick has the blue microphone. After a cursory glance at me he’s got his head back, artery bulging from the neck as he strains for his characteristically perfect phrasing and pronunciation. Meanwhile I’m sponging sweat from my forehead and desperately trying to focus, slurring my words into consonant-free monotone like some far off lecturer.

Damn it, I’ve won! Muttering voices suggest I’m cheating by not singing the words and how this always happens with Singstar, but blah blah blah I don’t care about them now. I’m thumbing the pad through the tracks: Nickelback, Sugababes, Avril Lavigne, Tina Arena… What the hell? I check the package. It most definitely says, “Rock Ballads” and for a second I’m contemplating an open letter to Sony music on the definition of “Rock”.

Before I reach the conclusion that open letters are equally at odds with the definition of “rock”, someone’s grabbed the controller and put on Meatloaf’s “I would do anything for love (But I won’t do that.)” They look self congratulatory, safe in the knowledge they’ve picked out a classic. Seven and a half excruciating minutes later, I feel like congratulating myself for not punching the singer in the face. The mood is twisting now, that wretched uncomfortable yawning has set in. A pretty girl is even tapping on her mobile, perhaps hoping one of her string-alongs might shag some excitement into her night.

But then the opening chords to Roxette’s “It must have been love” kick in and text girl has thrown down her phone before she can press send. Like magic the mood has picked up. Strangers are pressing their faces into each other, makeup chipping at the press of designer stubble, as each struggles to have their voices heard through the straining speakers. It’s tempting to put on another Roxette number, but some mad genius stabs at Poison’s “Every Rose has its thorn”. Nick looks like he’s sharing a moment with someone now, as if in some crazy alternate universe the song’s simplistic southern sentiments might somehow grant passage into heaven itself. His girlfriend disappears briefly and we hear the strains of a fast emptying stomach even over the solo, but she’s back wiping her mouth even as the last chorus begins.

From there, it’s all a blend. Even though for every classic number by Queen, Toto or Duran Duran a Lone Star or The Calling number elbows its way in like a cloddish older brother, when the momentum is swinging this hard you just close your eyes and croak like you’re in rapture.

I’ve seen this game before. Years back. People called it lots of things, but at the end of the day it was just karaoke, plain and simple. The people who are made the game knew that too. Mikes, speakers, booze and songs that everybody knows get thrown into a blender and a license to print money pops out. The only difference this time is that some London git has hopped up from his work station, headed down to the local pisser on entertainment Tuesday and taken note of the type of songs that are actually getting people up from their cheap pints. Good on ‘em, only took ‘em ten goes.