I confess I’m partial to a bit of karaoke.

I like the theatre of it, the amateurishness and enthusiasm. I like the cozy intimacy of the booth, the excited loading of the playlist, the sporadic arrival of the drink orders. I like it when Michelle sings Carly Simon, and Mike channels Bowie, and everyone joins in on the chorus to ‘Life on Mars.’ I like the muffled thunder of people chanting ‘Wonderwall’ next door. I like the way it celebrates both individuality and community; the way it helps everyone to remember and forget.

I’m only a moderate singer, but I enjoy joining in. And I have learned that it’s best to come to karaoke armed with a few tunes up your sleeve.

And so, when I was recently invited to a karaoke evening, I was prompt to perform my version of Orange Juice’s ‘Rip It Up.’ I know I can deliver this with a decent impersonation of Edwyn Collins’ refined vocal stylings, and with the added value of my awkward ‘80s dance-steps.

'When I first saw you,
Something stirred within me,
You were standing sultry in the rain.
If I could have held you,
I would have held you.
Rip it up and start again.’
Orange Juice, ‘Rip It Up’ (S R Greenaway / T W Collins)

Before too long, my slot at the microphone came round again, and I turned to another old favourite: Engelbert Humperdinck’s ‘The Last Waltz’. I’ve long been charmed by its crooning evocation of 1960s dancehalls. It’s true, I struggle somewhat with the high notes. But it’s such a romantic sentiment that I’m sure no one notices…

'I wondered should I go or should I stay,
The band had only one more song to play.
And then I saw you out the corner of my eye,
A little girl, alone and so shy.
I had the last waltz with you,
Two lonely people together.
I fell in love with you,
The last waltz should last forever.’
Engelbert Humperdinck, 'The Last Waltz’ (J B Mason / L D Reed)

As the evening wore on, my supply of known numbers was running out. I couldn’t find my signature song, The Smiths’ ‘Please, Please, Please,’ on the machine. And I was conscious that my picks had, to this point, been somewhat antique.

Karaoke is very much about self-expression, not just in the way that you perform, but in the songs you select. Perhaps my repertoire was betraying my late-Boomer life-stage.

Now the microphone was coming round to me again. What was I to do? Maybe I should choose something more current and contemporary; something that demonstrated I was still in touch with popular culture?

I’ve always had a soft spot for Lana Del Ray’s melancholic chansons noires, and in particular her 2011 classic ‘Video Games.’ I’d not sung this before, but it seemed in a low enough register, and, at that particular moment, lubricated a little by industrial Malbec, I was sure I could give it a go…

Sadly, when the tune came up, I discovered that, in truth, I only really knew the chorus. As the lyrics scrolled by, I sought desperately for some residual recollection of a melody. To no avail. And so I delivered most of the song in a rather awkward monotone. This was more woeful butchery than wistful beauty.

I sensed the audience’s attention waning, switching to the next item on the playlist, to the next singer on the stage.

I had failed.

'It's you, it's you, it's all for you,
Everything I do.
I tell you all the time,
Heaven is a place on earth with you.
Tell me all the things you wanna do.
I heard that you like the bad girls.
Honey, is that true?’
Lana Del Ray, ‘Video Games’ (E Grant / J Parker)

I guess the conclusion here is that we should never attempt a karaoke tune without previously establishing that it is within our skillset - that we can perform the verse and the bridge, as well as the chorus. Preparation pays.

As in karaoke, so in life and work. We are often encouraged to follow our intuition, to trust our gut. But I think we should only do this up to a point.

Once we have listened to our heart, we should then pay heed to the practicalities; run through the rationalities. We should always rehearse in private before we perform in public.

For my last number I decided to return to more familiar territory. I belted out Elton John’s ‘Your Song’ with relief and recognition. Yes, I was playing it safe. But I’m a man of a certain age, of limited vocal talents. I’m comfortable with that. And you can tell everybody, that this is my song.

‘It's a little bit funny,
This feeling inside.
I'm not one of those who can easily hide.
I don't have much money, but boy if I did,
I'd buy a big house where we both could live.
And you can tell everybody
This is your song.
It may be quite simple, but
Now that it's done.
I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind,
That I put down in words,
How wonderful life is
While you're in the world.’
Elton John, ‘Your Song’ (B Taupin, E John)

No. 478

I recently attended a performance of James Graham’s excellent new play, Ink, at the Almeida Theatre in Islington (running until 5 August 2017). Ink relates the story of Rupert Murdoch’s 1969 purchase of The Sun newspaper, and how, under the editorship of Larry Lamb, it became Britain’s most popular and influential title.

It’s an enjoyable yarn, full of fond recollections of Fleet Street’s Golden Age; of scoops and scandals, hacks and hot metal. The play also has a number of contemporary resonances, concerned as it is with journalistic ethics, truth, privacy and populism. At one stage Hugh Cudlipp, the editor of The Mirror (The Sun’s rival), warns Lamb to beware the Pandora’s Box of populism.

‘Pander to and promote the most base instincts of people all you like, fine. Create an appetite. But I warn you. You’ll have to keep feeding it.’

Ink begins with an exposition of journalism’s Five Ws: the five questions that classically every story should answer:

What happened?

Who was involved?

Where did it take place?

When did it take place?

Why did it happen?

I was quite taken with the elegant simplicity of the Five Ws. They force a full description of the key facts and core events. They focus the mind. But in the play Lamb challenges the value of the last W, ‘Why?’

‘Once you know ‘why’ something happened, the story’s over, it’s dead. Don’t answer ‘Why?’, a story can run and run, can run forever. And the other reason, actually, honestly, I think, is that there is no ‘Why?’ Most times. ‘Why?’ suggests there’s a plan, that there is a point to things, when they happen. And there’s not, there’s just not. Sometimes shit – just - happens. Only thing worth asking isn’t ‘Why?’ It’s …’What’s next?’’

This is clearly a provocative thought. We imagine that, while all five of the Ws are important, ‘Why?’ is the critical question. ‘Why?’ suggests curiosity and inquiry. ‘Why?’ offers insight and understanding. ‘Why?’ implies progress. But a diet of sensationalism, celebrity and sport needs no explanation; it doesn’t improve or illuminate our world. It gives immediate satisfaction and just propels us along with its own momentum: ‘What’s next?’

I wonder whether, in the commercial world, we have seen an equivalent erosion in the value we attach to ‘Why?’ In our race to embrace accelerated living; to create engaging content at pace; to express a brand in real time, do we sometimes forget to pause and ask ‘Why?’: ‘Why is the market behaving in this way?’ ‘Why do consumers feel and act like this?’ ‘Why are we doing this?’ Or are we too just endlessly asking ‘What next?’

The Toyota Motor Corporation used to have a process that asked ‘Five Whys?’ every time they encountered a defect or problem. They believed that if you ask ‘Why?’ often enough of an issue, you can pursue cause and effect down to true root causes; and therefore you’re best placed to find a solution. The repetitive ‘Why?’ may be a little irritating in the mouths of children, but it clearly encourages deeper examination of a task.

In this vein, I have always liked Robin Wight’s encouragement to ‘interrogate the product until it confesses to its strength.’ It’s an approach that prompted WCRS to produce a motorcade of great advertising for BMW back in the day.

Some have partnered ‘Why?’ with its natural bedfellow ‘How?’ ‘Why?’ provides insight into the problem; it illuminates the issue. ‘How?’ provides foresight into the solution; it sets us on the right path.

In the communications industry we could perhaps imagine some cocktail of the ‘Five Ws’ with an added ‘How?’ forming the basis of a compellingly simple creative brief.

I hesitate to make this suggestion because in my time in the industry there was endless debate around creative brief templates: Which particular set of words and format provide the most clarity and catalyse the right kind of creative response? Which are best suited to the demands of modern marketing? I’ve seen task-based briefs, propositional briefs; experience briefs and ‘big idea’ briefs; PowerPointed and pictorial briefs. I’ve seen one-word and six-page briefs. I’ve seen them knitted and laminated.

Broadly speaking, I have found that the more nuanced and sophisticated the thinking that has gone into a creative brief template’s construction, the more complex and difficult it is to use. I have always preferred the simple to the subtle.

So what are we to learn from all these ‘Hows?’ ‘Whys?’ and ‘Wherefores?’?

Perhaps it is that the key to the strategists’ art is the questions we ask. Asking good questions is as important as arriving at good answers. Indeed you won’t get to the right answers if you don’t ask the right questions. Questions are the keys that unlock the door.

Of course, you may find that in a creative business the most important question of all is the one that asks you to challenge current practice; that suggests you try something new and different; that prompts you to rewrite the rules: ‘Why not?’

‘Why does your love hurt so much?
Why?
Why does your love hurt so much?
Don’t know why.’

Carly Simon, Why (Nile Rodgers, Bernard Edwards)

No. 139

Karaoke Strategy: Always Rehearse in Private Before You Perform in Public

The Five Ws: You Won’t Get to the Right Answers If You Don’t Ask the Right Questions