--- id: "post-37-en" title: "The Song of Time: Karaoke" type: "review" authors: ["Guo Jiawei"] publicationDate: "Fri Aug 21 2026 21:16:26 GMT+0800 (Hong Kong Standard Time)" publisher: "Taipei Fringe Festival" originalUrl: "https://tpac.org.taipei/festival-fringe/2026/comment-writer/1604" tags: [] relatedEvents: ["Karaoke"] liveUrl: "https://www.rooftopproductions.hk/en/review/karaoke-tff-1604" --- # The Song of Time: Karaoke **Post Details:** - **Type:** review - **Author(s):** Guo Jiawei - **Published:** 21 Aug 2026 - **Publisher:** Taipei Fringe Festival - **Original Source:** [Link](https://tpac.org.taipei/festival-fringe/2026/comment-writer/1604) - **Related Events:** Karaoke --- ## Content Often, the moment a song’s intro drops, it already evokes a multitude of memories in the listener's heart—whether it is the melody of the first verse, the setting where you first heard it, or the feelings that gradually accumulate with every repeated listen. *Karaoke* cleverly utilizes the accessibility of pop music to break through the established frameworks of viewing history, summoning boundless emotions in the audience's hearts. As the curtain rises, the actor, Michelle Li, shares her memories of Hong Kong pop music: Anita Mui, Ekin Cheng, Beyond... Many in the audience instinctively hum along. Next, she speaks of childhood experiences going singing with her mother, while introducing the singing spaces of that era (which might be somewhat unfamiliar to today's audience): handwritten song request slips, ordering songs from the bartender, cutting the queue, and so on. Accompanied by real-time projections of family albums and the actor's lighthearted, humorous banter, the audience travels back to those years. The brilliance of *Karaoke* lies in how it mobilizes these pop songs—not merely for personal nostalgia, nor primarily to tell a family story. Instead, it uses this seemingly "low-brow" popular music to pry open a peephole into history, allowing us to rethink a past that has already been solidified into fixed narratives. A memorable example that runs throughout the play is the discussion of the "Lunar New Year Address." This seemingly routine political ritual, through clever arrangement, becomes a microcosm reflecting social change. From the address of the last governor, Chris Patten, to the early congratulations delivered by the first Chief Executive, Tung Chee-hwa, and even up to 2020, where the protagonist subjectively recalls that there seemed to be no New Year's address released at all. From between the lines of these seemingly bureaucratic and unimaginative texts, *Karaoke* unearths the minute trajectories of social transformation—and the subsequent impacts are self-evident. A second striking segment is the July 1, 1997 handover of Hong Kong's sovereignty, where the protagonist performed live as a member of the children's choir. At an event marking a monumental historical shift and intense political maneuvering between Britain and China, the child protagonist only remembers that dinner that day was a terrible sandwich. With a sharp turn of phrase, she seemingly jokes: *"The decline of an empire can be seen from this awful food."* Paired with historical footage of Prince Charles standing in the pouring rain, the actor doesn't analyze the content of his speech but simply observes like a child: *"The sound of the rain is so loud; it's about to drown out his voice."* Grand history is thus re-examined through a sandwich, a downpour, and a child's memory. The past, memory, and emotion intertwine here, making the audience—who were not present in that specific time or space—feel as if they are standing in that very same rain. This posture of looking back is continuously pushed further in *Karaoke*. During phone calls with her father, who suffers from Alzheimer's disease, the actor begins to realize that her own memory might not be entirely accurate either. Many things were only rediscovered later by looking at photos, videos, or doing research. Thus, the initial nostalgia is broken, evolving into a skepticism of memory itself: *Are the things we remember only what we want to remember?* However, this question doesn't push the audience into a nihilistic void where "nothing can be trusted." Instead, the performance chooses to let the song continue, letting the music flow, taking breaths time and again to sing those beloved (even if slightly outdated) songs once more. Memory might distort, omit, or even disappear, but songs still offer a way to draw close to the past. *Karaoke* suggests that pop songs, as a reflection of society, allow listeners in the present—and even years later—to see far more than they might imagine. Personal memories attach themselves to the songs, and the songs inadvertently document an era. In the end, the protagonist decides to sing "Flowing Years" (流水年華) for her father far away in the United States: > *Looking at the stretch of sea* > *Filled with weariness, no tears and no words* > *Looking at the stretch of sky* > *Only feeling my emotions in turmoil* > *My heart is like a small wooden boat again* > *The distant view unseen* > *But still heading forward* > *Who dictates my fate?* This brings to mind The Nonsensemakers' production of *1234560* from last year, which similarly started from a family story, with its double entendres reflecting the era being just as apparent. Let the song of time keep playing. *Originally published in: Taipei Fringe Festival. We create a mirrored version of reviews and articles about our shows for archival purposes, so that we can retain a version if the original disappears. We always link to the original publisher and credit the author. However, if you are the owner of this material and you would like us to remove it, please get in touch.*