HOW DID THE INTERNATIONAL CONCERT BECOME INTERNATIONAL KARAOKE?

Think… of world politics as a concert.

Until the 1990s, it had a certain logic, a certain structure. There were well-defined orchestras, some larger and more resourceful than others, but all with their recognizable styles. There were virtuoso soloists and schools of interpretation. Commentators and critics had a clear role: to identify nuances, compare performances, point out influences, applaud their favorite. And there were certain pieces that all orchestras played and in which they wanted to be the best.

There were, of course, two dominant orchestras. No one disputed that the Soviet and American orchestras were the most powerful. They competed for technical perfection, for the most impressive interpretation of the same score. The audience, although divided, listened with interest: who would play better this time? There was excitement in the repetition, in the way each concert was a variation on the previous ones.

One day, one of those orchestras disappeared. It wasn’t a huge crash, more of a collapse. Its musicians stopped receiving pay, their instruments were sold, their theaters were empty, and those in charge could no longer afford to pay for all the venues they owned around the world. What followed was strange. The remaining orchestra continued playing, but without a rival of its stature. Some hoped another great orchestra would take its place. There was talk of China, of its discipline, of its rigor. Many thought the great musical duel would continue with new protagonists.

That didn’t happen.

I don’t know when concerts stopped and karaoke nights began. I’d say it started in the first decade of the 21st century, and definitely accelerated with the pandemic. Perhaps it was Trump who, with his showman’s instinct, understood before anyone else that the audience had changed. Why compete with another orchestra, when what really attracts attention is getting on stage with a microphone and singing whatever comes to mind? And if you sing loud enough, if you get the audience to sing along, does it really matter if you’re in tune? Or were there people like that before Trump?

Critics were baffled. Before, there was discussion about fidelity to the score, about the interpretation of the big songs. Now, what are we supposed to analyze? The volume of the applause? The choice of song? The light show? Some try to continue applying the old criteria, but does it make sense to talk about technique and virtuosity when spontaneity triumphs?

Others have tried to temper the chaos, as if this could become a talent show. They imagine judges, rules, some kind of structure. But in karaoke, there are no judges, only the enthusiasm of the audience.

Others — and I don’t know whether to admire them or pity them — have decided to take the stage as well. If the world is no longer a classical music concert, but an open mic bar, why stay on the sidelines? I’ve seen analysts become performers, critics who no longer criticize but compete for attention. And they’re not doing too badly.

And then there’s Elon Musk, who not only took the stage, but brought his own sound equipment and a smoke machine. He’s not interested in singing well, he’s interested in making his act the most talked-about. Sometimes he chooses unusual songs, sometimes he lets people vote on the setlist in real time. He’s not exactly a musician, but no one can deny that he knows how to handle an audience.

I don’t know how things will continue. I wonder if we critics still have a role, if it makes sense to talk about good and bad music when the only criterion seems to be an immediate impact. But perhaps all this, somehow, will eventually evolve into something else.

Perhaps the future will be something more like jazz: where each musician has space for their solo, but also listens and responds to the others. Something that combines improvisation and structure, disorder and creativity.

Or maybe karaoke will simply continue at full volume.