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No need to even bother reading the lyrics. You want to sing some Michael Jackson, of course, but which Michael Jackson? Exit the floor moonwalking, with your shiny jacket slung over one shoulder. Fifteen years on and it's a bona fide karaoke classic. Michael Curle. Linda Perry is best known today as a hit songwriter for artists like Christina Aguilera and Gwen Stefani, but back in , she was the lead singer of 4 Non Blondes, the one-hit wonder behind this enduring favourite. Give yourself over to attitude as you belt out the confrontational lyrics.

Adam Feldman.

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None of which stops it from being the go-to tune for any boy-girl karaoke pairs. Brent DiCrescenzo and Michael Curle. On their album commentaries, the Beastie Boys love to tell tales of Biz Markie. His dumb tunes are as sweet as Smarties. Simply stand back and watch as the whole damn bar hollers along to the most joyful chorus in the entire hard rock canon. No karaoke night is complete without a salute to the song that started it all. Can you twerk? Are you willing to try? If you answered no, please pass the mic to someone bolder or more inebriated.

Best not to try this one out at the wedding party in front of the grand-in-laws.

Just the sound of those opening piano chords is enough to send anyone with ears into a swoon, such is the singular beauty of this Goffin and King classic. The question is, do you have the pipes — or the chutzpah — to take it on? Sing it like a queen, or not at all. Eight out of ten audio boffins agree: the only way to stop Carly Rae Jepen's insanely catchy megahit from pinballing around your head for, like, ever is to quite literally sing it free. We're talking exorcism via karaoke here, people. Adorable head tilts and cutesy talking-Barbie delivery, optional.

Be gone diabolical earworm, be gone! Michael McDonald is the Christopher Walken of cocaine-dusted soft rock — everyone can and loves to do an impression of him, good or bad. To mimic it, pretend you are Chewbacca stepping into an ice bath up to your privates.

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More so than his Doobie Brothers gems, this bedroom jam offers a plethora of McDonald vocal tics, oodles of vowel schmears and breathy trembling. You can freestlye a stream of lyrical gibberish over any damn one you please. As you stand there on stage, looking around the bar for packets of sugar to dump on your head for dramatic effect, the heretofore unrealised inanity of the lyrics really sinks in. Shut off your brain and air guitar. Every human should be able to recite at least one couplet from this global smash, and do so without shame.

Word to your mother. There is a great tradition in pop of pairing seductive female voices with weird dudes who just talk. Of course you did! Time to recreate the magic.

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Released in , this song laid the foundation for decades of battered blue jeans and working-class anthems. Walk off stage a lazy champion. Watch, listen, sing, cry — oh, and enjoy. Andre is a vegan who slips into existentialism in his verses. Outkast is undeniably one of the most intellectual and psychedelic rap acts ever. Save this for the end of a long karaoke night, ideally with a few drinks in your belly to liberate your inner demons of rage.

That scene is the genesis for every impulse to dial up this doo-wop in a karaoke parlour, because a fighter-jet movie remains more relevant than blue-eyed balladry produced by Phil Spector half a century ago. When karaoke comes to an end, as all karaoke eventually must, a decision needs to be made as to how to mark the finale. With a whimper? With a bang? Nick Leftley. Place that order for lemon and honey tea beforehand. This rawk anthem and rollicking slice of Southern Pride is hella fun to sing over — just ask Kid Rock!

On second thoughts, please don't. Karaoke tip: don't be shy with the chorus; give it some serious welly or better still, cowboy boot. After all, there's plenty of time to get your breath back during the two lengthy guitar breaks. Just remember not to sing 'pause for solo'.

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He and Demme have the actors using the tightest possible eye lines, and in doing so draw the audience into conversations the brutality of which is all the more strengthened by this compositional straightforwardness. The quilt is made of panels, and in each panel is a swastika. Enough said. You feel from the first moments that this movie will make no mistakes. I remember those claustrophobic rented rooms and the host family always laughing and cooking and playing mah-jongg. Wong Kar-wai designs this past world meticulously, then casts it with messy realness and makes it turn.

Messy realness saves his two leads. They are as gorgeously put together as any two humans out there, and here give a clinic on the power of performance restraint. Cinematographer Chris Doyle adores Cheung: captured by his slow motion, her beauty is written into the record books.

This is a love story that crawls. Every breath taken by these two characters is counted. What does happen? Torrential downpours soaking s Hong Kong, Nat King Cole haunting the background of an incredible score, and a parade of the most gorgeous dresses ever zipped up the back of an actress. The most visual of all world events was for so long reduced to television coverage. In Tokyo Olympiad, it was finally handled by an artist of the caliber the event deserved.

With our one TV channel, the Olympics were a big deal in my house. For two weeks, bedtimes and TV time limits were thrown out the window, and we youngsters rejoiced. His film offers the Olympic events as the compositional feasts they were, not just a score tally.

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Also, the best movie ever to fold laundry to. Another imperfect perfect film that came slithering into my late-adolescent consciousness at just the right time. I was a disciple by the end of the opening titles alone worth the price of admission. And what better way to dramatically illustrate this repression explosion than a scene wherein Dr. Icy Veins himself, Jeremy Irons, pounces across an operating table in a spasm of drug withdrawal, belly flopping onto his unconscious patient to rip off her mask and suck anesthetic gas. This is a film featuring twin prescription-drug-addicted gynecologists dressed like Star Wars Imperial Guards who use H.

Watch him be his own stuntman on an island with no hospital, a production with no net. Kelly Reno is a beast of an actor, and then controls beasts himself. The present crop of abs-obsessed, fake-tough actors should tremble before him.