THEY’VE GOT RHYTHM (SOMETIMES) / MUSIC REVIEW : Amateur Nights : For the person who watches MTV and thinks, ‘Hey, I could do that,’ karaoke provides the chance to prove it.

“Stop singin’ , Edith, the neighbors’ll think I’m killin’ ya.”

--Archie Bunker

Karaoke is sort of an exotic word. It conjures up images of half-naked Brazilians doing a wild samba. Wait a minute, that’s Carioca. Well, how about something to eat in a Japanese restaurant, or perhaps something to drink. Or maybe what happens to you after you have too much of that something to drink.

Karaoke doesn’t happen at the shoe store. They don’t do it at the gas station. It used to happen in the shower, and it had a different name--something like “noise.” But now karaoke happens at places that sell alcohol, such as bars. It seems that this is what happens when Mr. Microphone meets Mitch Miller for the MTV generation--on a bar stool.

Oh, perfect. Drunks clearly need another way to act stupid. Boy, oh boy, the world’s been waiting for this. And Forest Lawn needs a tennis team, and Arnold Schwarzenegger needs to work out more.

This is how karaoke works: There’s a catalogue of songs to choose from, mostly forgettable middle-of-the-road hits that won’t go away. All the songs have the vocals removed, leaving only the music. You supply the voice. The words appear on a screen in sort of a follow-the-bouncing-ball mode so you won’t forget your lines. The best thing about all this is that there’s no “Stairway To Heaven.” And singing in a bar is a lot better than fighting in a bar, so there’s that.

Yet the technology is available for karaoke to make you suffer, and suffer plenty, with brain death songs such as “Me and You and a Dog Named Boo” by Lobo.

The singing volunteer gets the chance to perform before a live audience, all the while pretending to be his or her favorite rock star, just without the bank account, the limo rides and all those groupies.

The karaoke catalogue features a lot of Beatles songs. The Beach Boys, Elvis Presley, Elton John, Olivia Newton-John and the dreaded Carpenters are also well represented. There are also a number of Roy Orbison songs listed. Nobody alive can sing like Roy--not even Chris Isaak--but hey, you never know. During my research, there were no Roy impersonators.

The first night took me to Sharky’s in Oxnard, where the stereo system was so loud, Whitney Houston was blowing out windows in Fillmore and routinely registering on the Richter scale. Above the karaoke stage were a couple of signs accompanied by arrows--one saying Maui, the other, Miami. Presumably, this is a service for those so inebriated that they need to give directions when calling a cab.

Hey, buddy, can you send me a cab? I’m here with Elvis somewhere between Maui and Miami. . . .”

After an hour, there were no volunteers. Just try again Friday at Yolanda’s restaurant in Ventura, where the don’t-stop-and-think-have-another-drink crowd will presumably be more adventurous.

The bar at Yolanda’s was pretty packed by 9 p.m. when emcee Lee switched off ESPN on the giant screen. Quicker than you could say “Karaoke-dokey,” people were filling out little request cards to be a star for a moment or two.

Several singers were actually pretty good, and a lot of them were better than people in bands. So much for Theory No. 1. And almost none of the singers were snockered, and almost all could have passed a field sobriety test with ease. So much for Theory No. 2.

A girl named Janelle did a damn fine version of a Heart song, then a man named Harry crooned smoothly through a Lionel Richie song and didn’t even have to look at the words.

Tom more than held his own on the Laura Nyro tune made famous by Blood, Sweat & Tears, “And When I Die.” Steve strutted his stuff on a Randy Travis number, “I Told You So.” He had twang enough to cool the toes of the pointy-shoe crowd. Wahoo.

Many of these people seemed to be regulars and claimed to follow karaoke around from venue to venue. Sort of like being on tour except they didn’t sell T-shirts. Yet.

Karaoke is basically another way of having good, clean fun. It’s about as radical as a vanilla milkshake. If you’re watching MTV, thinking, “Hey, I could do that,” karaoke is your chance to prove it. It’s kind of fun. You’ll like it.

Not me. I’ll never go back. It isn’t my kind of music and just in case Sonny & Cher get back together just to go after the two people who on Friday butchered “I Got You, Babe,” I don’t want to be in the line of fire.