That common idiom ‘you’ve gotta watch out for the quiet ones’ gets used with many varied implications, sometimes positive and sometimes negative.
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While some people are all talk, there are quiet ones who are only quiet because they’re analysing the situation around them and strategising their next move.
Others stay silent because they’re quietly plotting something untoward and don’t dare share the inner workings of their mind in case their plans fall on anti-conspirators’ ears.
Some folk would prefer just to observe others around them; people-watching, soaking up the live lessons of human nature.
Others are just too smart to get involved in conversations where any sign of intelligent life form seems lost.
Others are shy.
But I’ve known the quietest people who have no problem stepping into a character beneath a spotlight on a stage where they can be someone else.
And timid, self-conscious people who come alive to music, and, because they can sing or play well, and enjoy doing it, they push themselves out of their comfort zone to perform before a crowd.
There are humans who write the most eloquent poetry, but their social awkwardness stunts them from being able to carry an interesting conversation.
Some of the loudest and bubbliest humans who charge every room they’re in with electric energy are the saddest humans.
So yes, you do have to look out for the quiet ones, but you’ve gotta look out for the loud ones, too.
Karaoke is one of those things I’d love to be brave enough to do, because I love singing.
I’m terrible at it, of course, but there are usually very few ‘good’ singers who take to the mic on karaoke night anyway, so that matters little.
The real problem is getting on a stage, projecting my voice (the thought of people hearing me talking is horrifying, let alone singing) and having people look at me while all that’s happening.
Nightmare material.
You might think someone who shares large parts of their personal life in a newspaper column is an extrovert.
My family and close friends probably wouldn’t label me an introvert.
But, my volume and my confidence depend very much on my surroundings.
I saw recently that a new phrase had been coined by a psychiatrist named Rami Kaminski in 2025: otrovert.
It’s a personality type on the middle ground between an introvert and an extrovert, apparently.
It describes people who function socially, but still feel like they don’t quite fit in anywhere.
They don’t conform, they don’t seek to belong to certain groups, and they prefer to be outsiders, maintaining independent and observant identities.
They also thrive in one-on-one situations.
This, I believe, describes me.
So what does an otrovert do when they want to have a crack at karaoke somewhere other than their backyard where only their faceless neighbours can hear them through opaque Colorbond fences?
Where the disturbed howling dogs next door sound like they’re actually joining you in chorus, not wailing in protest about the assault on their big floppy ears.
Well, you could lock yourself in a coin karaoke booth and sing — or rap — your heart out between the giggles.
A couple of years ago, my three teenage boys and I took a train to Melbourne to just wander around the city and engage in interesting activities we found along the way.
We stumbled across a coin karaoke venue in the CBD and bought ourselves three songs, which was all we had time for before we had to (run to) catch the train home.
This place was unexpectedly busy.
I think there were around 10 booths and a line of people, including us, waiting for a vacant one.
In that moment, I realised the booths weren’t entirely soundproof, so I entered one a little more reserved than I thought I’d be when it was our turn.
My two youngest decided then and there they would not be participating in vocals, just harsh judgment of their big brother and mother, without even trying to hide their appalled and second-hand embarrassed expressions.
My singing is bad enough, but you should hear my feeble rapping.
It could be used by military intelligence agencies as a torture technique to assist interrogations.
People would spill their guts almost immediately to spare themselves the auditory agony.
I probably shouldn’t say it as his mother, but my son’s was not much better.
While we were very aware of our tone-deafness and more so of the people queuing on seats just beyond the booth’s door, we still went hell for leather anyway, laughter replacing every few words.
Luckily, these booths didn’t record, so there was no video evidence to render regret later.
The experience showed me that the warning ‘watch out for the quiet ones’ might have one more meaning.
Watch out for the quiet ones, because they might start rapping off-key in a noise-leaking karaoke booth so badly that they might just make your ears bleed.
But at least they had fun being loud for once in their otroverted lives.