After spending more than three years in China doing everything I can to avoid karaoke, I realize it's time to face the music.

I hate singing but can't escape it. So, I have no choice but to change my tune and embrace the microphone, which somehow always ends up in my hand.

KTV follows me no matter where I go in the country. The full scope of its godlike omnipresence became apparent to me during a recent trip to Yinhu Cave in Beijing's northern suburbs. Set up amid the techni-colored stalactites and stalagmites of a yawning expanse in the subterranean tunnel were flashing string lights, a projector screen and a microphone.

The voice of a woman crooning pop anthems boomed throughout the chambers of this underworld cavity, as her friends whooped cheers from rows of seats bolted into the rock. While it undermined the Hades-like otherworldliness of the place, it created another. Even several km underground, there's no eluding this musical pastime.

A few days later, my family and I booked suspiciously affordable rooms at a hotel in downtown Guilin. After the sun went down, the volume went up at the karaoke bar across the street. Until the wee hours of predawn, a high-decibel cacophony created by a slew of amateur balladeers permeated our closed windows and our dreams.

But when it comes to karaoke, I don't mind being in front of the speakers; it's being behind the microphone that I abhor.

Somehow, I always end up having to croon for a crowd when I socialize with new people. In addition to being coaxed into KTV rooms during business trips, I've warbled Western tunes at banquets, when staffers wheel out the KTV setup after clearing the plates.

I've joined rousing sing-a-longs on buses equipped with sound systems. And I've choked out Jingle Bells to the accompaniment of an accordion in a Bouyei ethnic minority village's central square.

Since there is no means of polite refusal, I adopt an "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" approach.

Having often been stumped when put on the spot with the demand to "sing us an English song", I've chosen the old British folk tune I've Got Six Pence as a stock fallback.

I was asked to serenade a table of government types and couldn't think of anything other than Show Me the Way to Go Home.

But after I started belting out this little ditty, I realized they might misconstrue its meaning, believing my selection hinted that I longed to return to my chilly Beijing apartment rather than enjoying their warm Hubei hospitality.

So I was careful when later interpreting the song's gist, aside from the final phrase - "My mother's mustache!" - which won giggles from the audience.

But I have a bigger problem in actual KTV establishments, because I honestly don't know the lyrics to a single mainstream Western refrain.

A longer-term goal is learning a Chinese pop song. Right now, the only aria I can sing in Chinese is Liang Zhi Laohu (Two Tigers). This Mandarin kids' song shares the melody of Are You Sleeping.

But it's thematically different in that it's about two sprinting tigers - one has no tail while the other lacks eyes - rather than a dozing priest. I can also sing the French version, Frre Jacques, which comprises about 95 percent of the French I know. Doing so stretches the song out and makes it trilingual - a boon for sounding less stupid when you're a 26-year-old singing musical nursery rhymes to adults, and doing so off key while slaughtering the pronunciation.

By now, I'm certain it's impossible to lie low and sing small in China.