Don’t get me wrong. Any man might sing, but it’s what they sing that matters. It’s how you separate the wheat from the chaff that determines if you’re qualified to stand with a pint and your hand and roar along with the rest of them, the best of them.
For instance, real men don’t sing Helen Reddy songs. They’re not interested in karaoke versions of selections from the Flower Drum Song. Real men go missing when Barry Manilow comes on the jukebox. Demi Lovato songs don’t enter into it.
Under the right circumstances, Frankie Valli songs are allowed. Other than that, it’s sea chanteys, marches, Thin Lizzie songs, or hit the bricks, pal.