Last weekend I wasn’t really in the mood to hear anyone sing. So I went to see William Hung instead.
N-J/C.A. Bridges |
Ba dum bum.
OK, easy joke. But I did go see William Hung perform at R.C. Hill Mitsubishi in DeLand Saturday and not because I’m a fan. I went for a far more justifiable reason: a friend of mine in Boston is obsessed with “American Idol” and I figured nothing would simultaneously cheer and terrify him more than an autograph from that show’s most famous washout.
If you’re unaware of the Hung Phenomena — and there’s no good reason why you shouldn’t be — the quick version is that he’s a college kid who tried out for the inexplicably popular reality talent show and, like the other less-than-stellar performers, got shot down hard. But when he declined to face judge Simon Cowell’s trademark abuse with the traditional tearful whining or confrontational gunfire, his cheerful attitude set him aside as one of the few people on the show besides Paula Abdul ever suspected of having fun.
And he got his unintentional revenge. Fans loved him. They demanded and got more Hung in an “American Idol” special. He appeared on TV shows and in movies. He’s released three albums, hit the top-selling lists for iTunes and Amazon, and sung before packed auditoriums. Not well, mind you, but with undeniable enthusiasm.
When I showed up Hung was already singing, giving his all for a sporadically appreciative crowd of about 50 people. Frankly I suspect a random person pulled off the street and given three drinks first would have sung about as well. But it’s very likely that random crooner would have been self-conscious or made a joke of it while Hung belted out his song like a headliner.
That, more than anything, is the secret of his queasy appeal. Anyone can sing badly. I’m a talented amateur in that field myself. But to sing badly with style, that can make you a star.
Look at William Shatner. Thanks to fan attention and his Priceline commercials Shatner’s fame as Captain James T. Kirk has nearly been eclipsed by his worldwide notoriety as a really bad singer. Sure, he’s OK on “Boston Legal,” but it can’t compare to his spoken-word rendition of Eminem’s “The Real Slim Shady.”
I also call to your attention a Mr. Richard Cheese and his band Lounge Against the Machine. They perform covers of popular rock and cuss-word-laden rap songs in a traditional hey-you’re-a-great-crowd Vegas style, and you haven’t heard Nirvana’s “Rape Me” until you’ve heard Cheese do it, baby.
Then there’s Dread Zeppelin, a cover band which features Led Zeppelin songs performed in reggae style by an Elvis impersonator. I saw them at Hard Rock in Orlando a few years back and I can’t think of anything that’s ever given me the same mix of horror, helplessness, and glee as watching a fat man in a white spandex jumpsuit, dark sunglasses, and a two-foot pompadour sing “Whole Lotta Love” to a Jamaican beat.
Even as you marvel that someone is actually doing that in public you lapse into a sort of alarmed admiration for anyone secure or oblivious enough to get away with it. Hung has been accused of milking his geeky appearance and off-key warbling to get more than his 15 minutes of fame, but why shouldn’t he? I don’t think people would come to hear me sing and while someone might line up afterward it would only be if the exit door was very narrow.
Hung signed autographs and posed for pictures and after getting both I left before the music started up again, not wanting to take my chances. And I mused on how this well-meaning singer is as well-known as anyone who actually won “American Idol.” Come to think of it, the only other contestant I can instantly name is Kelly Clarkson, and that’s because she was in a terrible movie.
I stopped by Wal-Mart to get copies of my pictures for my friend’s unsuspecting mailbox and the girl at the counter smiled as she handed them over. “Where did you see William Chang?” she asked.
That’s the kind of fame that lasts forever.