Way before William Hung, Rebecca Black and Enrique Iglesias, there was another fantastically confident, but severely tone deaf, “singer” on the scene – a handsome, yet greasy man by the name of Pauly Fuemana, who somehow got hold of some recording equipment and threw a bunch of random words together (apparently, mostly English words), hired his nerdy friend to compose a beat around a “catchy guitar thing” he’d been working on (probably), and set out to put together a visual love poem set to music with the ultimate goal to, one can only assume, impress some babes (maybe).
And they called it OMC. (Otara Millionaires Club)
The result? That video and song you see right up there. Today, we will be focusing solely on the song. Let’s just all agree the video is, well, not good.
This shit, gentle reader, was terrible upon first listen. And you know it. It made Shaggy’s “Oh Carolina” and Lou Bega’s “Mambo #5 (five)” sound like bastions of artistic expression.
Regardless, someone out there really believed in this thing. It slowly made it’s way to regular rotation on radio and video stations worldwide, all the charts, countdowns and so many shitty 90’s compilation CD’s that I dare not Google for fear the government is keeping track of my every move. Can you imagine? I got kids, man!
That being said, we’ve allowed this to happen – and we’ve allowed
this to happen in one (1) of two (2) ways:
1. We all collectively (and subconsciously) felt an obligation to support who we perceived as either a head injury survivor or a handy candy cap who probably won a contest, or…
2. …this shit is actually really good and I’m the one whose hearing (ears) and brain (brain) function have been severely compromised (i.e. head injury survivor or handy candy cap) and it remains a one-hit wonder classic because of it’s catchy hook (it’s the worst) and it’s message of whatever the fuck that guy is going on about. And of course the groundbreaking music video.
The answer might lie somewhere in between. Who knows. Anyway…
The “point” I’m trying to make (or whatever) is that we need stronger guidelines for what constitutes a “one-hit wonder” other than just being someone’s only hit/popular song, along with a system for somehow managing said songs. And for the love of Jermaine Jackson, let’s be a little more selective from now on, OK? Here we go…
First, we need to set a limit of 100 (one hundred) songs at any given time. That’s all the room we have.
We’ll keep the 100 (one hundred) most recent songs. Sounds fair? Everything else will be left to rot in the public domain.*
*This initial group only.
Second, we’ll impose laws and junk that shall make the resurrection in any form of a retired song, ironic or otherwise, be punishable by bricking.* (It’s like stoning, but with bricks)
*This initial group only.
Third, once we’ve whittled it down to our first 100 (one hundred), we must periodically review (every 3-5 years, I’m flexible) the ones we currently have and, if the number exceeds 100 (one hundred) – let’s say 109 (one oh nine) – that means we need to get rid of 9 (nine); this shall be done by public vote.
You still following?
Finally, we’ll retire the ones who have amassed the most votes (or , by default, after everyone involved with the song has died and gone to heaven) – and on every New Year’s Day we’ll blast the previous year’s retirees’ master tapes, promotional materials and other related garbage into Outer Space.
They’re someone else’s problem now.
And that’s just off the top of my head. I’d like to develop similar systems for Golden Oldies and Classic Rock.
Anyway, “How Bizarre” became a hit and its performers remained one-hit wonderful in their native New-Zealand until 2010, when OMC seized to exist following “singer/rapper” Pauly Fuemana’s death.