WHOM THE GODS WOULD DESTROY

I was flipping through channels the other night, and I came upon the bazillionth rerun of One-Hit Wonders on VH1.

I didn’t stick around to watch, but a couple of minutes later I realized something: One-Hit Wonders is perhaps the most profound show in the history of television.

I’m not trying to be post-ironic here, and this is not about Shatner worship. If anything, his presence cheapens the experience, and I’m thankful that the interstitial heavy lifting is done by a faceless, low-fat vanilla announcer.

I am not so moved by the folks who had one pop chart hit, but measurable success in other genres/markets (Tom Tom Club, Dexy’s, Gary Numan, Sugarhill Gang).

But Rockwell and the Starland Vocal Band and The Heights and Haddaway and Tommy Tutone and Timbuk 3?

They felt the glorious, terrible pull of fame. People wanted to speak to them, put their pictures in magazines, ask them about the future, and you can bet they all had plans. For next hit records, next tours. They were in the ascendancy, with no conceivable outcome beyond further elevation.

But then it went away. For whatever reasons, they could never again find the magical confluence of notes, beats, and words that had led them to the top.

And still there were lives that required living.

Some made peace with their trajectory and the rocket that got them there, while others floated away into the ether, cursing the afterburn.

You might be tempted to ask while watching “What would I do in that situation?”

I would ask instead “What are you doing?”