One Hit Wonder. The first word leaps forward to negate the last, and then twists the whole smirking phrase back upon itself into a paradox; one that we commonly use to designate some stigmata of shameful failure, though at face value it would seem to imply a fairly impressive level of artistic success. One, as in "Once is never enough"; Hit, like slap, or smack; and finally, Wonder -- not the primary meaning of the term "wonder," synonymous with admiration and awe, but rather that of doubting, a querulous pause, as in "Hmm, I wonder?" Perhaps it would be most instructive here to note the Latin root of wonder: that from which one turns aside. Precisely. We turn aside -- and laughingly reject -- the one hit wonders of this world.

It's time we reevaluate the term "one hit wonder" -- that casually flung epithet which so haunts the aspirations of modern musicians -- and ask ourselves what it really says about the smug parameters by which we judge success. First of all, one hit is better than none, isn't it? Think of all the struggling bands who toil away in total obscurity, never reaching beyond local infamy or the incestuous appreciation of friends or other musicians. History, as they say, is written by the victors, and these poor bands -- like the proverbial tree toppling in the empty woods -- leave only a diminishing echo. Just one measly hit, a single entry into the Top 40 charts, and their names are inked into the archival registers of pop music; and we all, if very occasionally (in drunken nostalgia), find ourselves humming their memorable tune. The Knack, Tommy Tutone, Dexy's Midnight Runners, Bow Wow Wow: all made famous by a solitary and undeniably or annoyingly catchy, chart-placing song. Yet, it's better than nothing.

Then, as a telling juxtaposition, there's the arbitrary manner by which we apply this snide and derogatory term of cynical rejection. Technically, Lou Reed can be called a "one hit wonder" (his only single to place in the U.S. Top 20 was the lovely "A Walk on the Wild Side"); and Reed's former band, the legendary Velvet Underground, never even came close to having a hit song. (I dare anybody to walk up to Lou, walking around the East Village, and call him a "one hit wonder.") Music fans are so fickle; we apply our judgments according to contradictory standards -- standards which do not stand up to deconstruction -- as though they were lapidary laws. "And the colored girls sing...."

Obviously, things get a bit sticky when we start taking highly subjective ideas such as quality or the politics of radio play into consideration; but on a purely empirical level -- that of commercial mass appeal and the exposure of the public to popular music on the airwaves -- why is it that we find the idea of a band's singular success--their lonely hit song--so ridiculously anemic? We say, "What? Only one hit? Oh, for shame." This is akin to complaining about the vigorous achievement, over the course of a night's grappling, of only one puny orgasm. Sure, two or three, or even five, might be nice (if a bit exhausting), but why complain? Why not rephrase "one hit wonder" as that "wonderful one hit?" The odds are so long to begin with, and it's lucky if one in a million bands gets their shot (however deserved, however achieved) at that Warholian 15 minutes of fame. RICK LEVIN

Reject Roundup

That Wonderful One Hit