Wang Chung

Everybody Wang Chung Tonight (Geffen)
by Chris Adams

Ahhh, yes… remember those crazy mid-eighties, those halcyon dance-hall days, when we were all cool on craze? When we measured our time as the breathless spaces between Thompson Twins, Re-flex, Men Without Hats and Wang Chung singles? Me neither. Main reason: All those bands sucked. I’m quite happy to report that a decade has not withered Wang Chung’s stunning unintentional ludicrousness. Any band that makes the Alarm look remotely acceptable in comparison is clearly in deep shit. Such is the fate of Wang Chung. According to the liner notes “The name Wang Chung means whatever you want it to mean… have fun with it.” Why, thank you. Thus endeth my decade on various Tibetan mountaintops, searching tirelessly through forgotten dusty tomes for the true meaning of the enigmatic, evocative phrase. The notes also state that “Wang Chung” is an “inaudible pitch… all music aspires to perfect pitch.” I certainly wish Wang Chung had stayed true to their title and remained inaudible, sparing me an hour’s worth of their hapless, dinky, fake-euro electro-pap. Still, I “had fun with it” as I pitched it, quite audibly, I’m afraid, into the nearest trash can. Now that’s a perfect pitch. Mission completed, Wang Chung. Now fuck off.