I’m tired of listening to wingnuts, but I never get tired of hearing a nut named Wing, the bizarre cult sensation from New Zealand via Hong Kong with the reedy voice, weird rhythms, and life-threateningly kitsch taste. (Then again I never grow weary of watching car pileups either.)
The woman couldn’t hit a note with a baseball bat, but the fun is in the trying. Here’s a clip of her gently massacring “Dancing Queen,” as an audience of twisted gays hoots and cheers as if she were Callas. This Wing doesn’t have a prayer, yet I’m on bended knee before her marvelous mediocrity.