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Nowadays it seems that every TV channel in the Chinese mainland has a singing contest, and viewers are amazed once and again by the seemingly unlimited supply of talents that the country has. One of the best of these shows is, no doubt, The Voice of China.

The show was based on The Voice of Holland, which was originally created by Dutch television producer John de Mol and later became a global franchise. The trademark of the franchise are the blind auditions, where auditionees sing in front of the official coaches, who themselves are also established singers.

In the first stage of every season, the coaches sit on a chair that is turned back from the stage. When an auditionee first comes in and sings, they will be judged only by the power, clarity, type and uniqueness of his or her singing prowess. If the coaches like what they hear and want to mentor the artist, they push a button by their chair that would turn the chair around to face the stage so that they see the artist for the first time.

In China, where it is widely believed that nothing could be achieved without guanxi (connections), and that it matters more who your parents are than what you do, the show's perceived fairness gives it an extra layer of meaning. People generally think that singers in The Voice of China really are better. Perhaps fairness does make good music.

The show is so successful that my friends in Hong Kong know about it. Some have even watched a few episodes. But in terms of popularity, it has no match on TVB's pathetic Bachelors at War. After all, who in the city knows Na Ying, and who wouldn't have mistaken her for Carina Lau Kar-ling on any given day?

Last week everything changed. I vividly remember that fateful day. I was watching The Voice of China, thinking myself the only one in the city. There came a 60-year-old auditionee from Hong Kong with three failed marriages because of his dedication to music. He sang. Before he finished the song I clicked on the next segment of the episode (OK, I lied: I was watching the replay online the day after it was aired), contemplating as the page loaded whether it was worth having one's life ruined by false hopes.

The next day, the story of Chung Wai-keung, the elderly singer, made the local news as "Hong Kong's legend", "the dreamer", "the fighter". He has beaten Leslie Cheung Kwok-wing in a singing contest. He has written songs performed by popular singers that people can still vaguely remember.

I do not like Chung's singing, but I am mean and it is just a matter of taste anyway. It is perfectly legitimate for the show to feature him and for the coaches to turn their chairs for him. The inclusion of a contestant from Hong Kong will help the show attract viewers here, but I do not think this is a major consideration as it is difficult for the show to capitalize on the advertising potential in Hong Kong given the fragmented markets.

However, the problem with Chung being the "voice of Hong Kong" is that it is so ... Hong Kong. Our cultural influence has waned. People from other regions of China remember our popular culture as the age of Leslie Cheung, Anita Mui Yim-fong, or Andy Lau Tak-wah and the other "Four Heavenly Kings of Cantopop". Our only famous band Beyond was disbanded eons ago, but its surviving members still seem to be carrying the trade name around. But even so, Paul Wong didn't go far in Hunan STV's I am a Singer (but he is a guitarist).

Some believe that Hong Kong people are insecure because the city has lost its superiority against the Chinese mainland economically. Does economics have anything to do with the city's lack of singing talent below the age of 60? Does it have anything to do with our inability to produce good reality TV shows? I doubt that.

The true problem is that we are living in the past, thinking that we are moving on. That's why when we look for new talent what we find is Leslie Cheung's friend, Chung Wai-keung.

The author is a current affairs commentator.

(HK Edition 07/27/2013 page6)