Corpse Husband, and the Allure of Anonymity

Last week, while I scrolled through the digital jungle of Twitter, I found a short clip of the YouTuber CorpseHusband. The clip was a short audio-only gif of him breathing into the mic for about 3 seconds and that was the video. That was it.

The result? About 27,000 comments and over 400,000 likes.

Normally seeing something like this would invoke a scoff, followed by a quick flick of the thumb to send what I had just seen as far away as possible. This time I stopped. I considered what I had heard and actually played it again. Then again. Each time I played it, my curiosity only increased. For some strange reason, the shortened clip seemed to only prolong my incessant replaying, and the inevitable disappointment when I couldn’t gain any new knowledge of the mystery entertainer. Then I had a realization.

Sure, I knew who the YouTuber was. Anyone who frequents YouTube lately knows of, or at least has heard of, Corpse Husband. Popular for his deep voice - I’m talking deep - and Among Us gameplay, I would say his steady rise to stardom is largely due to this mystery persona he’s built (AOC’s mini crush during the Among Us stream doesn’t hurt his numbers either). It’s what keeps me coming to his clips. Then more clips. Fast forward to a week ago, where I’m replaying the 5-second clip of breathing, and I couldn’t help but consider two things after ten minutes of replays: why is he so popular and why am I intrigued by him?

You see, I don’t like Among Us. I don’t like listening to horror stories. I don’t even like some of the streamers he plays with (won’t name any in fear of a mob). Yet I continually watch his clips. I follow his online presence. I am, undoubtedly, a Corpse fan without really even liking the content.

I realized this conundrum is answered by a larger concept happening within our society. I believe Corpse Husband’s major contributing factor to his fame is synonymous with our society’s preoccupation and curiosity with anonymous personas in entertainment. Corpse Husband is an example of a long trend in media rising once again: anonymity is cool.

He is not the only one who has donned the proverbial mask of entertainer anonymity on YouTube. Dream, another anonymous character with a simple cartoon smile as a persona, amasses over 19 million subscribers. VTubers - a subgenre of Youtube entertainers that use live digital avatars to produce content - has an impressive 100 different digital avatar channels being created, all of them boasting over 100,000+ subscribers.

On the YouTube platform in particular, we’re seeing this trend. Mystery entertainers are popular and increasing. But this infatuation began earlier than YouTube.

This trend began showing itself in music. Marshmello is one of the most popular electronic artists today and he dons a big marshmallow helmet obscuring his real identity. He started getting noticed in 2015, largely from his music, but also the iconic mask. The legend Deadmau5 wore a massive electronic mouse mask that became iconic in the 2010’s. Grammy-nominated Sia remains completely unknown save for the usual black and blond wigs that cover their face. Even legendary electronic producers Daft Punk remained anonymous their entire careers before their recent retirement.

What does this mean? Audiences love anonymous personas in entertainment. If we consider why that is, we perhaps gain some insight into the human condition. It’s not just the content these characters produce that is so enthralling, but the intrigue the persona provides. I think the art these creators produce become intertwined with the mystery behind their true identity. Similar to the masked superhero, audiences are drawn to the act and the persona itself. As a result, the art enhances their persona and the persona enhances the art. The experience becomes hand in hand.

Consider this anecdote: when I was a kid, our elementary school always had a costume contest for Halloween. The first prize would win a spectacularly awesome basketball (we were kids and a good basketball was the child’s version of GME stonks). I really wanted that basketball so I really went in on the spooky makeup. I had my mom paint my face to look like as real as a skeleton as possible. I was confident I’d win. But then, this kid shows up with the coolest looking demon mask you’ve ever seen. Most kids masks are pretty weak. You can see the kid’s face half the time. This one though was the wagyu pork of kid Halloween masks. It was red and black and small enough holes in the eyes where you couldn’t even see the kid underneath. I don’t know what black magic the kid had to pull to find that mask but it was incredible. I didn’t even know the kid or what he looked like, which made it more interesting. I wasn’t the only one to think so. Kids were enamored and scared of the thing. Fellow competitors with flimsy Frankenstein masks ripped theirs off in awe at the spectacle. Even the teachers were impressed. Turns out that kid wasn’t even in the competition. It was one of the teacher’s kids just walking around. But he undoubtedly stole the show.

That experience spoke to a larger phenomenon of anonymity in the spotlight. For a brief moment, I and many other kids saw a live persona of something. It wasn’t a kid under a mask - it was an experience of seeing something indiscernible. Unfamiliar. My imagination filled in the gaps his mask produced. His faceless demeanor only fueled my curiosity. He was a walking exhibition.

When I see Corpse Husband, I feel a similar intrigue. I want to know who it is under the mask regardless of the content he produces. I project and imagine who it might be under the profile picture. His content becomes apart of the mystery. Pair that curiosity with the imagination of what he looks like and the content he produces, and you get a cocktail of assumptions and instinctual curiosity.

I think there’s interest in these mystery personas because of what they represent in our digital culture, particularly YouTube. In a time where digital transparency is the new norm with platforms like Instagram and YouTube, witnessing a popular entertainer cloaked in privacy stands out. It stands out from the sea of profile pictures and transparent celebrity personalities; tabloid articles blasting sex lives and drama-centered “confessions” on YouTube; screenshots of personal conversation (fake or not) and leaked nudes. In a time when everyone is trying to be famous, witnessing anonymity in the craft of art without the preoccupation of notoriety recognition brings is refreshing. Behind that faceless persona, maybe we seek some form of authenticity.

Maybe we all just instinctually gravitate to the static expressions of faceless entertainers for what they represent. Their obscurity is the unfiltered content of art and creation. Without a face to place the content, they inhabit the art as a representation of what they produce: pure creativity. We experience this in two-folds, and ultimately come back for more. The cycle continues on and on.

Or maybe we just like how deep Corpse’s voice is.