Subject:  TWO NEW American Idol Articles |
Author:
music man Jun
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Date Posted: 21:50:26 04/15/04 Thu
Author Host/IP: 10-185-adsl.dial-pool.digitelone.com/202.138.185.10
In reply to:
music man Jun
's message, "3 American Idol Articles" on 19:20:53 04/11/04 Sun
American Idol Chatter
Why doesn't Simon Cowell understand his own show?
By Matt Feeney
Cowell: Oscar Wilde he is not
When you look at American Idol's Simon Cowell, his buff plumpness packed into his fancy T-shirts, you might find another figure coming strangely to mind—William Shatner. More specifically, you might be reminded of the original Star Trek Shatner, who, even in early middle age, had to be girdled into his Enterprise stretch-wear. Both Shatner and Cowell are known for their histrionics: Shatner as Kirk looking into the alien heavens and tossing his head from side to side in B-movie despair; Cowell massaging his temples or rubbing his eyes in a hammy semblance of aesthetic displeasure. It took Shatner maybe 15 years before he began trading on his kitsch legacy by giving Kirkified poetry readings in cafes and punk clubs. So, with allowances for our tightening cycle of nostalgia and self-reference, we might give Cowell half a decade or so before he gets in on the joke that he is.
Like Anne Robinson of The Weakest Link before him, Cowell has benefited from the weird TV conceit that, perhaps out of some sense of our own cultural inferiority, Americans should enjoy seeing other Americans derided by sarcastic Brits. And yet an indispensable part of the American Idol experience is watching the imperious Simon flounder in his own show. In the competition's early rounds, the bizarre comedy of the flamboyantly "bad" singers sails far over his head. He's like a figure-skating judge bitchily scribbling down low scores without looking up to realize he's at Wrestlemania. But more interesting are the later rounds, in which Simon tries to impose his own rigid ideal of Idolness—a dull combination of capable singing and synthetic sexiness—on the voting audience. And the audience, animated by its own far-from-elevated biases, rejects it.
One vivid sign of Cowell's floundering: His famous putdowns, which—despite the stagy malice of the intent behind them—are toothless, indeed witless, in their execution. They are, in fact, more consistently cringe-worthy than the singing that provokes them. Cowell, who comes third in the line of judges, has even more time to hone the gist and syntax of his insults and these are what he comes up with:
"It was like The Exorcist."
"If your lifeguard duties were as good as your singing, a lot of people would be drowning."
"You had about as much passion as a kitten mewing."
"You sang like someone who sings on a cruise ship. Halfway through I imagined the ship sinking."
"I think you're amazing ... amazingly dreadful."
"That was extraordinary. Unfortunately, it was extraordinarily bad."
It's one thing, and a fairly benign thing at that, to venture a croaking imitation of Luther Vandross or Celine Dion. It's another thing to present yourself as the next great wit-misanthrope, a combination of Oscar Wilde and H.L. Mencken, when your verbal dexterity is more akin to that of Regis Philbin.
Simon's odd belief that he's a wit isn't the only fascinating bit of cognitive dissonance on display on American Idol. Another is that, on a show in which three judges purport to be tastemakers, nobody—neither singers nor judges—has any taste. It's not just that the judges are playing at being profit-conscious record execs, suppressing their own quirky predilections for the sake of the bottom line. Neither Randy nor Paula nor Simon even seems capable of a real aesthetic misgiving. Just once I'd like to hear a judge say, "You know, your singing was pretty good there, but that song, 'I Believe I Can Fly,' I hate that song. Points off for choosing an insipid song." When the biggest hits from the last year were OutKast's "Hey Ya" and Beyoncé's "Crazy in Love," it's bizarre to pretend that pop success has everything to do with competent singing and nothing to do with the quality of the songs. On Idol, the fixation on singing is itself so reductive it verges on, if not mechanics, then athletics. The judges occasionally feign an interest in style, but when it comes down to it, they want belters—contestants adept at loud, clear, identifiably melodic yelling, with vibrato if possible.
Simon also clearly has Spice Girls on the brain. That is to say, none of the judges is what you would call not shallow, but Simon is the one most likely to size up a contestant who has just performed in satisfactory compliance with American Idol vocal standards and say, "You just don't look like the American Idol." Simon has forgotten, apparently, that last year's American Idol finalists, Clay Aiken and Ruben Studdard, didn't look much like the American Idol, either. Or, anyway, he's unwilling to accept that this was no accident.
That's because, no matter how reductive his, and the other judges', pop aesthetic is, it isn't reductive enough. The voting audience is animated by something even more elemental, more reptilian-brained. Watching the later rounds of American Idol instills in the viewer a subtle but potent type of fear—empathy-fear, stage-fright-by-proxy. You can't help identifying with contestants you've seen over several weeks, whose life stories you keep hearing in ever-greater detail, whose stunned parents and disoriented younger siblings you've seen sitting in the waiting room and absorbing the judges' criticisms with visible winces. And, when the contestants hoist the mic to their faces and begin squawking the opening lines of their song (even the good ones start off badly), you can't help identifying with them even more—especially the ones you already kind of identify with.
That's why, despite Simon's preference for contestants who "look like the American Idol," the audience continues to impose its preference for contestants who look like America. At the end of one semifinal round, all three judges lathered heavy, insistent praise on La Toya London, an attractive-by-numbers belter from Oakland, and Leah LaBelle, a pretty redhead with an able voice and a model's body who defected to the United States from Bulgaria with her musician parents when she was a child. "You are a star," Simon cooed to Leah.
The voting audience went along with the judges on La Toya, but they shoved the lithe, stage-named Leah aside in favor of Amy Adams, a plain, wan, country-voiced beautician from Bakersfield who, as Simon had pointedly observed, does not look like the American Idol. The thing is, Amy Adams may not look like the American Idol, but she does look like a demographically meaningful slice of America (or at least, with her beautician's dye job, like someone who does her hair). And, leaving aside Leah LaBelle's other alienating features, like the émigré stage parents and the porn-star name, you'd be hard-pressed to come up with a more resonant analogue for "foreigner," for the telephone-voting American public, than "Bulgarian."
In the end, the smart money might still be on Diana DeGarmo, even though she was a candidate for elimination last week. (I'm guessing this was because she sang first on a marathon show, and since voters can't dial in until the show is over, they had forgotten her.) She's an irrepressible combination of Shakira and Shirley Temple from the town with the Dr. Seussian name—Snellville, Ga. With her Anglo-Latin ethnic vagueness, her perky Georgia drawl, and her megaphonic vocal style, she has all the bases covered. But don't be surprised if, advancing far into the competition with her, is John Stevens. Stevens is a redheaded kid who, with the innocent squinch of his pale face and his preference for Sinatra, appears to have time-traveled to his Idol audition from 1954. He's inspired a passionate following despite the fact that he can't, actually … what's the word I'm looking for? … sing. Indeed, his thin crooning relies on his retro appearance and his swingin' moves to maintain the pretense that he's singing and not just talking funny.
After a semifinal round a few weeks ago, when it was Simon's turn to guess the audience's three finalist selections, he offered his two favorites (La Toya London and Leah LaBelle) and then, after a bitter pause, added John Stevens to his list. His spite was audible, but he guessed right. A week later, to the astonishment and outrage of Randy, he actually complimented Stevens after a comically undersung version of "Lately." "This guy," Simon said, "is Middle America." These were moments of insight, however grudging, into the real cues that guide Idol voting. It'll probably take a little longer—maybe a half decade or so—before Simon has an equally unpleasant moment of insight about his own hambone persona.
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'Idol' Pink Slips Pink-Haired Contender
Amy Adams leaves, narrowing field to nine
By Daniel Fienberg
Zap2it.com
"Last night the Top 10 'American Idol' Finalists showed why they all deserved a place on our stage," the "Idol" announcer declaims boldly, as Wednesday night's (March 31) results show begins.
Slate: 'American Idol' chatter
Um, Mr. Disembodied Voice, I don't mean to nitpick, but the only people who consistently showed they belonged on the "Idol" stage for Motown Night (March 30) were the backup band, the Funk Brothers.
Others showed that they can't yet sing and dance at the same time (like Camile Velasco) or that they can't yet carry a conventional tune (poor John Stevens) or that they can't ever hope to be heard above their musical accompaniment (sheepish Jon Peter Lewis).
This isn't to say that the frontrunners -- the LaToya Londons, Fantasia Barrinos and George Huffs -- didn't show why they deserve a place on the stage, but even if 20 million votes were cast, the show was far from an unqualified success.
The recap of Tuesday night's show confirms that fact and also allows for one more chance to gawk in awe at guest judge Nick Ashford's hypnotically grotesque hair process.
The 10 Finalists then follow with an equally hypnotically grotesque take on the Ashford & Simpson classic "Ain't No Mountain." The remaining seven gregarious women sound great and even seem capable of throwing in some rudimentary dance moves. The three guys look embarrassed. It's like a junior high dance where the girls are perfectly content to dance together in packs and the boys are too shy to do anything more than stand in the corner whispering. Certainly neither Jon nor John contributes much more than a whisper.
After the usual shout-out to Ford and its diverse array of "Idol"-lovin' driving machines, host Ryan Seacrest returns to pull the Bottom Three. As you may have heard through the grapevine, Fantasia continues to ripen. A legion of teenage girls refuse to break this old heart of Jon-Boy's, keeping him safe for another week. Jasmine Trias proves that the support of the nation is all she needs to get by. George ain't too proud to beg for votes and the voters ain't too proud to comply. While Amy Adams may have been dancing in the streets, America leaves her dancing to an ignominious position at center stage. Similarly, voters give Jennifer Hudson the cold shoulder when what she craved was a heatwave.
Diana DeGarmo asked viewers "Do You Love Me?" and enough of them replied that they do. She's safe. Camile, nearly voted out last week and mediocre last night, seems to be in trouble, but she discovers that for once in her life she's got someone who needs her. That leaves John and LaToya waiting through a commercial break for the last spot in the Bottom Three.
First, though, the "Idol" Finalists take to the desert in their Ford automobiles, scaring the cacti and Joshua Trees as they ramble through "Life is a Highway," by everybody's favorite Manitoba-born "Idol," Tom Cochrane. Where have you gone, Tom Cochrane? We haven't thought of you since 1991 and this is how you want us to remember you?
The showdown between LaToya and John should be a simple enough choice, right? Surely John must have scared off at least a few of his fans by delivering an entire song flat, right? Wrong. After ads explaining that, like Ford, Toyota also produces a diverse array of "Idol"-lovin' driving machines, we discover that John is actually safe.
Amy, Jennifer and LaToya stand together as the crowd gasps and boos. John looks frustrated, agog and mournful.
Ryan turns to the judges. First he asks Paula if what she sees before her is the correct Bottom Three.
"Nope," Paula declares, shaking her head so wildly it threatens to swivel on its axis like the "Trainspotting" baby.
Ryan puts Randy on the spot and asks how many of the contestants don't belong in the Bottom Three.
"At least two of them," Randy says without hesitation.
Ryan, following the train of thought, challenges Simon on which two don't belong. The British judge isn't playing.
"Let America vote, you live with the decision," he rationalizes.
Every week on "American Idol" there are one or two baffling moments that make you wonder what the voters were watching and what they think the point of the show is. I'm not sure, though, that I can recall a Bottom Three this disconnected from the performances of the night before. For John, Jon Peter and Camile to all be safe after what they put the audience through last night almost seems cruel to the nearly 26 million people who watched the show.
LaToya is safe, sent back to the podium.
As Jennifer and Amy stand under the glare, shifting back and forth out of nervousness, the cameraman keeps going back to shell-shocked John. Amy is humbly gracious about her prospects. Jennifer isn't so humble, but she's gracious enough. It turns out that her humility can wait an extra week. Pink-haired Amy Adams is heading home.
One week after blowing the competition away during Country Week, the 24-year-old make-up artist (and reputed Jay Leno lookalike) comes up short.
"I'm not gonna go away," she promises, as the camera goes back, one last time, to John Stevens, looking miserable.
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