Tuesday
The theme is pretend. It was disco, and now to keep Carrie and/or Bo country rocking, it's "'70s Dance," which is not a thing.
First up: dude, I don't even know if Constantine was good. Between the backup singers, the zoomy camera work downplaying his face-making bullshit, and the overpowering voiceyness of the backup, I am not so sure that I actually heard him. He sang "Knights of Broadway," which is the JT/Jimmy Fallon intro song on the "crazy cool medallions" SNL Brothers Gibb sketch -- not funny! -- and Randy points out the same as usual -- very theatrical, had you heard? And did you know that sucks? -- and then Paula says he was awesome as a big old show, and Simon says the same thing but meanly. Chaka Khan!
Carrie sings a singularly uninspired rendition of "MacArthurs Parks [sic]," which is lyrically very cake-centric (apropos of my researches last week about 1978, this is not so much necessary), and, like, she's awesome, and holds a note with only one taking of breath through eleven boring measures (picture your humble recapper on his Eames-inspired couch counting "one-two-three-four" eleven times while she wails on and on, and then bitch), but dude: it's the Betty Crocker Lament. You know? All the judges' comments are appropriate and awesome (even Simon seems to criticize, but really just talks clothes), but the song is about how she'll never quite bake the same way. Even my Ryan mentions how the song is retarded, but she's very, very Carrie, and so very, very perfect. Whatever. The end. Chaka Khan!
Scott Savol tells us the "'70s ain't his thing" and "choreography" isn't his thing, and I am at a loss as to what his "thing" actually is, because it seems to be "faking America right the fuck out." He sings a perfunctory "Everlasting Love," one of my favorite songs of the era, and the awesomeness of the song totally overpowers the cruddy vocals, as it does every song tonight. There are some nice runs during the part at the end -- I cannot deny that he rules them -- but the first two-thirds really were just paychecking. Randy loves it, Paula gives him "props" and notes he's on pitch for once in a while, and then Simon (talking over some bullshit from Scott) decides that he's not so much special. Then Fake Jesus and Scott tell a really, really long, slow, stupid story about how his mom told him to sing it. Just like he did two weeks ago! Woo! Chaka Khan! Ha!
A-Fed sings, like, the worst song I've ever heard, "Don't Take Away The Music" (1976, The Tavares: who? Exactly!), weirdly considering how normally he sings my favorite songs in the whole world, but the eyelashes and the boringness of this songâ¦I don't know. He's all with some very active and confusing hips, and his voice sounds good, butâ¦even with the judges (except Simon) giving him the love, I keep thinking about Rob Thomas (the music one, not the awesome one): I never wanted to think about your crotch, I've spent my adult life not doing just that, and now you're pushing the issue. The judges pretend it's a huge comeback, except for Simon who calls it "insipid," and then Ryan tells him he's "Burning. It. Up." Chaka Khan!
Vonzell sings "I'm Every Woman," and she's adorable and again sings the most recognizable song of the night while being adorable, and again is praised for it, and for good reason: we're going for votes here. The judges unanimously adore her and call it her best performance ever, again; even Simon admits it's probably the most difficult song one might sing tonight. Every commercial bumper, I think, features her. Chaka Khan!
Anwar sings "September" (1978, Earth, Wind and Fire), after coming out during his pre-song package. You would recognize this song? But only if you heard it, and thus, he is going home this week. Honestly the background singers are not helping this week, because it's disco -- sorry, "'70s dance" -- and he does well; the judges like it, but not so much as to earn him votes, and then a million years of the whole Ryan/Anwar thing. Also, I would like to be the first to say goodbye, and congratulations, to Anwar. Chaka Khan!
Bo sings "Vehicle," by the Ides of March, after an interminable interview about just how much he can't dance, ugh, and then spends the time in the wrong key for his voice. But you know, it's great -- the hair is distractingly unhealthy, but fucking hygiene has never been rock and roll, I guess -- and again, the perfect song for him, which is nice to see. The cameras and lights are epileptically intense, cutting three thousand times more than any other singer, often to things that don't make sense: heads, the top of heads. Luckily he's hot this week, smiles not like an freak, and the judges flip out about the awesomeness. Even Simon calls this the only authentically good performance of the night. It was good, yes. Maybe a bit too authentic, but yeah. Whoa-oh-oh-ooooh, Chaka Khan!
Review: Constantine with the face/intense eye makeup/chin/general Robert Smith bullshit, Carrie's hips/virgin mermaid dress/singing a song about a cake, Scott phoning in my favorite song of the night poorly (Go Scott!), Anthony begging to be sent home before Anwar while singing the one song I like in a clear and pretty tone, Vonzell ha!-ing and adorable-ing a song everybody knows, Anwar moving around being weird, and Bo being the American Idol Red Herring Superstar.
Wednesday
Even though we're live in April 2005, Ryan makes a "just not that into you" joke. How sad. Déjà vu. (Also, Paula's not on drugs, you guys, she was in a plane crash and now has a complex and very rare disorder where she feels massive pain all the time, but her medication makes her act drunk, so she doesn't take the medicine, so she feels pain all the time, but there's this new medication that took away her pain, and it's this lack of pain that causes her to act insane all the time. And how can you be so mean and small-spirited as to judge for something like that? What are you, a monster?)
Bo lamely and fakely introduces a really long, boring segment about Ryan getting his Hollywood star. This is made up of 35% ugly Brit producers talking about how great he is, 60% little clips of him being funny and/or embarrassing, and 5% Ryan looking sad and betrayed as they show him practicing "laissez les bon temps roulez" and forgetting the name of Shirley Bassey as a boy. Ryan on a farm, Ryan in a compromising position with a flamingo, Ryan hanging from a giraffe, Ryan giggling. Ugh, how awful for him. And Bo. And me.
Ryan, roasted and owned and made very self-conscious, introduces a song written for them by John Farrar ("Magic"! "Suddenly"! "You're The One That I Want"! "Hopelessly Devoted To You"! Xanadu is the coolest!) where they all play instruments. There's a set of air quotes in there somewhere, but I'm not sure where, because Carrie's playing lots of chords and we already know that Anwar plays the piano and Bo's so legit it almost hurts to look at him. Scott and Anwar sound fucking awful together. I don't mind this song. If only I could buy this, I would totally be benefiting the American Red Cross right now. Too bad, suckers. Constantine sounds better than A-Fed, but Carrie wins because she doesn't just constantly track the camera like a whore. Anthony has no idea what the words to this song are, and it's awesome. Anwar sounds like he's being pinched. Constantine isâ¦ridiculous.
Now the pimpomercial, and they're singing "Rock This Town," which I hate, and OH GOD. OH GOD! What the hell is this? They're all Stray Cats-y and period and they all have DAs and they're stuck in a Steve Madden ad. Oh God, this is so horrible! Oh man. They look like Bratz! I don't want to talk about it. Awful. Constantine is gross.
I have never seen anything like that. My tummy hurts. Anyway, here's how it went down last night: Anwar threw caution to the wind, but not really, and so he will be going home. Carrie left a cake out in the costume party. Constantine looked like a pervert, Scott is just not bad enough yet, and Anthony was awesome and a little insipid. Vonzell was fabulous and rewrites the rules. And of course Bo was awesome. Another whole week of Scott! Yay!
Vonzell goes to the left side of the stage, because they're doing the George Huff thing from last year. So who's the special one who'll have to pick? Bo. I bet it's Bo. Anthony is on the right half of the stage. Anwar -- will be on the side with Anthony, of course. And Constantine with Vonzell and Carrie. This is retarded. We already know all this. This is like having a conversation with Scott Savol. We even have to take a commercial break, that's how long this crap is going to take. How will this fall out? I do hope Bo chooses correctlyâ¦or ooh, doesn't choose at all! How decent!
Carrie, you'll be in the final four in May. Scott, you're a hideous mess and will be in the bottom three until you go home. He prays during this part even though there's no reason. The crowd goes wild as they realize that just leaves Bo, and he's so frigging special and magical and we're so glad he's safe, and he will get Huffed. Someone in the crowd screams something very obscene. Ryan asks him to join the group he thinks is on top this week. Bo strides out without another thought and stands in the middle of the two groups. There are shots of the crowd going insane like they are at wrestling, so that we know this was not only a brave, brilliant, and good-hearted thing for him to do, but also aggressively American of him. Thirty-two million people on their couches turn to the person to their left and remark, "That Bo. He's a good guy." Just like they wanted us to. This is gross. Even Ryan's like, "Yeah, somehow I thought you might do that." Yes, Bo, you're above it. You're just too good for this show and its manipulations.
So why the fuck are you here? Why get it on you?
When a show goes meta like this, it doesn't bode well. It stinks of desperation. The Bo thing is less about being the American Idol and more about the experience of being on American Idol. It's a particularly Hallmark kind of nasty and it bugs me, because as calculated as Bo is, he's still actually much better than this. I wonder if this happened to him all at once, or if it was just too many compromises one after the other?
Back from commercial, Constantine makes kissy faces and Ryan explains to us what we saw before the break: that Bo stood here in the middle and refused to take sides. In case you missed it or something. Now the bottom three: Scott, A-Fed, Anwar. Scott just wasn't bad enough to compete with Anwar's boringness this week, so he and Anthony are summarily sent back with the others because Anwar's going home, to utterly no one's surprise. There's Video Journey of Anwar being lovely and boring in a variety of outfits and talking endlessly of how he wants to bake us a cake full of rainbows and sunshine and then his sing-out gets cut, but at least this week it's not because of something as gross as Scott, just because Ryan had to hump a flamingo.
Oh, man. I meant to tell you this a couple of weeks ago, but The Princess Diaries II: A Royal Engagement is maybe the worst movie I've ever seen. EVER. I say this because they're replaying the Kelly SNL this weekend, and I know she's going to sing that song, and I think that song is lovely passable pop, and that, combined with the fact that The Princess Diaries is one of the coolest movies ever, lulled me into a false sense of safety that was rudely ripped away from me when I finally saw the sequel. Scared me so bad I can't see the Sandra Bullock sequel to which we lovingly and secretively refer as M.C. Deuce. Like, ever. On the other hand, The Amityville Horror is utterly frightening, and includes a disconcerting/distracting amount of half-naked Billy from Fifteen to really be what's properly called a "horror" movie, so it's unsettling on like every level, because of the complexity and contradictory input you get watching it. This whole mixed-up fight/flight/get phone number impulse, which pretty much covers the spectrum of that which we, as mammals, are capable, so it's overwhelming. Lauren Vaughn is, additionally, hot as hell, which is a total shocker, because I was pretty sure she needed to shut up.
Tuesday Afternoon Bonus Recap
Dr. Phil and his confusing son take on cyber-bullying, which is a new kind of bullying where you suck so bad that even if you don't leave the house, they still bully you by sending you mean emails, and this is the problem. Thanks, technology. The issue is not, apparently, that you let it get to you -- like a TWoP staffer would know anything about getting mean emails every day -- but that these people are sending you mean emails. That's it. I don't think this is a problem that can be so much solved, without letting Rumsfeld all up in my inbox, other than pointing out to the kids involved that it's dumb to care about some bullshit poorly-spelled illiterate email that arrives in dork-speak. (Ooh, ::ph34r::) Or a gaywad mean online journal that you go looking for so you can feel bad and victimized. Or, um, alternately, awesome about yourself, because those people are idiots. Because by the same token and to the same degree, all the spam emails that imply my genitalia are either wrongly-sized or inoperable are a hate crime. When in fact, they're just wrong: you're probably not completely sucky. Get a junk filter, because the problem isn't mean email, the problem is that you care, and that's something we can deal with.
Dr. Phil HATES cyber-bullies. And even though his son was clearly a bully back in the day -- and Dr. Phil? Not a really, really thick line there either -- they team up to yell at kids who have been cyber-bullied and yell them into not getting bullied anymore. That part was boring, and also, the victims of the bullying seem to kind of beg to be cyber-bullied, so I kind of am. It pisses me off that it hurts these kids so much, but what pisses me off is not that the people are being assholes, necessarily, but that we haven't given these kids the tools or the strength to get beyond it. Email is one step less impressive than actual paper, and sending shitty, pointless emails is like the most cowardly, ridiculous thing you can do to get someone's attention, and it's pathetic, but whatever. The kids feel bad, and I hate that, because it's possible to immunize against this without regard to any outside agency, like the bullies themselves.
And that's where Clay Aiken comes in, not unlike a Superman. Phil rounds up all the extant cyber-victims and plays a nice little clip set about Clay Aiken and his life of being bullied and "Invisible" and Measure of a Manned. I don't think I'll freak you out when I say that it is not a huge shock to me that he was somewhat bullied before his mind-blowing rocket-ride to stardom. He's wearing very semiotic clothing: cute sport jacket, ringer color-blocked sweater, dirty jeans, and used sneakers. Dr. Phil loves his book, I mean really loves it, and then Clay talks really fast about how there's not a person who didn't hate middle school. The bottom third refers to him as "pop star who was bullied in school," and I'm a nice guy but that made me laugh. Dr. Phil's confusing child is wearing tattered bell bottoms and looks desperately uncomfortable.
Clay's a really good interpersonal speaker -- good eye contact, good reading of body language -- especially with kids, but these particular downtrodden kids seem to have just realized that, whatever Clay's strengths and talents, being onstage with him is pretty much going to cause them more cyber-bullying than they ever imagined possible. There's a distinct bad-idea-oh-my-God vibe hanging around them, and, like, their lives are hard enough. Everything he's saying is not only true but pretty insightful, but it doesn't matter. They can't even hear him because they're processing so much stuff at once. Put a kid onstage in front of a billion people and try to get through to them. Won't happen. This close to Passover I start thinking a lot about what I can do to keep the bad guys from showing up, you know? And being on daytime TV talking about how I'm desperately uncool, with Clay Aiken at my side, is just more horseradish than one maladjusted preteen can handle.
Clay Aiken is a smart guy and I like him, and he talks good game about "not caring what people think" and "being who you are." And I wish him luck with that continued undertaking. He lists all the -- frankly very excellent -- reasons that he was picked on in junior high, refers several times to "as Dr. Phil said" and smiles delightfully and points out that children don't really care to hear about that stuff, because their identities are not formed yet, so when they figure it out, it will cease to be an issue, but Clay knows it, and that it comes with time. Which: zero sum, dude. Mostly I think he's so over it that he's just like any other adult, if the kids even know who the hell he is, and if they do, I doubt they identify. It's troubling, because I know he cares and I know he really wants to communicate the whole "it's going to be okay later because being a teenager is stupid" to which every conversation always resolves down, in the end, when you're talking to a freaked-out kid. And it has the same effect, which is: none at all, because teenagers are, for good reason, the most narcissistic, self-obsessed people on the planet, and honestly, the world is actually ending when this shit happens, and we've all forgotten how to speak that language. Can't explain red to a dog, can't explain getting over it to a kid. It goes in the "good advice, has nothing to do with me" category that all adult-talk really ends up being. Mwah-mwah, Mwah-mwah-mah-mwahma-mwah. Dr. Phil and Jay have created an "anti-bullying pledge" that I'm sure will make a difference in the hideous deadly jungle of middle school politics. Thanks, Phil. Thanks, Jay. Thanks for pretty much trying, Clay. You're sweet as pie, and well-intentioned.
Tuesday Night
I wanna see Anwar and Clay do a duet of "Ebony and Ivory," because all my high school eschatology research would actually come into play at that point.
Ryan's looking kind of dissipated, but in a nice way. His hair is product-free and shorter, his pants are well-fitting. I am reminded that the aphorism for this week is "pretty gay (Brandon Flowers, Franz Ferdinand) is the new ailing (Julian Casablancas, Jack White)." Tonight, he tells us, we will "play music mogul," kind of like that game where you build a thrill-ride park, and calls this "Club Idol." Ouch. He blames us once again for Nadia's ouster, and reminds us that Bo (huge freaked-out cheering) and Scott (a "woo!" here and there) were endangered last week.
Last fake week, the kids are weirded out and Anthony looks like a house boy. The "theme" is "'70s Dance Music," which is -- again -- not a thing, and Constantine with his stupid ponytail says, "Let's boogie!" and Scott says something like, "You cannot attempt to harness my boogie fire," or something. Then Ryan is supremely weird in an attempt to rile the audience to scream hornily for Constantine.
Constantine introduces the Brothers Gibb's "Nights on Broadway" (1975) with a characteristically hubristic "As the whole world knows now, I was born in the '70s," and he's creepy-looking, and then he dances with a scarf on a roller rink and says "lots of glam," which kind of chills me out because if you actually just say it, I don't mind. He's wearing some terrible, terrible Velvet Goldmine (not the good one) eyeliner that makes him look like a crier, and his pants have this hideous "Sticky Fingers" zipper that goes down to his stupid knees and could not be more obvious or ridiculous or sad.
He sounds great, he does. Also, though, his hair looks diseased, and the eyeliner makes him look like a palace eunuch in a period piece. You know, like Alexander the Great movies, or Caligula or whatever, where they want to say the guy was into dudes but then there's the Hayes code, so they just have some totally weird/creepy-looking andro dude with girly hair and a smoky kohl-eyed stare in the background as the standard catamite. That's not the '70s that the BeeGees are about, technically, and that's not the '70s that I am about, categorically, but it doesn't shock me that it's the '70s that Constantine is about, because he is willfully perplexing. For her birthday one year I bought Anna a diamond tiara and a tight pink t-shirt that says "I Fucked Mick Jagger" and underneath, all blurry Sex Pistols stencil-style, is the cover of The Man Who Sold The World, and that's the story of the best birthday present I ever bought, and that's the effect we're creating here, in a nutshell. Welcome to the '70s, and I'll see you at Studio 54. I'll be the one wearing Mag Wildwood as a backpack.
For this performance, the part of Mag Wildwood will be played by Constantine's mom, who couldn't look more adorable, or more like a thin and lovely version of the mom in East of Eden. Randy calls it a "good choice" and calls him kind of Vegas. I've never been to Vegas, but yeah. He also calls the white jacket "Travolta." Paula says that everything about him in the past few weeks is "Oh My God." I agree. She calls attention to his lovely mix of rock, pop, theatricality, and something called "stage presence beyond." Simon hates the confusing sexuality stuff, but is drawn to it like a Brit to a Seacrest, so he must comment: akin to a waiter in a ghastly Spanish nightclub. To me, he looks like a day player in Wonderland. Ryan asks if everybody hates him, Constantine says something something "one big family," and Ryan digs in again, "but seriously" and Constantine laughs and reiterates that he's everybody's big brother (so scary), but please vote only for him, which Ryan mocks cutely and not without affection. He's getting to Ryan, and he's getting to me, kind of, and I hate myself, kind of. I still hate him personally, but he's pretty much awesome all of a sudden, as a performer. I mean, go ahead and pick the one BeeGees song where there's no chance of leaving like the one octave you've staked out, but whatever, it was good. In the audience there's a girl -- a pretty and normal-seeming girl, my integrity forces me to note -- holding up a sign that I swear to God says: "Constantine U Rock My World." And so my life of celibacy commences. So gross!
Carrie introduces "MacArthur Park" (here attributed to Donna Summer, 1978), with a partially true anecdote about how she, upon "discovering" the "theme" for this week, thought, "Oh man, I'm in trouble." Also, there were no dance clubs in her hometown in Oklahoma. Which is half the story, because she, um, was neither "alive" nor "clubbing" in the '70s, in Oklahoma or anywhere else, but also because what I heard -- and rumors, as you know, are always good enough for me -- is that she and possibly Bo freaked out about "Disco" as a theme, so the bailiwick was widened because she couldn't pick a song. But this song is actually disco, so I don't know, maybe she just couldn't pick, period, because this song is…not the joke that people think it is, because it doesn't take a grad-level music theory course (Anwar) to understand why this song was over and over a hit, but is certainly pretty smurfy, with a dumb Laurel Canyon pothead "metaphor" that would get you kicked out of a high school poetry elective for suckage. Her roller-rink dancing in the intro is sexy as hell, and honestly I'm getting used to her turning it on and off, and I'm starting to think she's another Jasmine Trias: not intrinsically a bad person, just weird about being onstage. Girlfriend says "cutting a rug" without irony. What do you do with that?
The lyrics are effing priceless: "Between the parted pages we were pressed / in love's hot, fevered iron / like a striped pair of pants." Okay? "I will have the things that I desire / and my passion flow/like rivers through the sky." And the main hotness: "Someone left the cake out in the rain / I don't think that I can take it / 'cause it took so long to bake it / and I'll never have that recipe again." Plus disco. Although to be fair, she leaves out all the horrible words and just sings one verse about old people playing chess and also babies and some birds. So the cake is love, and she'll never love anybody in precisely the way that she loved this person, because this person left the love out in the rain. And I guess I've felt that way, like in junior high or something, but for Christ's sake I've not told anyone, because then I'd deserve what I'd get, which is: no love. Ever. I don't want my junior high haircut either, and for basically the same reason: lots and lots of feelings. Also: Depeche Mode.
Speaking of gaybo hairstyling; Carrie's got the "bigger the hair = closer to God" working in a way that I have not seen since "Alone" -- frankly, it might be even more intense -- and this crazy, awesome JonBenet dress, and she's great, and sounds great, looks somehow great and I love her. Also there's the whole thing of the eleven-measure held note, which (and you would think this would not be at such a premium) not even clear-toned shouter Anthony could pull off. We've seen how Scott can and will mangle that every time, and Constantine and Bo of course would never try it, and how Anwar's demons of self-sabotage would drive that so far up in his nasal that he would end up singing out the top of his head, and that Vonzell would giggle in the middle. We've also seen how Nadia, who might or might not have pulled it off, and how Jessica would have made it seem like twenty measures with her proficiency, were voted off with a quickness, so I have to say I'm impressed. Because it's one thing to go "ahhhhh" for 45 beats, and another thing to make it fun and disco diva, and maybe I'm impressed because that's not natural for her, but I'm glad she practiced, because the modulation and interest of the note were flawless, and I'm not here to do vocal critique, nor am I here to be impressed by sit-up-and-beg tricks like this, and yet I was very, very pleased.
Like, all of Carrie's audience signs are in pink lettering and covered in hearts. In case you hadn't just assumed. What's awesome in the after-song part is how fucking overjoyed she is -- she knew she rocked it, and she's proud, but mostly she's just really, really happy, and she could be dumb as shit and I'm not discounting that possibility, but real joy and happiness does something to me. Even Constantine, when he's happy or proud of what he's done to the degree that he forgets to do the one hundred and one fucking things that make me sick, is beautiful to me. Randy has almost the same look on his face, too, and I imagine if I were in that audience I'd be freaking out too. My friend Andrea and her buddy Marti are going to be in the audience the 26th, so expect some validation of my assumption that the audience feels this stuff but for real. I kind of wish I were there tonight. Randy gives some unequivocated love, there are well-timed audience protestations of love, and then Paula gives it up for the unending note ("Simon turned 53 on that last note," hee!), and says that no Idol has ever balls-out held a note like that. And you know, my watching has been spotty through the years, but I believe that out of hand. Cute mohawk guy behind Paula makes eleven faces and then Simon dismisses her with a "you sang it very well" only to attack her "styling" as "Barbie meets the Stepford Wives." Which, maybe I'm weird, but that's awesome.
If I were a girl and somebody said that to me, I'd be like, that's exactly what I was going for. In fact, I went to a friend's party once and the getting-ready pictures got my ensemble called "frat boy meets zombie- and/or junkie-fighting sleeper agent," and I said, that's what I was going for, but said it wrong, and the person who threw the party heard this and we haven't spoken since, and that's horrible, because my response was worded in such a way that it seemed I was calling her party a collection of junkies and zombies, when really they were just industry and scared the hell out of me -- I'm fragile -- so I ended up drinking a bomb and getting carted home and feeling shit about it. Ryan bugs Simon about his personal styling, and in a very ham-fisted way, and then he and Carrie joke about the sucky metaphor in a way that makes them both look dumb even though they're funny and cool -- it's about a cake, y'all -- and then Ryan accidentally Paulas that Carrie has "the cheese factor," and immediately corrects himself in such a way that it calls attention to this, which is painful and quite Paula of him, once again, because it makes you think about things you weren't thinking about before.
Scott Savol actually cracks an actual smile as he roller-rink dances, and it's actually not horrible, and he talks about how the '70s aren't actually "his thing," mostly because of the clothes and the dancing. And his ignorance, because if you think "'70s dance," as a thing, you think BeeGees and some non-Scott bullshit, but if you think "'70s" plus "dance," the book is essentially open for you, because hello, Motown is where you live, in your heart. He picked the excellent "Everlasting Love," by Carl Carlton, after what I'm sure was a bunch of soul-searching, and of course that's the perfect song for him to sing. And then he sings it with some kind of…you know when you're driving, and there are people in the road, trying to cross the road, and the arms are moving and the feet are going all Snagglepuss, but they're not moving all that quickly? And you realize they're giving the illusion of intensity, of hustle, but in fact there is no hustle? Until we get to the register change halfway through, that's what's going on here. A lot of "I'm trying" without a whole lot of trying. And he's not bad, in either half, and I'm trying not to let my revulsion get the better of me, so I must say that this was a good choice, and he did it pretty well. He's plateaued and maybe slightly redeemed on the whole degeneration of his vocals thing I've been thinking about every week. But he's still not the fucking American Idol, and he never will be.
The question on everybody's lips is "Why?" And all I can say, that hasn't been said a million times before, is that we who are on the internet regularly make assumptions. And one of those assumptions is that everybody in the country is on the internet regularly, just like us. Gossip, news about baby-mama drama, who's dating who, what did fucking Corey Clark do this week -- it's easy to assume that everybody is conversant with these things. That everybody not only has access to the internet, but loves/hates/whatevers this show so very much that they seek out the extra information, and use it to make decisions, and it's hard to remember that this simply isn't the case. There's a large part of the real America that couldn't care less about the internet, which means that their information is coming from other sources, sources of which we make use and to which we think there's an equal amount of attention paid: newspapers, TV news, traditional media. And I defy you to tell me who's going to make money on talking about it: are FOX news (which airs one half to one hour after this show), or the local Cleveland paper, going to get higher ratings or sell more papers if they talk shit about the very product that funds them? Hell no.
Meaning that there's no reason to waste airtime on Scott Savol's dirty laundry. Which means that there are massive numbers of our American brothers and sisters who watch this show in a bubble created by the show itself. Imagine getting all of your information from just the show itself and from the FOX "exclusives" aired after the show. If the show reveals to us over the weeks that Constantine is less a rocker and more a metro theatre kid, then we will discover gradually that this is the case. If the show declines to reveal that Nadia has a five-year-old daughter, because that's too Fantasia, then we won't find out about it in traditional media. And if the show tells us that Scott is an underdog who never got recognized for his glorious voice, even within his own personal family, and had to work at pizza joints to support his dream, and has been given the no-holds-barred chance of a lifetime, and is a loving and caring baby daddy who never would hurt a fly, why would we question it?
As much as I hate him, I think it's kind of arrogant to assume that the people who support him are assholes, because if you play by the no-internet rule, you can see how he's still the underdog and desperately in need of confirmation, validation, love, and success. Especially if you have a grudge against TV and the media for ignoring you in the first place. There's no downside, just a chance to strike one for the proletariat. Makes sense, there are no bad guys, and we are each free to hate him or not as we will. It's not a moral issue, for pete's sake, it's an information flow issue, a lost-in-translation issue, and to criticize people's intelligence or other virtues for what's merely a delay in technology sprawl is really not cool. Who's voting for him? People who don't know, or don't care, about the whole story. And I'm not up to the challenge of hating them for it, because there are more of them than there are of the other, and I would rather understand and love my country the way it is, and try to change what I can in my daily life, than pointlessly bitch about the way I wish it were.
Randy has no problems with it, Paula bares her teeth and once again "gives Scotty his props," and notes that he was on pitch, and that Simon was snapping to the song. Simon doesn't talk, Scott acts like a jag-off, and Paula waves her hands around. Simon calls him an "ordinary guy who is doing quite well," and Scott acts like a dick some more, but vastly less blatantly than in circumstances. Ryan goads him into talking back, but Scott screws this nicely by thanking him for his comments and invoking Fake Jesus. Ryan translates this to "I can't stand you," and then goes for the hat trick by asking if Scott had a panic attack about this week's "theme." Scott makes some awful faces and then talks about his mother, wishing her happy birthday, and then talks really, really slowly and stupidly and does an impression of his mother that is neither cute nor compelling, blows me a kiss, and is disgusting.
Ryan calls Anthony's dancing "unholy," for the bumper to commercial, but "unholy" is not so much the word I'd use. Although "unholy" is not entirely unrelated to the way it makes me feel, which is best described as "once again kind of nervous w/r/t A-Fed as adult male human being." I can't shake the feeling that I'm a bad, bad man, especially when he seems to be making it difficult on purpose.
Alex Trebek is in the audience. Why? Ryan talks to him. Why? Anthony Federov. Why?
Then there is some more dancing. I don't know if it is good, but it's very…you know Good Will Hunting? The one part where Matt Damon is trying to freak out each of his successive psychotherapists? You know what I mean. This is pretty much a dramatic reenactment of one of those scenes, as expressed through interpretive dance, and it's very…interpretive. There are hips. I joke about this every week, but not anymore. Never again. Um, on to the song. The song is "Don't Take Away The Music," by Tavares, and it's awful, but he's very good and very A-Fed. This is an okay song to listen to, and it really shows off the strengths of his voice, such as they are, quite well.
The newly-darkened eyelashes make his very weird expressions very much more bizarre, and way less "How did I end up on this stage? I just woke up!" than previously, which it turns out is part of the draw. The other part is not okay. Imagine that you're hitchhiking and this trucker picks you up and before you hurl yourself bodily from the vehicle onto the pavement, he treats you to a medley of like "Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon" and "Young Girl, Get Out Of My Mind" and whatever pervy shit you can think of. Who wants to be that trucker? Gross. I always call him a sweet little pumpkin, but now I feel like Christina Ricci in Pumpkin. Not okay. Like the fucking Molfettas weren't enough for one season? I gotta go to the creepy black bug room again? And for this hack? (For this particular meltdown, I blame the 24-hour Michael Jackson trial coverage. Like how I almost convinced myself that I shot Bonny Lee Bakley. I'm suggestible.)
What. Ever. Perfunctorily: Randy mentions that A-Fed is this close to leaving every second of the day, Paula in fact is that trucker, as we already knew, and Simon is discomfited to the same degree that I am, and talks about nothing -- Paula yells, "Take it!" for which I want to slap her -- and then calls A-Fed "a little insipid." Ryan, ever one to jump on the creepy train with a loud choo-choo, repeats that A-Fed will indeed "take it," asks him for some more dance moves, and refers to all of this as "Burning. It. Up." He blatantly asks him if he's as shocked as everybody else that he continues to be on this show, and Anthony says he feels like he's finally starting to "click with" himself, and finally feels relaxed. And it shows and I hope it brings him success. Anthony dances around during the phone numbers, Ryan whispers to him to stop dancing, dude, and then orders him to show us his "Latin dance" again. Ugh. No more. Vonzell, in conjunction with the awesome dancing Nike kid, are the Calgon that takes us away from all of this troubling mixed-messaging.
Vonzell, quite simply, will be singing "I'm Every Woman," of Chaka Khan (1978) fame. I don't know what to say beyond that. Either she'll be doing this, or it'll be a bloodbath, and it's Vonzell, so my money's on her. She dances like a goofy, adorable, fabulous fool and I love it. As far as the singing, she's in command of the one hundred things you have to handle in order to get this song done without looking like an idiot. The backup singers multiply by a hundred, but she doesn't really need them. The crowd goes wild because, again this week, Vonzell's making the excellent choice of singing a song they in all likelihood heard within the last 24 hours, and doing it well. Her voice is perfectly clear, and she uses the mic and backups to cover her weaker notes, and it's basically completely professional and wonderful to watch. And I say this as a person who could not be less interested in this song. But she's kind of surpassed her usual adorable self and become excellent and watchable, in addition to the expected lovely and likeable. How nice for her. I'm happy.
Bo introduces his song with some horrible dancing, because he's that legit, and calls his dancing "horrendous, terrible and dreadful," because he's just that legit. Then he sings the song and it is freak-out awesome. Tomorrow there will be hate and cynicism, but tonight I will freak the hell out because that's how awesome this is. I don't know that I have seen anything this hot…I can't think of a thing. The G4 Cube was slightly less hot than this. Maybe this is as hot as it gets. In terms of singing onstage. Nadia, yeah. I haven't seen anything this hot since "Try A Little Tenderness." Jeez. I don't know what else to say. Anthony criminal suit who? "Shut up, 'I'm not much of a dancer' asshole" what? Every second is real and awesome and it's like we're not even here because he's so into it, and so very into each and every one of us. Makes me light-headed. Excellent, excellent job. That thing happens where when the camera cuts to the band for one-third of a second and you get anxious, like, "But what's Bo up to?" If you checked his jacket you just might find two tickets to Paradise. Or my misplaced interest in this show.
Randy speaks as a producer and pronounces it a perfect, recordable performance, "right on the money." Paula talks a bunch of shit that makes no sense and seems to be encouraging, but does not build on what Randy said so it's anticlimactic. Simon speaks the truth, again, about how the last few weeks have sucked but that this was simply the authentically best thing that happened this week (or honestly, in a while).
Review: Constantine, remember him? Not me. Eyeliner and voice going in and out. Barbie Stepford singing all awesome. Scott taking it down a notch, even though he's singing the most exciting song. Anthony singing very much like Anthony and me not looking at the screen. Vonzell rocking out and being fantastic and singing a song you should not sing but doing it awesomely. Anwar totally going home and dancing his little heart out and being pretty inviting. Bo erasing your memory of other people being on this show or that it is a show with the intended purpose of us hearing songs and then voting on the songs we like and making us just go "Bo Bice. Bo Bice. Bo Bice. Bo Bice" over and over about nineteen times before we realized that it sounds ridiculous after two times, like if you say the word "ballerina" over and over. Ryan asks politely and word-for-word if Simon will verbally abuse him, and Simon complies even though his heart isn't in it, and Ryan acts flirty and hurt, and I'm done with that, so I'll just say that this was about the best thing I've seen so far. And with such a terrible, faked-up "theme"!
Thursday Bonus Recap
What can I say? Big week. Entertainment Tonight is not a show I watch regularly (see above rant re: who needs entertainment shows when there's the internet?), but when you tell me that horrible Cojocaru got a kidney transplant, and that the entire world has now noticed that Paula is acting like fucking Liza Minnelli times one thousand every time she's on camera, but has an explanation, I'm there. Mary Hart has some cute curly hair, some guy named Mark has been carved out of wax to tell us what's up in Hollywood, and Paula is on the cover of People.
Paula wants us to know that she's "never ever been addicted to anything, no chemical dependency, nothing. Nothing for recreational purposes, and nothing even for drug purposes for my injuries." How fun. Mary Hart mentions "mean-spirited rumors" and I feel bad because I'm not a doctor, I just call 'em like I see 'em, but I would never assume that Paula Abdul cares what I think. Plus, I talk way more about how awesome "Vibeology" is than about what a crackhead she seems to be, so you'd think she'd take that into account, so I guess she probably she doesn't know who I am. Mary Hart, I couldn't care less. She's a creature of the night. But Paula, I want her to be happy and pain-free. Which she apparently has not been for twenty-five years. Show me a Jacob with chronic pain for twenty-five minutes and I'll show you a Jacob so insanely drugged-up I'd be doing the show nestled in Simon Cowell's arms while wearing a beer hat full of wicked expensive vodka. Well, one implies the other, I guess.
She blames her "wild behavior on the show," and the fact that she doesn't make sense with her "constructive criticism," which caused people to "get ugly" with their "lies." Turns out that she has reflex sympathetic dystrophy, which causes "unexplained pain," and many, many injuries, starting with a cheerleading accident at 17. And she has never told anyone, not even Ryan (who Mary mentions specifically, along with the other judges). Then she and Mary jointly and slurringly explain that she left her career as a choreographer and "a number one pop star" at the "height of her career," and disappeared for years, and nobody knew what happened to her. These things included a car accident, a plane crash, and "hitting rock bottom." Lord. What about the fact that I'm the only person who owns Spellbound, or ever has?
Now "from Stage 28," whatever that means, there's Paula looking excellent and wonderful and telling us about how there was a "series of multiple [sic] car accidents that where I was hit, an unfortunate plane crash…something going on in my neck" and basically for most of my own personal lifespan somehow was fated to be a one-woman branch on the Kennedy family tree, w/r/t ill-fated vehicular mishaps. She hit rock bottom after having had a billion [twelve] surgeries -- and they all went wrong too -- and then prayer brought her American Idol. The whole time she would shiver and have seizures in the makeup room and didn't sleep more than two hours a night. Mary Hart, something has happened to your face. I don't know what. Last year, Paula met a doctor who took away all her pain, miraculously. So miraculously that there is no longer a point in having more surgery in her lifetime, and she is working on an album. Mary caps the interview by saying the immortal "I'm horrified, but also glad to hear it." Journalism. That made no sense. None of that made any sense.
Paula reiterates her miraculous lack of pain. All I have are questions, a secular lack of actual information, because I don't know what her doctor did, but her pain is gone, so we'll I guess talk about that on some ET episode later that I won't be watching, because that was some content-free agenda-pushing ass-licking and I don't care enough. Although Ryan Phillippe will be coming clean about something tomorrow and I have no idea what and I'm really interested for some reason but no, there's no Giuliana DePandi with her horribleness to help me kick the habit once I get started, so no. The internet will tell me. Just say no to Entertainment Tonight, because it's just more of the same.
Wednesday
Lineup: Constantine still making the creepy Phantom of the Studio face he does every week, Anwar fakely grinning twice as widely as normal. Ryan's back in his Braithwaites "Not A Rock Star" shirt and a jacket, and he says that tonight America will again say, "I'm just not that into you." Oh, Ryan. Carrie and Scott in particular look disgusted accidentally, and Ryan asks Bo what it's like to be famous, and then Bo utterly fumbles the intro to talking about Ryan's Hollywood Walk of Fame star, and then there's a pointless and unending segment about Ryan getting his star.
About which I feel, nyeh, because, like, getting a star is not so much a symbol of achievement as bestowed by the Academy of Arts and Sciences (like I agree with those most of the time anyway), but more a symbol of the ultimate meaninglessness of fame or our existence in the universe. Mostly it's just one of those really weird Hollywood things that are hard to explain. Here in Austin there are lots of restaurants where people come when they're in town, and sometimes they autograph a glossy or a napkin, and that goes on the wall, and half of them you've never even heard of. That's what the Walk is like.
Before we commence the pearl-clutching and the freaking out about how Ryan doesn't deserve it, let's take a look: Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, Bob Barker, and Pat Sajak have stars, and they're not even people. Thomas Edison has a star, and I seem to have missed his cameo in Schindler's List. Robert Redford, Mel Gibson, Jane Fonda, and Clint Eastwood don't have stars, while Big Bird, who is fictional (although he is awesome because he shares a birthday with both Sars and yours truly), does. Gene Autry has five stars. So, is he five times as awesome as the people you've actually seen perform with your own eyes? Like for example fucking Donald Duck?
There's a long list of people, with stars, over whom I will pick Ryan Seacrest every time, in any arena, up to and including "they're both hanging over a tar pit full of sharks and those creepy dolls from Barbarella, so who you do save?" This list includes wastes of flesh Tim Allen, Antonio Banderas, Susan Lucci, Halle Berry, Britney Spears, Kevin Costner, Brooke Shields, Mary Kate & Ashley Olsen, and maybe Cindy Williams. Just because they act like it's a big deal does not mean that it is a big deal; it's just nice for him. It's like throwing him a $15,000 banquet with paparazzi and telling him he's an okay guy: Thanks for not being Rick Dees. And if I had a spare $15,000, I might just do that for him, because he's one of the few things I like about this show. So chill, please.
Ryan looks great, the producers of the show are hideous and British and boring but mostly nice, there's a stupid montage of Ryan screwing up his lines or otherwise bloopering, real-life Ryan looking bummed as there's an unending clip of him practicing his terrible French, and then there's a bunch of animal footage, because animal crap is always so funny, and you know what? As much as this footage would like to be poking fun on a spectrum of passive-aggressively mean to good-natured ribbing, it mostly just shows him as pretty professional and cool, so joke's on you. Please stop poking Ryan. It's hard enough just being him.
John Farrar wrote "Magic" and "Suddenly" from the very awesomest movie musical ever, Xanadu, and "You're The One That I Want" and "Hopelessly Devoted To You" from the third coolest musical movie ever, Grease. Even before "She's So Unusual," the Xanadu soundtrack is the first album I ever expressly requested as a gift from the fam, and I probably still remember every word of that entire movie. So thanks, John. You make roller skates cool to this day. And he's here tonight, and he wrote an enjoyable and nondescript song we'll be hearing, called "Shine."
Ryan says they're "singing and playing" it, which is a nice thing for him to say. Carrie, Bo, and Anwar are all playing instruments, and seem to be actually playing them, but who knows if we're hearing that for real? People say they monkey around, you know? Carrie and Bo sing beautifully together, playing their guitars, and Constantine takes the first of his eleven solo lines, and then A-Fed actually matches him for once -- and without crotching all over the place, I might add, although Constantine can't help himself there. Then more singing, and Constantine and A-Fed take a little duet which is hilarious because the number of words A-Fed knows, of this part of the song, is zero out of infinity, and it's so awesomely muffed that it even throws Constantine off, which: good on A-Fed. Anwar weakly follows yet another Constantine solo, forced up so high that only dogs can hear, and Scott goes for a quick run.
Carrie gets a line and Bo takes a lovely counterpoint, Vonzell gets exactly half of a line before Scott jumps in with her -- and that's all she's getting, by the way -- Constantine and Anwar sing together, then for some reason nobody sings for awhile. Oops. Constantine and Carrie sing, Scott runs some more, and they all scream their asses off. Somehow, besides Bo, obviously, and Constantine, sadly, Carrie comes off amazingly competent and relaxed. She looks very comfortable with the guitar, very adult and cool, and it occurs to me that if she would just go the singer-songwriter route, like do some Mary Chapin Carpenter or something, I'd know about her for sure, because either she would blow my head off with greatness, or make it explode with definitive sucking, but either way I'd know. In terms of message, we get that the Unquestionable Bo's "I'm just, I'm just Harold from the block" should be rubbing off on Carrie because she's also a Real Musician, Constantine is the wild card who takes chances and is super-special, and Vonzell and Scott are doomed. No alarms, no surprises.
Then the hated tones of "Rock This Town" for this week's pimpomercial, played out in a repulsive and sickening style I have not seen before, where the bodies are very tiny and the heads are very large and warped and creepy and photo-real, while everything else is cartoon, and they all seem to be having '50s hairstyles (which makes sense, given this week's theme has literally nothing to do with that), and it's disgusting to look at, and then Vonzell spills "milkshake" all over Constantine's face and he stares stupidly out at the camera and it's gross on every level, from the Bratz/Steve Madden feel to Constantine's horrible "milkshake"-covered face, which proves that it in fact can be even worse to look at, if you just put it through an Uglifying Rotoscoping Horror Machine Device. Each week a new offense, and each week I have no idea it's coming, or that these new techniques to freak me out are even being developed.
Ryan jokes about Anwar's D.A. in the pimpomercial, like that was period, and then we review how last night was so very energetic. Anwar got down on it for the first time ever, but did not pop. Carrie and her clothes were great, Constantine became Boy George, Scott and Anthony were great or else they weren't or something, Vonzell again did the impossible, and Bo is the best thing since sliced bread, but is even more American and authentic than any bread we know of. There's nothing better than Bo Bice! He's simply the best thing we have! In this world!
Vonzell is sent to one side of the stage (Sheep), Anthony is sent to the other (Goats). Anwar is a Goat, and he knows it, and so do we, Constantine is a Sheep in wolf's clothing in sheep's clothing, which we already knew, and Ryan explains for the second time how there will be groups, top and bottom, and points out that Carrie, Scott, and Bo are still undetermined. My psychic powers go, "Duh" because clearly Carrie's with Vonzell, Scott's with A-Fed, and Bo is so amazing he might be part of this to about the same extent as Ryan. The crowd screams even though they know what's going to happen. Scott beseeches Fake Jesus while simultaneously making an ugly face about Simon's continued existence (watch yourself, Cowell), because to him that kind of shit makes sense, and he's a Goat.
Then Bo is the only official safe one. And we cheer forever. Then Bo is supposed to pick which group he thinks is the top group, and someone in the audience yells at least a three-syllable expletive, and Bo -- resignedly but still smiling -- comes to stand in the middle, between the two groups. He's not choosing. That would run counter to his intense Scorpio code of ethics, not to mention his real reality that causes him to opt out of every week's theme, dance like a pud, and intentionally fuck up every scripted bullshit moment that he can. This is played akin to a really good speech on West Wing, all reaction shots and people being amazed and overcome by the cutting-through-the-bullshit and taking-of-a-stand that can change a nation.
There's a cut to the aggressively tacky people in the audience leaping to their feet to cheer his courageous and outrageous thumbing of his nose at the conventions of the show, because the show's so sleazy and Bo's so upright and amazing. And all across America, tears are shed for his beautiful, gorgeous inner light and sense of justice and sense of conviction and inability to do a friend wrong. I cannot sustain my suspension of hate under this amount of strain, you guys. HAAAATE. I am insulted by this. This angers me. Like, I think it was stupid that Jessica and Nadia were voted off, but I don't actually care because they were dumb for going on this show in the first place. But this?
There's a reason I don't watch wrestling: This is it. This is like if somebody came out from behind the stage with a metal chair and hit Bo over the head without him seeing it coming, and then the people would all jump up and start booing, and in living rooms across the nation people would jump up off the couch scattering Cheetos and Spam and yelling about what a jerk the chair guy was, when you and I know damn well that the chair didn't even fucking connect. This is Bo landing a fighter jet onstage.
Bo's somewhat disgusted, Ryan's invisibly disgusted and says a scripted "Somehow I thought you might do that," and Bo continues to smile adorably, but I'm actually cramping up at this point. It's November all over again. Good evening, America. How are you? Did you enjoy Bo landing that fighter jet? Is he your favorite now? Bo shadows Ryan talking about "after the break" and his smile has turned ugly to me because now it's coming from an "I'm special" place. There's a little Mikalah in there now.
Lots of people have said that probably Bo would have done this same thing even if it weren't obviously scripted, but I've been thinking, and first of all, I think Bo's pretty contrived on his own, and convinced of his own propaganda. And much like Ryan Seacrest, just because he acts like that every second of his life does not mean it's not contrived. I am really, really distrustful of people who so consistently play to type, which I have to assume he does, based on the little real, actual info I have. So but secondly, I have no idea what he would do, in any given circumstance, because I know shit about him other than what I've been told, by this show and by third-party media, which is not much: he's super-real, too good for this show, a seasoned and quite sexy performer, bad teeth, funny and stylish grandmother, and has been singing onstage since Don Henley was in short pants, apparently. There are worse faces to put on America, and I'd prefer him over any of the others as a representative to the world of where we stand right now, but that doesn't mean every second of laboriously setting him up like this isn't complete and total horseshit. Nor does it mean that I should ever stop expecting better.
Back from commercial, Ryan breaks it down for us again: two groups, top and bottom, he asked Bo to pick the top group. "Wisely," Ryan emphasizes, "he stood here in the middle, not taking sides." Get it, America? Do you? For him, it's like breathing. He couldn't be more pure or genuine if he had been born five seconds ago. He is asked to step over to the Sheep side, and then they are all sent back to the benches so we can check out the bottom three. All four of them give Scott a slap on the shoulder or less, on their way to hugging A-Fed and Anwar, because why bother?
Ryan asks Paula, of all people, to give an opinion. She gives lots of them but whatever, it ends up: "America Votes. Don't Know Why." Yeah. Scott and A-Fed are asked to step forward, and are then sent back too. Anwar is out. Scott hugs Anwar, and then so does A-Fed, and then we go on a Video Journey. I can't pay attention because I'm steamed. Tonight was like the opposite of the ugliness of that first controversial elimination (the Judd one), in terms of getting through it and not being cruel, but on the other hand, it was just as gross or maybe grosser, because that one was about disrespecting the contestants, while this time it was about disrespecting you and me, and assuming that we're dumb. And we're not, and that kills me, because I expect a lot, from America, because I love it.
Anwar's journey, ending tonight, was all about trust and belief in himself, turning off his brain, bringing all manner of joy and messages and hope and wonder into the lives of children everywhere, and being true to himself. And in some ways, he really is the strongest representative of that, of all of them. He was Anwar to the point that it nearly destroyed him, and then he couldn't pull up the nose in time. Well, I think that's what happened, but I'm not sure. There's also killer boringness in the mix. Carrie's making a horribly sad face. Anwar sings his song again, and Ryan and Paula are dancing along before he even starts singing, but Simon does not actually stand up, and doesn't really look at the stage, and I don't know why. It doesn't seem to bother Anwar, whose emotions always show up on his face clear as day, so maybe Simon's making a "this sucks and I love you" face or something, but if Anwar's cool, I'm okay with that. I can't really complain, other than that he shouldn't have left before Scott or Anthony, but on the other hand it's not that shocking at all and I'm not torn up about his actual leaving. I know that he will be happy and successful, and a good guy, and that is more than good enough for me. How Anwar I am all of a sudden. Seacrest out.