Theme? No. Stuff Gwen Stefani Likes And Does Not Like. Dressing Asian girls up like racist dollies, picking at random from the big bag o' music tics, having no identity or musical agenda of your own, boning entire rock bands...OMG, Gwen Stefani is American Idol! (Making Blake Return Of Saturn and Jordin the video for "Cool," the two most honestly wonderful things Gwen's ever made.) Things Gwen doesn't like: the majority of the Idols, their so-called music. LaKisha sings "Last Dance," by Donna Summer And Not Diana Ross, making Gwen Stefani "sweaty." No less LaKisha, inevitably. Sligh acts like a fuckwad some more -- Don't Speak, Sligh! -- and sings "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic," freaking Gwen out with his inability to stay on the beat and then doing the same thing to us, as well as being out of breath, forgetting lyrics, and sweatin' it like Gwen Stefani. Gina's up on Gwen's jock like a Simple Kind Of Lesbian, and she finally rocks the Pretenders! (Yay!) "I'll Stand By You." (Boo!) Sanjaya...WHAT THE FUCK IS HE DOING? Why, forgetting my second fave No Doubt song, "Bathwater," in a Nadia mohawk with a banana clip in it. Okay? He doesn't want to be here. He is begging with his hair, he is starving himself on MySpace, for you to send his weird ass home.
Gwen also hates: Haley Scarnato's three-alarm boring "True Colors," performed in the flattering apparel of her own diaper-wearing prostitute niece. Phil's creepiness abounds, fittingly, in his "Every Breath You Take," blowing off Gwen's socks and mine. Melinda continues to blossom into perfection so awesome it's retarded, and yet again there's little to say about it: "Heaven Knows," Donna Summer. Blake and Gwen meet and yet do not explode from being in the same place at the same time; he sings "Lovesong" -- the 311 one, not the Cure -- yet my pants persist in falling off and running around the room going "hubba hubba" anyway. Troublingly enough. Jordin sings "Hey Baby" and Gwen says that Jordin is better than her in every way except for being less hot. The rendition is almost a Jordin amount of good, despite her dressing like a Hollaback Chola. Chris R. steals my very confused heart once again with a George Michael-ish "Don't Speak," and then Gwen runs home to roll around in a pile of money with her hot gay husband.
Should go home: Haley; will go home: Haley; should never ever go home ever: Sanjaya forever!
"And then there were ten," Ryan says, and explains how a superstar's supplying the song list, but it's us calling the shots. He sounds very spitty and weird tonight, but he's dressed like a supernova of hip, like the missing mascot or waterboy for Franz Ferdinand. Credits...(I finally watched America's Top Model, which I haven't done in like two "cycles" since I prefer to read the recaps, but I wanted to see the girls. Man, those new credits are weird.) Back onstage, Ryan's get a question for you: Any Gwen Stefani fans here? Ryan tells us we're doing No Doubt songs and songs from artists and bands that inspire her like the Police, Donna Summer, and even the Cure. Even though it's...not the Cure that Blake will sing, but once again 311, which is like the DAUGHTRY thing all over again, and is still fucking unnecessary. But since I love DAUGHTRY and everybody on earth just one infinitesimal fraction of a percentage of how much I love Blake, it's no consolation.
I'll paraphrase while Ryan tries to sell us on Gwen as, among other things, an "actress": After trying to make ska salable for twelve years -- through New Wave, through hair metal, through grunge, everything that is opposed to ska, which will always be marginal, even if hugely so -- No Doubt finally gave in and made Tragic Kingdom, a "third-wave ska" (which is like third wave feminism -- another of Stefani's hobbies -- except it's not even legit and doesn't sound anything like waves one or two) album containing the truly brilliant "Just a Girl," bizarre and catchy-to-a-fault "Spiderwebs," and unrelenting "Don't Speak." They then created a fucking amazing album that surpasses both lyrically and musically anything they have done before or since, Return Of Saturn, which like Tragic chronicled the almost unbelievably uninteresting relationship between Gwen and a band member. It was critically -- and personally by me -- beloved, lyrically and musically sophisticated, emotionally complex, leaving us with "Simple Kind Of Life," "Bathwater," and "Magic's In The Makeup," three of the best songs crafted in the last thirty years of pop...but didn't make the cash or splash of Tragic Kingdom, so the band stepped back from being smart and threw everything popular at the moment into a blender, producing Rock Steady, which was of course wildly successful: every song has five words, which are repeated ad nauseum over a driving, droning, fake-exciting beat stolen from fifty years of reggae. Thus relieved of any kind of personality or artistic voice, the band fell apart, into a pile of money as big as all the houses of all the white people in Kingston.
Gwen recorded Love. Angel. Music. Baby. in 2004, producing the Rock Steady-esque and similarly soulless "Hollaback Girl," and sixteen songs about how awesome it is to be rich and collect small Asian girls. It also contained "Cool," which not only resulted in an astoundingly rich video, but is also the closest musically and lyrically to Gwen's work on Return Of Saturn -- and which as a result is one of the least-known songs she's produced, despite being possibly the best. She also created a fashion line, L.A.M.B., which is made up of the letters of her album and of the new names she gave her racist Asian dollies: Love, Angel, Music and Baby. I mean, they didn't even get to keep their names. Her second album, which I didn't even know existed until today, is called The Sweet Escape, and from what I can tell is just a rehash of the brainless production porn that characterized Rock Steady. All the singles sound the same and are about how awesome it is to be rich and collect small Asian girls. Somewhere in there she collaborated on three of the most boring songs in the universe: "South Side" with Moby, "Let Me Blow Ya Mind" with Eve, and some song I hate sight unseen with Sublime. Mihi Ahn, Salon.com: "She's swallowed a subversive youth culture in Japan and barfed up another image of submissive giggling Asian women." Margaret Cho calls it a "minstrel show." I just call it deeply uncreative: You don't have to have magic fashion icon powers to see Harajuku coming. If you've read a fucking magazine or been to a store in the last ten years you can see Harajuku coming. It's fucking Japan, they didn't just start influencing global culture five seconds ago.
Here's what I think. I think she's from a mashup future and that's obviously where we're headed: I only like "Hella Good" in remixes with other songs, and I think she knows what she's doing. It just seems like the easiest way to go with this, which makes me sad, because she is being prescient, but not in a trend-setting way. You can't build on what she's doing because it's already as far as it can go. Like how there was a point called 1990 where things were either going to go hi-tech/high-concept like Tribe Called Quest, Jane Child, Sex Packets, love of technology and sound for its own sake, actual blending and musical invention; or into hardcore rap where the tech was beside the point so you could "keep it real" with your new toys, and talk about how hard it is in the ghetto. And now we've gotten here: the Neptunes can fucking add the same five sounds to everybody's track and make it sound genius, and we're not changing or growing or moving but just eating our own crumbs like some kind of ouroboric barf-eating monster, and we got Sean Combs just waiting for people to die or go into debt so he can bite off them massively with no thought behind it at all, Madonna eating her own barf, J. Lo eating the barf of whoever she meets and going into the studio for an hour every couple of years to sing over other people's tracks, poorly. That's not post-modern, it's post-art, and it's beside the point. I'm convinced that's why cyberpunk never actually happened and Jane Child moved to Tokyo and got even weirder, and why only like Outkast and Danger Doom/Gnarls Barkley and like five other people are interesting out of a billion-dollar industry; but I do honestly think there was a tipping point, and I think we're seeing the same thing here, and unless Gwen gets fucking real about it in the year or so, she's setting the tone for the ten years of girly-pop, which sucks because she's smart and obviously loves this stuff as much as I do, and as much as the real tech-heads do, but she's going to force them underground and leave us stuck with fucking Nelly Furtado, who has even less of a musical voice or identity than No Doubt at their worst, unless Gwen goes seriously Yoko on herself and starts inventing new sounds and new kinds of music, because she's hitting the LCD here and she's been coasting since Saturn and I want her baby to get older so she can fucking freak out on her art again, because it's been almost ten years already. And that's what I think.
Is this where I giggle cutely and go "YMMV!! "? Consider it done. After two Grammies, fifty thousand nominations, $28 million in sales, Gwen ran out of guys in the band to break open like piñatas, and went solo. She's sold eight million albums already and the label (awesome) is doing really well. She's about to launch her first world tour and named her first child "Kingston." She explains that her favorite artists aren't really usually known for their "big voices," which makes sense, because if the world is made of Blakes and Jordins, she and I are both Blakes, and when she meets the Idols all she can say is variations on "Are you shitting it? Are you totally freaked out? You must be really nervous!" Without the lipstick but still with the makeup, she interviews a bit. She's...so fucking beautiful. My God, this girl. I used to think she was scary looking, like during the bondage pants and bindi-era she was scary, but I had no idea she had this time-smashingly beautiful face under all that hardness. She's one of the most beautiful people I think I've ever seen. I see what all the fuss was about. Dang.
Lakisha sings "Last Dance" to Gwen, and Gwen tells us that, post-meetup, she's "finding [herself] sweaty" and that LaKisha "really blew me up." She loves how dynamic and effective LaKisha is with her voice: going from soft and sexy and then belting it out. "I should be asking her for advice, she's amazing." As much as I love "Just A Girl," I am really glad she found a normal voice to sing. This was pre-Betty Page going worldwide with all the Rollergirl shit and the bangs all over the place and the razorblade faces, but the Betty Boop thing gave me pause, and then came swing dancing, and I admit I kind of blamed her a little bit. LaKisha looks really pretty in her funny, shiny '70s dress and boob apocalypse; her hair is still mommish, but the look really works. I have to admit I was scared of her singing disco, and wearing this Nancy Sinatra costume with the thigh-high boots I was really worried, but she does it up. She does a very good impression of hustle, like, her dancing seems really energetic while not actually being that energetic, so it doesn't impact her sound at all or wear her out. Sligh could learn so very many lessons from LaKisha. Or anybody else that is not awful inside. And the band is tearing it up! Can you imagine singing disco on that stage with the huge band blasting behind you? I would cry. I would Doolittle all over myself if I were singing on that stage with backup that powerful -- and she owns it. LaKisha: Actual Musician, Baby. Toward the end she does these cute little sexy kicks and a whimsical, ill-advised twirl. Those heels have gotta be at least four inches, no? It's great: there's a power note at the end, and a very diva hair-swooshy move. Wow, Lakisha.
Randy calls it her first "upbeat joint," and calls her a "true fly diva"; Paula -- who is dressed like Wearstler tonight, loved it. She says that "Donna Summer is hard to do," but I'm not sure I understand why that would be true. Simon congratulates her on de-aging herself thirty years in one night, and he loves the boots, just like that, as if begging them to cut to Ryan. He thanks her for the big note at the end and welcomes back the LaKisha from three or four weeks ago: "Great vocal." Ryan's got the cutest suit on! He shows us her friends from the bank, and they cheer and are cute, and Ryan keeps with the spittiness as he gives the number. "Let's hear it for Lakisha one more time! And the boots!" he shouts. Out to commercial, Sligh and Gina act like fools.
Sligh's sitting in the red room with the most awful smirk, giving obnoxious little bows to the camera and telling viewer Barbara from Nevada, in response to her question, that they don't get a lot of downtime, but that he spends it "knitting, crocheting, and playing the bongos in his boxers." Ryan's grossed out. Don't Speak, Sligh. I know just what you're thinking. Lame-Assed Monster Butthole. Sligh admits that he mostly rests and tries not to get sick, because they're working constantly, seven days a week. "It's a lotta fun, but tiring." So his answer is that he has no downtime, but sleeps a lot. This is some fascinating shit right here.
"Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic," speaking of people who thought they could get away with pretending to be reggae, is sung woefully off the beat, which worries Gwen. She hopes for his sake that it'll be easier with the band -- we know it won't. The song starts strong -- Man, do I love this song -- and there's this hilarious echo on his hilarious muppety voice, from the first note. He does his weird hip shimmies and sings ever more egregiously through his nose, completely estranged from the beat of the song in every way. He starts marching around the stage with the mic stand, but it's like he's the IT guy going to a meeting down the hall with Camera Three. The good part, will it be good? No, it will not. He bounces around and huffs and puffs and forgets/swallows the words. This is the thing: he is an amateur. He just doesn't have the stagecraft, and even though it's something you learn, I feel like my issues with him -- arrogance, smugness, complete obliviousness to how over-his-head he actually is here -- will preclude him learning these things. He can coast on charm forever, and never understand the difference between that and actual charisma, and I think he feels like he's got nothing to learn, in that nerdy way where if you don't know there's a book about something, you know, you just have to assume you know all there is to know. And that's gross to me. I try to do my notes live, on performance night, so I don't know who's going home when I talk about it, but man. This is like watching a tacky talent contest. Wait, that's what this is!
Randy calls it a good song choice and was impressed with the couple of runs he forced in there, but the tempo issues were harsh. Sligh is wearing a surfer necklace, and his shirt is unbuttoned to here, and it's like a Bo Bice costume. Chris answers back that he had (1) never attempted to sing the song before, that it was (2) like a "Master Class in theory," blech, that he (3) picked it a day late, that he (4) tried his best, but (5) the rhythm was just too hard. So...dumb, no? Randy calls it a "trainwreck," and Paula begs him to stay "in the pocket," because when the audience wants to rock out with you, you're making yourself an "eyesore" by leading them off-beat. I couldn't agree more if you'd used actual words. Simon's like, the timing issue is advanced right now, because the bottom line is that it was a mess and Sligh sucked. "Let's assume this is the first time I ever saw or heard you," Simon says, nearly shuddering. "It was just a mess, it was all over the place." Randy agrees, and Simon goes on as the music's starting up. "This isn't the Oscars," he hisses, and Ryan giggles. "I'm not pushing the buttons...not yet!" Oh, thinks Simon, but you are. Ryan offers him ground to keep talking, even though we're live, and Simon's like, "Forget it." Ryan asks Sligh if he comprehends that he fucked up; Sligh assures him that he did not comprehend that. It's (6) a great song, but (7) the "kick" is rarely on the downbeat, which (8) most songs have, so either you (9) get that or (10) you don't, so it's kind of his "bad." Ryan laughs because that's the most logically torturous way he's ever seen anybody kiss their own ass. "Yeah, okay," he snots, and somewhere you can see in Sligh's face that he really knows how bad it was. That's kind of sad. Poor kid. At least you made it to the Top Ten for no damned reason.
Ryan laughs about how mere proximity to Gwen Stefani caused Gina to completely lose her composure, and then we see it's true: Gina cries all through the meeting with Gwen. Awww. Gwen tells her gently that her song choice, "I'll Stand By You," is perfect for her voice, and that she's been watching Gina the whole time. Which I mean, there are ways in which they're both kind of the McKibbin, so I get it. Gina's speechless and starstruck. Gwen raves to us about Gina's emotion and control and reiterates that it's the perfect song for her voice, which we've known all along.
Gina is nervous onstage, but her voice sounds great. I wasn't that impressed watching this the first time round, but I'm digging it now. I hate this song, so that factors in, but she deserves to stay this week. Also, hair update: of everybody, my hair looks most like Gina's right now, but with different colors. Which is better than Sanjaya, which is what it was like before the haircut. Gina's skirt is very un-Gina short, but she looks great. There are parts where she's a little overpowered by the band, but I don't know that that is her fault because she's belting -- I think it's a mix issue. Yeah, see there: The crowd sounds really weird in the monitor too. It's not as bad as Diana Ross week, but the engineers have some 'splaining to do. This song, while inevitable for her -- honestly, didn't you already assume she'd sung this by now? -- and thus a little let-downy, is perfectly passable and of course a great move on her part. Again, I don't like the song, so that makes me feel like it's even a bigger accomplishment. Generally Interesting, Not Authentic. Afterwards, coming downstage to the judges, the huge smile on her face is very lovely.
Randy tells Gina to "check it out," then talks about her stupid ugly boots with the giant Hot Topic crucifixes on the front, and then he gets to the point: this was one of her best performances ever. He begs her to trust her "big old voice" and make great song choices like this every week. Paula admires how she is improving each week and "coming into [her] own," which on this show means the opposite: she's actually thanking her for finally climbing into the box they handed her five weeks ago. Paula praises her vulnerability in the performance, and the way she allowed herself to "soar." She thinks this is by far the best she's done. Simon disagrees, and Gina nearly starts crying and says "Okay," softly, but it's a judo fakeout! "It wasn't one of your best performances, it was your best performance!" She is touched! The crowd goes crazy, Randy and Paula grin lovingly. Simon praises her song choice and transformation over the last few weeks. He goes so far as to call it the best of the night so far, "That's how good it was," which doesn't mean anything but kind of implies she won't be in the bottom three, since she's better than three other people. Gina thanks the audience for their support; I gotta say, I've been so bored with her I forgot I ever liked her! I missed you, girl! Ryan kicks it to commercial after a quick glimpse at the shambles of Haley and Sanjaya, who is dressed like the Loch Ness Idiot, and a quick close up on Ryan, cocking an eyebrow hugely about Sanjaya. God I love you, Ryan.
Commercial of Diana Ross being some kind of fairy godmother to a woman and the fun of shopping and consumption, people spending money and dancing in the streets; it's like watching every season of Sex & The City at once, but that's Visa: Debt Makes You Both Sexy And Rich!
Ryan pokes out of a sea of fans' faces like the beautiful thumb of an angel: "Let's see what Sanjaya has for us! Apart from the hair!" And lets. He's got a mohawk made of seven ponytails, making his highlights even more fucked-up looking, and some kind of metro Diesel-head-to-toe issues are happening, and I despair each moment that passes for his future. Imagine Sanjaya graduating, imagine Sanjaya in college, imagine Sanjaya on vacation. Each of the scenarios ends with a bashing, I can't stop it. It's like Suddenly Last Summer or The Birds or something, no matter how I try to imagine him safe. Anybody else I would care about their welfare, but its like, "Sanjaya, you are begging everyone who meets you to slap you. I can't countenance that behavior." He's going to be skewering this week "Bathwater," and he can't even get it together to sing it in front of Gwen, the originator of the song, and she has to remind him of the words like one by one. She confides in us that this song, like most things in life, will prove too difficult for him, but this is his choice and we just have to hope for the best. You can hear the echoes of this same speech being made every time Sanjaya has made a decision, back through his entire tiny life.
The performance is, to coin a phrase, B-A-N-A-N-A-S. What is he doing? It's amazing. Joe so totally called this: he's an insane person, by demons driven, and most of all he's chosen this stage for his rebellion. I mean, there's acting out, dyeing one's hair, dressing the fool, embarrassing yourself on TV, bringing shame to your family, singing songs you don't know the words to, coming out of the closet fifty times in a row...that's acting out. But to do all of these things at once, that means something. I think maybe it means you really, truly, hate your parents. Like Menendez amounts of parent-hating, is how this strikes me. Hate. Devil. Shouting. Baby. He dances to beats that he doesn't know, fucks up lyrics he doesn't get, glories in the feeling of his mohawk wobbling around on top of his crazy little head. This is an affront of the best kind. This is what the Who were trying to warn us about. My BFF Will always complains that punk has been co-opted and Green Day and blink should call themselves something else, and I keep trying to explain that this is the wonder of linguistic drift and the true punk is being cooked up in the bedrooms of people too young to think we're cool enough to hear it. On these grounds, I submit to you that Sanjaya is punk rock. He stalks the camera around the stage, wildly out of control, grinning and grimacing and choking and giggling in turns like a psychopath. He keeps screwing up the lyrics and singing about boys, trailing off, remembering to sing about girls again. All very energetically. I want to start a religion with Sanjaya at its center, and we'll wear t-shirts that say NO FUTURE. If he were singing, he would sound pretty great, but this is not singing. This is a revolution.
Randy's already laughing his ass off as Sanjaya steps downstage and looks down cockily, like, "Suck that, judges. I make a mockery of all you mean and love and thought you could trust." Randy's like, "Too weird, can't talk. You got the dawg speechless!" Randy begs him to sing pretty. Sanjaya laughs in his face. Never again. Paula calls him a pussy for not actually singing, but only screaming; he looks down on her and imagines a thousand Paulas burning in a glorious end of the world scenario, thumbs his Paula Abdul voodoo doll in his gay jeans, tosses his pony-hawk around. Simon bags on the hair, and Sanjaya says Simon's just jealous because he couldn't pull it off. Simon snarkily agrees, but underneath the whining I think Sanjaya is really just crying out for help, because nobody could, including Sanjaya. Simon levels with his nuclear-crazy ass: "Look, Sanjaya. It doesn't matter anymore what we say. I genuinely don't think it does anymore. You're in your own universe, and...if people...like you? Good luck." Down in the stands, a sign reads, "SAVE SANJAYA VOTE FOR MY PEOPLE." We only see the hands of the sign-maker, and it's fun to imagine. I keep getting this image of those dirty-faced kids from Thunderdome, or the people from the sewers in Beauty & The Beast, or the Baader-Meinhof Gruppe. The kids who made Bumfights. That lady in Austin last week that stole a police car and drove it into a fence at 130 mph then got out and ran in her handcuffs and they had to track her down with dogs. (a.k.a. my total hero for life.) Those are his people. Ryan approaches him gingerly, and Sanjaya's crazy ass explains that it's seven ponytails for good luck in his weird mohawk, and Ryan's like, "And here we are." He thanks Sanjaya for "the entertainment" and then makes seventeen more adorable faces into the camera.
Haley (?) chose one of Gwen's all-time favorite songs, "True Colors," and we all know what happened : she pissed all over it. Gwen's like aghast: "She started off really great? But then went into this other fucked-up unrelated melody which was just so unnecessary." There's footage of Gwen Stefani being appalled while Haley's singing. So awesome. In the package, Gwen begs her to tone it down, but you know she's not going to. She starts sitting on the steps with emotions, pretty voice, pointless pretty face... You know, I go back and forth. Either she's scared and the personality that comes out sometimes is just in deep sleep, or there's nothing in there. Sometimes I think we're honestly getting all there is to her, other times I think she might be the funniest one there. Lackluster. Anonymous. Micturating. Baby. She stands up for the chorus, and once again, we see, she's chosen to wear a diaper. She stands with her feet very wide apart, so you can almost see the diaper, and belts and goes all over the place, but you forget each line as the one happens. Very pretty, as usual, but totally totally boring singing. My Dad always hated this song because of how the baby-talk factor of Cyndi Lauper's voice comes out in full force. That's the first thing I think of, always: "Like a wainbow? That shit is not necessary."
Randy says it started rough -- how can he remember? -- and that it got better toward the end, but finally he gives her the dreaded a'ight. Her friends screech and wig out in their loads of makeup, and Randy throws a "pitchy" in there for good measure. Paula tells her Gwen Stefani is right and that this song requires nothing but singing and vulnerability. Paula's on this week, she's doing good. Randy wonders if it was the song choice; I think it's just that he was so bored he's going to the usual wells and wondering if they fit. Simon asks her what she thought of herself: She thinks she did well. "Oh yeah?" he asks. This'll be good. He calls her sweet but forgettable, and reminds us of the thousand other girls in the world that could do exactly what she just did. "Nothing to remember, really." He begs her to do better than that and calls her safe. Ryan is, as usual, noncommittal about her: "Good luck, okay sweetheart? You look wonderful." True enough. After the break, Phil and Melinda; Ryan can't even stop the huge grin popping out on him when he says her name. Aww!
Phil is twice as creepy as ever with the makeup on in full effect. So gross. It's like they threw everything they could at him in the green room, and it just conspired against him. He looks like a dead monster from the deeps. He looks like a motorcycle henchman that messes with the dead. A viewer asks how it feels to go from being unknown to being a household name; he explains that the FOX buffer is such that he still doesn't know, but the idea is exciting. "So what you're saying is, you're doing it for the money?" quips Ryan, and a really dreadfully long delay occurs in which Phil tries with his zombie mind to comprehend the joke. It's worrisome. Gwen talks about how he picked "Every Breath You Take" and was shocked at the vibrancy and beauty of his very-alive voice, coming as it does from a creature. He thanks her, and she thanks him right back, but warns us that he might get tricksy with the melody. I hope he does: deadpan this one and he might kill you with fear.
Anybody else -- I love his voice, but -- anybody else singing this song, it wouldn't be so exquisitely horrible to watch. But the fact is, he looks like half a drag queen. He looks like he's been discovered in an alley right before the credits on Homicide, and it's scary. I do not belong to you; not one single breath I take is for you. I rebuke you in the name of Our Lord and abjure you back to wherever you came from. Perhaps it was never an illness but simply possession by dark spirits. I can get behind that. Pervy. Hellish. Intense. Leering. He does nothing intelligent to redeem the song's punishing rhyme scheme, just phrases it like it's written, so it comes off even weirder than usual. The band sounds great, his voice sounds great, but he's being very dramatic and throwing his head back and stuff; it's disingenuous in a quasi-Constantine way, fake and a little spooky.
Randy really likes it, the crowd is wild -- neither they nor the judges have to look at him as closely as we do. Randy says it was really solid, and that he didn't push it nearly as much as he could have, with that big old voice, which was remarkable and restrained and cool. To be honest, Randy says, he "kinda liked that, Dawg." How enthusiastic Randy can be. Paula calls it a good choice and notes the personality and color in his voice, but warns that he dedicates himself overmuch to the choruses, and leaves it on the rack for the verses. See? Smart, useful and succinct. Simon liked it, surprising himself and Phil, and repeats several times that it was a good performance and proved his desire to compete. Ryan: ""Woo! You like that don't you? That's the way we roll!" Oh, is it.
Doolittle's singing "Heaven Knows," which is already unbearably adorable in concept alone. Gwen gushes about how Doolittle blew her away in their consultation, can't wait to see her tonight, and then Doolittle makes her standard face as Gwen calls her performance "really beautiful and kinda mind-blowing," tells her that her voice is "crazy," and chuckles about how she doesn't even need to wish Melinda luck. Wow. That's so awesome. I think maybe I'll never get tired of the Doolittle Scenario.
Deep low voice to start, very smooth and nice, her weird hunching, but with a gigantic Vonzell disco smile. She's so awesome, it's like...it's like she invented this show American Idol, and this is her victory lap, like for old times sake. Special Guest Star Melinda Doolittle. She works the cameras to death, emoting the entire song until you actually believe the words. She's so great to watch. I wouldn't listen to this on an mp3, necessarily, but man, I could watch her all day. She works the entire stage, making cute faces and hitting notes so hard they go cross-eyed! She's great. Randy's laughing joyfully as she wraps it up.
"Yo Melinda, Melinda." He tells her the "really so dope" part, which is that he called her a professional and that this week again, she is a total pro. He and Paula -- as Doolittle gasps for air after that powerhouse performance -- discuss at length her interpretive powers, how she lives the words of the song and is the bomb again and has charisma from the word go, how she tells a story throughout the song, from the first word, and so joyously. "You tell stories through your singing," Paula gushes. Simon agrees that the vocal was, as usual, outstanding, but this won't be her most memorable performance. He bags on the outfit -- a totally cool '70s tunic, big belt, leggings -- and Ryan's like, "You always look like you're freaked onstage, or surprised to be there." She's like, "No, that's the face I make when I rock out." He's all, "So you're getting used to it," like she didn't even just answer him, and she finally gives up and hugs herself, adorably. Simon's bored; at least she's not crying. Melinda and Ryan embrace like sisters.
Blake! And Jordin! After the break! Seen here! Now! Making adorable faces! The truly awesome and the mere appearance of awesome...I think Joe's onto something, in his classification of these two, but where he and I differ is in thinking the comparison matters. Gwen Stefani is like the perfect example: it stops mattering at some point. I would rather watch Blake sing the hits of Chamillionaire than be in a movie about shopping with Jordin Sparks. By just the tiniest margin, because that's like a real dilemma. I guess what I'm saying is that the difference between Blake and Jordin is the reason Joe R and I will never be married. Also, he hits.
Blake and Gwen. The magic in that room is nothing short of breathtaking. I want to watch a TV show called Blake 'N Gwen where they hang out and are cooler than you and make up songs like K'Nex out of other songs from the rich tapestry of music history and mistakenly think that they're allowed to ever rap. And then occasionally they would get into heated dance-offs with other awesome pairings -- Selma Blair and Michael from Top Design, Brandon Flowers (good call, Joe) and Famke Janssen, Sarah Silverman and Patrick Wolf, Mandy Moore and John Hodgman -- and at the end everybody collapses into beanbag chairs and laughs for five minutes with a disco ball and nachos and scandalous celebrity gossip. Blake Lewis, you know, always looks a bit more outstandingly excellent than he did a moment ago. I love him more today than yesterday! "I'm really excited about singing 'Lovesong' by the Cure," he DAUGHTRIES. Total lie, and he knows it. The producers had to make him say this, because we already know he loves 311 so it's not like he's hiding anything, no matter how embarrassing. "Amber is the color of her energy"? Point, set and match, okay. But please, he could dedicate this to the Manson Family and I would still think it was the best thing that ever happened. I have no cred here at all beyond the undeniable objective fact that he's the best thing that ever happened to us, as a people. Gwen warns us that he might start beatboxing, but hopes he won't. He finishes singing, and she quietly grins: "That's pretty." "Thanks," he giggles, and they blush and flirt. I almost died. I am almost dying. Too much awesome. (She's 37! She's fucking magic! She and Kylie have a secret that we must learn!)
"Oh my God," I say. Like the second he starts with that shit. He's dressed like a cat burglar from the future. He has come to steal my heart. I mean, whatever he's singing, it sounds exactly like the 311 version we've all heard -- excepting I guess the judges, or so they'd have you believe -- with that funny liquid curve on the consonants we've come to know, and it goes on forever, yet not long enough. Remember this song, though? Speaking of Jane Child, actually. Man, that was a good year. Everybody finally figured out about the Cure, and Depeche Mode, and Sinéad, and all the kids with the fucked up haircuts were like, "Shit, now what?" But also pleased that people finally knew where they'd been coming from all this time, and were no longer crazy, but instead they were the future. So many "alternative" kids got much-needed validation that year, and watching it change around you was like the greatest thing. It was total social anarchy, which is good, because the bottom people with the all-black and the streaks were suddenly on top, and the previously top people -- two strains: INXS and NKOTB -- had to think fast. Then came grunge and everybody fell in the same gross hole. But for a while it was like Siouxsie was right and you could actually dance like that without getting the shit knocked out of you.
Randy is weird about the song choice, "but guess what?" He made the most of it. "You got that tender thing, you left it in that tender spot, dawg." Ah, Blake. My dear Blake Lewis, I gotta 'tender spot' where you could keep it...
Our suite, in Barcelona, where we will eat truffles in bed. We will drink Diet Coke from glass bottles, and the floor is hot lava! But don't be afraid, Blake Lewis! For it is only imaginary. Look in the corner: a small basketball hoop. We won't read the newspapers or turn on the TV, because we will be too busy playing checkers by candlelight. In the park, we'll watch old men feeding the pigeons, and we in turn will feed the old men: club -- no, monte cristo sandwiches, for that is how tender this spot is. I will buy you a blue scarf, you will buy me a white calla lily. We will steal a helicopter, and throw microwave ovens down on the Taco Bell. We will run for the Italian Senate, and we will win despite our histories, for Italy is tender too: They call it "hospitaliano." I will play Guitar Hero for you, on the very hardest setting, and you can sing along. Our vocal entendres and jewel heists will be the toast of the art world. We will bring to the homeless the most delicate, flaky croissants and darkest, stankest espresso: everyone deserves a piece of our tender love. We will ramble across the fields of Europe, gathering nuts and berries; if times get hard, we can paint our faces and beatbox for our bread, in the piazza. Your taste in dogs will run to the small and yippy, but I won't mind: our rescued greyhound "Hudson" is always a perfect gentleman. Our ethnically diverse passel of children will be the envy of all movie stars. We will go to Iceland, where I will keep you warm, and when our robot masters finally ascend to their rightful place, you and I will activate our jetpacks, and retire to our secret base on the moon, which we built knowing that this moment would one day come. Love Always, My Blake.
Um, so Randy liked it, but it wasn't his fave; Paula loves how 311 rearranged the original, which she has also never heard. "So original!" She thanks him once again, and rightfully, for making this competition hip and cool and contemporary, and lobs the "dark horse" grenade out onto the stage, finally. Simon can't disagree with her thought that he might make the finale: "Definitely the strongest guy in the competition, that's for sure." He's like, "Wow. Thank you," quietly and off-mic. I love the thing between Simon and Blake so much, like they're just on this mutual-respect wavelength every week. I hope Ryan doesn't get nervous. Simon warns him against going to the DAUGHTRY place where he just does his own thing and gets indulgent or boring, valid criticism. Simon and Randy fight Paula about whether or not it was a bit boring, and Simon's like, "Whatever, that's subjective, but you're the best guy." Ryan is, as usual, in a weird touch/no-touch place with Blake, and they hop around for a bit, but once they settle down Ryan asks him how he feels about the F word. "Finale," he clarifies. Blake's like, "I have no words." Ryan assures him sweetly that he'll take care of it, and Blake thanks him. Down there, Paula yells off-mic: "Don't Speak, as Gwen would say!" and before Ryan can stop him, Blake sings the first couple words, and Ryan's like, "Shit, FOX is going to have to pay for that. I'll be hearing from them in the morning." I know he's joking, but seriously: the things he does that we don't even see him doing, you know?
Gwen is shocked that Jordin's picked "Hey Baby": "I was like, whoa." Luckily, Jordin's amazing, and Gwen fully tells her that her version of it makes it sound like an actual song, "more musical" than when she herself sings it. If I were the one that barfed out Rock Steady, I'd be kissing Jordin on the mouth for this alone. She asks Jordin to "get the booty going," heh, and the glitter in Gwen's eyes is magical as she tells us how "cute and refreshing" she finds Jordin: "I'm excited for her!"
Dude, it starts out wild. Ray gun sounds, background singers in full force; from the waist up, she looks like a mean girl from the barrio, but waist down -- is she wearing harajuku socks? No, they're thigh-highs, damn -- it's a full, cute skirt. She's all about celebrating her curves and looking great without trying to cover anything up or getting weird about it, she's just lovely. And the singing! Cuteness Overload, Professional Sweetheart! Well, she attacks the song, on all cylinders, stalking around in her boots and pointing to the backup singers cutely, singing her ass off. I don't know that she knows what this song is about -- I think she kind of gets it, but not all the way. She shrugs like Ugly Betty on the dirtier lyrics, which is adorable. She does some runs and cool stuff towards the end, and then strikes a full sassy diva pose at the last second. Love it. Of course, the second the music stops, she drops that like a hot potato and laughs her cute little ass off. I really do want to be in a movie about shopping with Jordin Sparks. I'm serious. Highjinks, fake English accents to get out of said highjinks, skateboards, fucking with security guards, heart-to-hearts over coffee, finding some lost kid's mom, giving makeovers to the makeover scientist ladies, petting people's dogs and going "awww"; unrequited crushes on the dudes at Banana Republic that are suddenly and enchantingly requited, with discounts and kissing and cashmere. Getting discovered in the karaoke hut singing "Kokomo." I want it to be like that Avril LaVigne video, but three hours long and even gayer.
Randy calls it risky to go there, because it's a "stylized" song (translation: not a song, Shania) which puts a burden on not just the singer but the band itself. Luckily, she could sing "anything," she'd be a "great recording artist," and was "brilliant." Paula is impressed with how adorable and hip and young she is, and how she celebrates...something, and how she is so great in this "mode." Um, of being adorable? Jordin's like, "Me too! I missed being adorable!" Paula congratulates her on cuteness and claps like a seal. Simon calls Jordin the most improved, over the last few weeks, and Paula wobbles in a strange way but doesn't go down. He thinks the performance was younger and more confident, but maybe copycattish. Well, it's not a song you can really like radically reconstruct, so I guess that's unavoidable. "I wanted to be fun! And different!" He assures her she accomplished this; she nods: "I did!" God love her. Ryan loves her from afar and calls her "sweetie," and she mouths into the camera, "I love you!" I knew it! I knew she could hear me!
Chris R, needing a bath again. Gwen smiles as he sings "Don't Speak," telling us she's been following him on the show and knows he loves his "vocal Olympics." She seems kind of bored as he sings. Can you imagine how many times she's had to sing that damned song? I always said having to sing "All I Wanna Do" would eventually drive Sheryl Crow to suicide, but this is a pretty mad millstone as well. Gwen tells us Chris doesn't need the Olympics this time: just stick to the melody, and bring it home. She thinks he can do this, but knows it will be more beautiful if he stays with the melody and the emotion. Of the most boring, unending song in the whole world.
Full on dirty-JT mode, bouncing up and down all day, and whiny, but getting hotter as it goes. He's still kind of nervous and giving the puppy-dogs to a grody degree, like overly sincere, but the song is mawkish so I don't know how you avoid it. He always -- love him -- but he always makes me wonder if he's a Secret Squirrel like Scott Savol, like he sings like a really good singer, but is not actually a good singer. Those are sometimes the hardest to spot, given their very good singing: that's how they fool you. I will monitor this situation moving forward. Love him, love the performance, blah blah, it's soulless and arranged such that it goes to the bridge ("Stop pretending schmoo shpedoodle who we are" or whatever) way too soon without any buildup, and he could possibly have just left that part out altogether. I don't know if he really gets the emotion of this song. Frankly, I'm not sure I get it, and I am doubtful that Gwen gets it, because it's so overwrought. In any case, he's not vibing sadness, just belting it. I think he is not following Gwen's advice really, but it's kind of working in his favor. He's just so gosh-darned mysterious to me. He gets more and more tricksy as he goes on, until the end it's like...it's always been an R&B song, and the No Doubt one was a cover, somehow, just a little bit. He's one of the weaker ones this week, but he's strong: it'll be okay.
Chris thanks the audience off-mic as Randy's getting all "yo Chris" about it, and Randy says he really likes Chris's R&B (yes) ska (what?) flavor. It wasn't his best vocal, but he loved the "creativity" and the runs -- they were excellent, and Chris should not be afraid to go there. I agree, except for Gwen just said not to, so that's kind of awkward. Paula: "You're good, Chris. You're good. Just good." Aaaaand we've lost her. Simon liked the choice and the arrangement but wasn't crazy about the vocal. Some parts were "okay," but he struggled in places for no reason. He begs him to focus on vocals, and Chris gives him just a lovely smile. It's like he rode his bike to your house and you hadn't seen him for six weeks and he asks to use your shower, and like, you don't even wanna know the circumstances or what his day's been like because it's too sad and real, but you make tea while he's in there and hope that he has a bed to sleep in. I always get these crazy Whiskey Tango scenarios going with Chris, but that's...his face is not my fault. Ryan asks Chris how he feels about Blake being pronounced the "frontrunner," as though there is a fucking answer to that question, and Chris is like, "He's my friend? So that's awesome?" Ryan goes, "But you would prefer to win?" And Chris is like, "I guess so. If that doesn't sound rude." Whatever.
Tomorrow night, Gwen sings with Akon about collecting little Asian girls, and somebody who sucked actually goes home. And it's not Sanjaya! ¡Vive La Revolución!