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Seven episodes of auditions. Seven episodes of the good singers not even mattering (and half of them not even showing up on TV). Seven episodes of the exact same thing happening except in different cities (or, you know, not different cities, depending on how much San Fran can get faked up to look like Austin). I understand how the ratings aren't exactly complaining, but seven episodes is a long time to go without forward motion in the plot. Which makes me think that the perfect meta-commentary would be an AI audition round on Mystery Friggin' Island.
So Ryan's Boston VO starts out with some cops dishing about American Idol (as they are no doubt wont to do). Round Cop theorizes that the next Idol will have to come out of Boston, because they've got the World Champion Red Sox (only not so much anymore), and the World Champion Patriots (again: not really, no). So that's 0 for 2. But I'm sure if they had asked Curt Schilling he'd have told them something awesome about himself they could have used. Anyway, a jump cut to the upcoming Clay Gayken audition serves to prove that cops don't know anything about this show and takes us into the credits.
Boston, like every other damn city we've been to, consists of road signs and stadiums full of screaming idiots. It's the usual drill of landmarks and yahoos, which in Boston's case means, like, Paul Revere and "wicked awesome!" Oh, and rain. Can't hit up the northeast without reminding everyone how we get actual weather from time to time. Vegas. Simon actually debases himself enough to make a Boston Tea Party joke, like he's an actual British person and not a permanent resident of the Federated States of Whoever Signs My Cheques.
Okay, so we're taking a moment to address what the judges are wearing today. Simon has on the usual: black ribbed tee, long sleeves scrunched up, not as vacuum-sealed tight as in past years because his body isn't quite cooperating like it used to, and jeans. Everybody's wearing jeans, that's so not the point. Randy is swimming in a sea of argyle, the likes of which Duncan Kane has only dreamed. It's almost hypnotic. As for Paula�words fail me. After dropping the ball terribly last week when asked to describe the sartorial bliss that was Mecca Madison, I knew enough to ask for help this time. So here's Jacob with a recap of how Paula was dressed in Boston: "She is wearing a teal ribbed sweater with bandoleros that looks like it would fit Randy. Maybe they are not for ammo, but in fact inflatable in some way. For safety. Her hair looks very, very cute, though. Like that girl who was on Life Goes On, when she did that show where she went to the country like Dr. Quinn. Then she was on ER but got stabbed all to hell."