Dear Christ. Miami. Like this show isn't full of enough bullshit. The opening montage is a takeoff on the Miami Vice credits, which at least must've been fun for the tech guys to do. Better than more aerial shots of stadiums full of...oh. They're here too. Continuing the theme of "Things that start with 'Miami,'" we also get to hear some Miami Sound Machine, which is probably the right thing to do since the show is still apologizing to Gloria Estefan for ruining her music back in Season 3.
Quick note on the subject of What Paula Looks Like Tonight: off-the-shoulder leopard print peasant-top-ish thing that changes its mind about halfway down and decides it's a mini-dress instead, plus a jungle red belt and pumps. Very The Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas. "Very slutty," says Simon, approvingly. So now that we're all at an appropriate level of grossed out, we're all ready for Miami.
Shannon McGough (18, Okeechobee, FL) likes herself a macramé hat from time to time, and she works by day at her parents' meat market. We get a few loving closeups of raw meat, which actually just made me order some takeout because: mmm, meat. Shannon can also burp louder than anyone she knows, and, delicate flower that she is, she displays this talent more than a few times. After some "meat-handling" jokes from the judges, she screech-yodels her way through some Janis Joplin, a surefire way to make it to Hollywood on this show. Simon's like, "My hangover would like to grind you in a meat press." The judges are actively pissed at her for sucking so much, and Shannon jerkily acts flabbergasted that anyone would say she sucks because no one has ever told her that before. Simon's like, "Well then everyone you know is an asshole, goodbye."
Seacrest then waxes nostalgic about Miami being not too far from Orlando (...okay?) and Orlando being the Boy Band Capital of 1999 or whatever, like we're still pretending that was a significant time in our shared musical history and not something that Justin Timberlake pays good money to make sure nobody talks about. This is all by way of introducing Robbie Carrico (25, Melbourne, FL), who used to be in a boy band but now wants to make it solo. He probably would've settled for "making it" in a boy band too, but that clearly never happened either. Also, this must be an example of the show "coming clean" that one of their contestants used to have a record deal in this, the Year Of A Thousand Ringers. Which, I don't want to get bogged down or anything, but 1) the competition isn't fixed if there are two dozen of them; 2) that's about as many "Chosen One" candidates as everyone thinks there are every year; and 3) stacking the show with more good singers makes it worse how? Anyway, Robbie looks like if Justin Bobby from The Hills showered once a week instead of never, and he sings really well, albeit in that same faux-R&B way most of the guys this season have sung. Simon's on the fence until Paula gives him the "yes or no" treatment, at which point it's a unanimous yes. Outside, Robbie's family goes nuts with the silly string and the bottle popper thingies, and Ryan is of course offended on behalf of decorum itself.
A Montage O' Suck includes a panflute, some guy who stole Mario Vasquez's hat from several seasons back, a scary falsetto man with Carlos Santana's stolen hat, and a guy who may or may not have a harmonica. This leads us to Ghaleb Emachah, who says he's 27, and...yeah. Twenty-seven years since he tried out for Menudo, maybe. He looks like Antonio Banderas's older brother. He warbles a Marc Anthony song, about which Simon says he'd appreciate more if he was drunk. Paula tries to shine it up as best she can, and when Simon presses her for a yes-or-no vote, she literally sticks her finger in her ear and refuses to listen. Like this is her ultimate act of civil disobedience. Sigh. You've seen this a billion times before, so whatever. Paula doesn't want to do her job. Randy votes yes, to be an asshole, and Paula -- in the midst of an honest-to-God episode -- paces around for a while before putting this joker through to Hollywood. Then she goes over to him and hugs him, and for some reason being this close to Paula reminds Ghaleb of the first time he ever had a drink, thirty-five years ago today. Then he goes and molests all of the crew, including Ryan, whose official stance, as always, is Not Interested, Wink-Wink.
Brittany and Corliss are both fat, black ladies who like to rub up on skinny little slips of gentlemen like our own Ryan Seacrest. I guess that's the joke of it all, the visual of wee Ryan sandwiched in between Mo'nique and Mo'nother. But they both seem really cool, and I'm halfway hoping they can sing just so they don't end their day totally disappointed. They've already got enough of that coming by barking up Ryan's tree. Actually, it's only Brittany that wants Ryan; he's too skinny for Corliss which means (you guessed it) she's into Jackson. So they both audition, Brittany's "My Guy" being more pleasant to the ear that Corliss's "Take Five," but really they're both borderline. The judges love them, and of course Simon digs the circus of it all, and suddenly I notice that Randy's wearing these patent leather loafers of the same whorish color as Paula's pumps. What in the world? So the judges are all on a total contact high and say yes to the both of them, which causes the ladies to charge the judges table with hugs and kisses and screams, and...that is a lot of lady rushing towards the judges all at once. No value judgments here, but...that is a lot of lady. I love them.
Suzanne Toon looks like if Rachel McAdams had played Sherrybaby, and she's from Clearwater, which automatically makes me suspicious, like I want to check her dresser for a Freedom Medal of Valor or something. Anyway, she's a single mom, which...boy, is this the wrong season to think that's going to make you stand out. Her Shirley Temple curls are at odds with the smoky Bonnie Raitt she's trying to pull off. Paula's fooled, of course, and praises the "sultry sexiness." I thought Simon might call her on the inconsistency of tone, but he just thinks she's pretty, and so she's put through. They're right that there's something about her that sets her apart from this season's nonstop parade of used-up blondes (despite the fact that that's pretty much what she aspires to be), but I'm not sure that something is great singing.
We're forced to remember Season 3's Jasmine Trias for a moment so that we may better understand Ramiele Malubay (19, Miramar, FL), a fellow Filipino who aspires to be the first Asian-American Idol. She shouts her way through "Natural Woman," and it's pleasing to Paula. Simon thinks she sounds more like a "hotel singer," which draws the usual laughs from Paula and Randy, because apparently they still don't think hotel singers or cabaret singers or any of the other non-pop-star brand of singers Simon's always talking about actually exist. Paula and Randy vote yes, and Simon thinks they're just doing that because she's a teeny girl who sang a big song. They can't believe anyone would think they were patronizing, and there's some business about Paula's high-pitched "WHAT??" that goes nowhere. I'm so bored. Here's what's wrong with this season thus far: it's not the lack of trainwreck auditions that's making this shit so dull. There have been plenty of those, and they're as repetitive as they've ever been. No, the problem is that the good auditions have been nothing but a mass of sob stories and similar sounding voices, so it all runs together. Never mind the fact that there have been at most five contestants so far that have seemed better than adequate, and it all just looks pretty grim. Good thing we have a couple weeks worth of the Hollywood round to help us flesh out some of these...oh right. Smooth move as ever, Uncle Nigel.
Syesha Mercado (20, Miami, FL) talks a lot of bullshit about the power of positive thinking, then unveils her alcoholic dad and, like we've said, they've diluted that pool way, way too much this season. This is getting to Top Model levels of tragedy one-upsmanship. Wake me when we get to the one with Asperger's. Oh wait, that's everyone. Inside, Randy reveals that Syesha's an "actor/singer" which fits her natural sense of drama, and the she sings "Think" in this completely obnoxious shouty/screamy/screechy voice. Randy and Paula eat that shit up, though, because "Loud Is The New Good" didn't make its way onto a t-shirt for nothing. Simon thought it was "a bit of an effort," and he's incredulous as hell while Randy and Paula are embarrassing themselves by calling her the best they've seen in Florida, but in the end even he votes yes, for unclear reasons. What the fuck was that, you guys? I felt like the show and I were operating on the same wavelength last season. Now I just want the show to stop punching me in the nards.
Natashia Blach (29, Ft. Collins, CO) gets through with a moderately affected "At Last." Ilsy Lorena Pinot (28, Miami, FL) gets through with a moderate-to-highly affected "Unfaithful," and I'm as surprised as anyone that the first Rihanna we've heard this season wasn't some fat gay dude singing "Umbrella."
The Montage O' Suck includes a spazoid Paula name-checker; the unholy genetic union of Andre 3000 and Buckwheat; one of the Warriors (acid-washed demin? Boss!) who sings with a finger to his ear, Mariah-style, and earns Simon's first "come back in a dress" of the season; and another ear-fingerer who sounds like she's from the West Indies but even that doesn't explain the voice. All are suck. None shall pass.
Richard Valles (19, Tampa, FL) is apparently a special enough brand of bad that he deserves a segment all to himself. This proves to be untrue, no matter how nasally his "Bless The Broken Road" ends up in his nasal.
Okay, so: deep breath. Here comes the hurricane of bright-pastel bullcrap that is Julie Dubela. She sits on a couch with Ryan and fakely asks him if he doesn't remember her, because she is world-famous for making the top twenty on American Juniors way back when she was twelve. Which was four years ago. I never watched American Juniors, okay? And I have watched some gay-ass shit in my lifetime. I am given to understand that there was something of a theme song to this show, however, and we see a billion clips of Julie-at-12 and Julie-at-16 singing it. The ensuing four years, by the way, have gifted Julie with a lovely Evan Rachel Wood depth to her voice that would give her a leg up on any number of film and television roles as intersexed high schoolers. So the cool thing is that everybody on this show, from the editors to the judges and back again, makes fun of American Juniors hardcore, and they all really have it in for Julie, who is an easy target but also kind of has it coming. She's the kind of confident/cocky that, at sixteen, is a surefire indicator that either everyone in school outwardly hates her or everyone at school secretly hates her. I? Both outwardly and secretly hate her. Her "Me and Bobby McGee" is called "precocious" by Simon, not to mention over-rehearsed and not even that great, vocally. They've put through worse singers, but that doesn't exactly make their rejection of her unjust. And just in case we might've thought that her bravado was a sign of preternatural professionalism, Julie takes it all rather badly, continuing to sing, then bawling out the judges, crying to Seacrest, and pulling bitchface after bitchface after bitchface. If Blair Waldorf was a real person and sucked at life, she'd be Julia. She continues her brat offensive outside, railing against her "precocious" label even though she admitted she didn't know what that meant. She whines that she could've sang the anthem at the Red Sox game today instead (which...awesome; never have a sports franchise and an anthem singer deserved each other more), then tells us all that we shouldn't watch the show anymore. Would that we could, you monstrous child.
Finally, before I pass out altogether, is Brandon Black (20, Pompano Beach, FL), who is dressed up like if Fab 5 Freddy were your guardian angel. White suit, white shoes, oversized ballcap, stringy-ass wig, earrings bigger than his head. He barrels into the audition room like a house afire, slipping around on the hardwood in his shoes, and babbling a mile a minute. Is he actually thirteen or is that just the effect of the suit being too big for him? The judges don't think he should be singing "I'll Make Love To You," and they definitely don't think he should be singing some song he wrote himself, and they're all fidgety because they want to be finished as badly as I do. He tries to clown it up, but it's just obnoxious, and the judges flee the room.
Not even the DVR wanted to stick around long enough to find out how many golden tickets were handed out in Miami (several too many, from what we saw) or where we'll be Tuesday. Hopefully it's whatever city has been hiding all the good singers.