The show opens with the ubiquitous Regis, who's about to tell us which contestants will get a chance to have their dreams come true. Oh wait, hang on, my clock's fast -- this is still Who Wants to Be A Millionaire. Same premise, though.
The screen darkens. It's Episode I: A New Hope, and a booming voice reads the scroll: "This real-life series chronicles the creation of a band....There are no actors, no script -- just raw talent, a dream, and a camera recording every step of the journey." A teaser follows, explaining in sum that this season we can expect a lot of singing, deep breathing, sweating, crying, arguing ("You wanna go? Cuz I'll go wit-choo!!") fornicating, a passel of dumped girlfriends and a disapproving father. Oh please! For some people that's just a rockin' good weekend. But fear not, there's also plenty of adults putting the pseudo-stars in their places. "You guys think you're da bomb because you got the gig, but you're wrong," one adult aptly notes. "You ain't got nothin' on 'N Sync or the Backstreet Boys." The 'N Sync crew, wielding the brand-new album, collectively screams "Cha-CHING!"
Roll the credits -- but no commercials. Sigh.
Lou Pearlman heaves himself out of his stretch limo as a voice-over proclaims him a mastermind. Lou is the squat, pasty, roly-poly goof-turned-scientific-genius who created the Backstreet Boys, then replicated them ten times over but with different names -- proving you can indeed clone a human. He enters the neon Hard Rock Café in New York City, where the camera catches a harried assistant saying three hundred hopefuls have already lined up to audition. Nationwide, there are almost two thousand, and some of them slept out all night outside the Hard Rock. "You won't get it if you don't audition," one guy says, as his pal nods sagely. Aw, that is IT man! Where's the justice? My dreams dashed, I fill up my flask and settle down on the sofa. At this point, the show zeroes in on people most likely to Make the Band, which Lou will call O-Town.
Back inside the restaurant, the lads are carousing and singing in mock-unity while they await their turn. Jackie Salvucci, nineteen, goes first and belts out, "...aaaand the rooooockeeeets'..." -- pause -- "Phew, that's high," he says, as everyone laughs appreciatively. "And so am I," thinks Lou. Cut to Los Angeles, where Trevor Penick (nineteen) is bragging about having third-row seats for a Backstreet Boys concert. "I did touch A.J.," Trevor grins. "And so did I," thinks Lou. A montage ensues in which Trev tells us he's always wanted to do this, and then we Trevor's dad Clifton at The Penick House (his real home, not some California brothel), where he and wife Doris get choked up when Trevor talks about wanting to make money so he can give back to his family. Everyone emotes. The moral of this story: Root for Trevor.
Honolulu, Hawaii: Ikaika Kahoano, twenty-one, and the entire judging panel show up in ugly print shirts, because you see, that's all that Hawaiians wear. In an aside, Ikaika explains he just tryin' to represent, yo -- he wants a Hawaiian in the national spotlight for once. Somewhere out there, angry and overlooked, our gal Ruthie glowers, crushes out a cigarette and lights ten more. I toast her. Meanwhile, Ikaika has hit the high note in "The Star-Spangled Banner." There is much rejoicing. Lou asks Ikaika to shake that body, but the singer refuses, saying he can't dance. Perturbed, Lou contemplates resorting to that Wild-West tactic of whipping out a pistol and shooting at Ikaika's feet, but he refrains.
"Here's a song I wrote," says Ashley Parker Angel, eighteen, as he strums his guitar in Las Vegas. He wants to sing it note-for-note. It's bad, but no matter; where Ashley wants to go, there'll be no need for such piddly talents as playing musical instruments. As he leaves, a female panelist leans over and says, all Valley-Girl and enthusiastic, "A rock star named Ashley Angel? How perfect his that?" The Vegas oddsmakers in the room, ears pressed to cups against the wall, make Ashley the favorite for the finals. The three are, well, terrible. Two young guys are off-key and tone-deaf, so to protect their anonymity, Bunim-Murray lists only their full names, ages and hometowns. Considerate. The third, Michael, is thirty-two. Hello? Auditions for the Barry Manilow Band are thattaway, bro. Still, he dances, borrowing heavily from the Beastie Boys' "Intergalactic" video. The entire panel dissolves in laughter.
A goateed Jacob Underwood, nineteen, gets up and explains he's a guitarist at heart (um, do you see anyone in 'N Sync holding a guitar?), and brags that he works for a shop that made instruments for Jewel, Lenny Kravitz and Kenny Loggins. He immediately sprouts horns, a tail and fangs. See, anyone who aids and abets a Jewel performance is clearly a minion of Satan. Jacob, we learn, longs to be like Michael Jackson - and in his room sits an elaborate pencil sketch of M.J. His monkey and his rat named Ben cower under the bed.
The other performers, in a nifty split-screen setup, appropriately massacre "Tearing up My Heart" and dance like...well...does Elaine from Seinfeld ring any bells? Oh, no. I spy breakdancing. Twenty-one-year-old Paul Martin says he thinks they're looking for "someone with sharp features," which he deems an aesthetically pleasing characteristic. In a neat coincidence, Paulie here has features so sharp you could cut steak with his chiseled schnozz. "You think?" Lou asks me, jotting that down in the "pros" column.
In the end, the above heavily featured guys (not the thirty-two-year-old) are among those headed for the Orlando auditions. No surprise there. They celebrate and hit the airport.
First commercial break. Mario Perillo is trying to sell me a real Italian pizza from Domino's that "promises to be the pie of a lifetime." Funny, I think Lou Pearlman used that same tagline to advertise O-Town auditions.
In Orlando, Erik-Michael Estrada (fresh off his CHiPS 2000: The Generation audition) celebrates getting his twenty-year-old ass on this "All-Star Team." For the mathematically impaired, Lou explains the reason his five-member band O-Town can't have twenty-five members: because they need a variety of vocal ranges. A few singers think hard about that, then nod in agreement. Trevor's mom, almost certainly prompted by producers, calls on a random cell phone someone else owns, and everyone mocks Trevor. He lies that his mom wishes everyone luck.
Meet Mark Goff, a squat, pasty, roly-poly goof-turned-vocal coach created in Lou's image. Each finalist sings scales with him, "taking it to the breaks" so they push their voices' ranges. Jacob sings so high, the front of his hair abruptly turns blond and stays that way the rest of the episode. Maybe it worked in his favor: "He has a unique sound to his voice, and he can do a lot with it," Mark gushes to Lou. Dramatic pause. "And there's a lot more... that he doesn't know about yet," Mark says, as visions of sugarplums dance in his head. Cut to the choreographers, Tymisha and Kim, teaching a bizarre dance routine to the class. Ikaika cannot dance. "I feel like my butt sticks out, and stuff," he complains. Cut to Lou. "Yes indeed," he nods, pleased. "Excellent, Smithers." Erik-Michael briefly croons "Silent Night" before Mark gets a crowd of eight to try some harmonies. Replace the word "try" with "ruin" and you come close to sharing the pain.
The exit poll: Mark says Jackie has a fun attitude (which roughly equates to the "Is he cute?" "Well, he's sweet and a really great friend" exchange). Mike Miller (who?) has a remarkable voice, and Bryan Chan (whaaa...?) has a big stage voice. Lou just wants a Manwich meal.
In the hotel, Jacob relaxes on the bed, watching Trevor coach Ikaika. The poor guy keeps whiffing all the dance moves, which quite honestly look like a blend of Jazzercise and breakdancing with a splash of Tae-Bo -- so honey, if you can't do it and look cool, it's probably not your bad. Trevor tells the camera, eyes gleaming, "I love to dance. If I can help someone get better," then, by God, the funk will be spread.
"I wonder if there's gonna be, like, teenage girls in the audience," muses blond, blue-eyed Ashley Parker Angel. Every teacher in North America curses, because there's no longer no such thing as a stupid question. Setting himself up as a playboy rogue, Ashley announces his master plan to flirt with the audience. Meanwhile, hotel roommates Ikaika and Junior Mika are lying to each other again. "I want you to make it." "No, I want YOU to make it, man! Or, how about it we BOTH make it," Ikaika compromises. "Yeah, that'd be phat. Two little pineapples," says Junior, referencing his Hawaiian origins. Ruthie cracks open her third pack of smokes while stitching together two male Voodoo dolls. Trevor says he hasn't slept because tomorrow is one of the biggest days of his life.
A bunch of guys on horseback, clad in armor and carrying banners, make demanding grunting noises and bang their weapons on the ground in rhythm. They are angry -- where is O-Town? They paid $50 at Ticketmaster to wait around all day like this? Or, maybe it's a Nintendo-64 ad. It looked for a second like Ashley's flirt-with-girls plan had gone horribly awry.
Back in Orlando on the morning of final auditions, Jackie's mom has called. "If it doesn't work out, there's always medical school," she reportedly said, as Jackie laughs and repeats it mockingly. See, he knows what we all know: The social impact of a close-harmony singer far outweighs that of some pansy-assed physician. Cut to the bus, where Erik-Michael's voice-over tells us all the guys feel super-close because they want the same thing: "We feel each other," he says proudly, but there's no evidence of this because we're on network TV, not cable. Ikaika openly lies that he's not going out there trying to impress anybody but himself. Quite so. Clearly he spent hours practicing dance steps simply out of the sheer love of moving in jerky, awkward, convulsive steps. But, give the guy props for his earnest puppy-dog quality. At least he's not as arrogant as some.
Jackie preps for his audition, and Coach Mark notes he looks like a deer in the headlights. Jackie's dying out there, Mark says, jinxing him. Suddenly, all the guys are in a room with clasped hands -- half of them wearing the same football jersey -- an anonymous male leads the guys in pseudo-prayer. Instead of "Amen," though, it's "O-Town!" Seriously.
The first audition is Erik-Michael's, and as we see him singing "I Swear" by All-4-One (or Vince Gill, for C&W enthusiasts), there's a split screen shot of him explaining that he will only do "what he can do, not what someone else can do." And here I thought none of the lads would learn anything this weekend. Paul's up , all nasal and suave. Ashley follows, and he's pretty good (a relative term), especially juxtaposed with the guy after him who we've not seen before -- for a reason, perhaps? Four girls -- who look like the only four people watching -- lamely sway, arms aloft, during Ikaika's performance. Bryan Chan ends the sequence, and caps his "I Swear" rendition with an a capella Mariah Carey ending that's blatant show-boating. I vow to drink everything in sight if she appears this season and they have a catfight. Now that's good viewing.
Jackie is singing some god-awful song with no name, and messes up the words. Cut to Trev, doing much better, but let's just go ahead and quote the verse he gives us:
My friends, they wouldn't believe me
If they could only see me
At the risk of sounding cheesy
I think I fell for the girl in contacts.
What manner of song is this?? The last line had no music, so I'm wondering if he ad-libbed -- he might have pointed to one of the judges. ("Note to self: Get contacts," writes the bespectacled Lou.) I don't know. I'm baffled. But backstage, Mark tells Trevor he's tearing up his heart, except it comes out sounding like, "You're killin' it, bro." And lastly, Ikaika's co-pineapple Junior belts out "America."
In the panelists' pow-wow, Lou and Mark praise their faves before soliciting others' opinions, because well, that's how it works in O-Town (name for Orlando, name for new band. Clever, no?). They rave over Ikaika's improved groove, and say that Trevor's dancing exploded. Video footage confirms it -- the kid got down, that's certain, but not in a way I've ever heard praised before. He looks like an epileptic chicken. Erik did better today, Lou said, then he pauses and asks how people felt about Jackie. It's clear all the judges love Jackie as a person, but they felt his under-confident performance wasn't as good as it could've been. Aww. Cut to Jackie confessing that he can't see himself going home and back to school after this, because entertaining people is all he wants to do in life. But Jackie! Medical school! A montage of group dancing takes us to commercial. It's an embarrassing display eerily reminiscent of my junior-high dances, but I need not feel personal shame about this; we were thirteen; these guys are, on average, twenty.
Ah. An ad for the Texas Lottery with a woman flipping a penny. I think that's actually this week's Lotto jackpot, because the night before this aired, an ex-pro-football player snatched all of our state's $28 million prize. That's fair, right?
An interviewer, bored with this love-in, tries to start conflict by asking Trevor: If he or his roommate Jacob were up for the last slot, who'd win it? Trev says he would, and that Jacob would give the same answer about himself. But no, Jacob just tells the interviewer, "I'll let them decide. I don't think that's fair to ask," and he slaps the nappy ho. The camera zooms on Jacob's tattoo above his towel-clad behind. Um, does that mean he's a Bad-Ass? And, setting Ikaika up as The Tardy One, his roommate Junior tries to hurry him to the bus and notes that Ikaika likes to take his sweet time getting ready. "I like to look good," Ikaika says, thinking, "Who the hell let this crazy bossy pineapple in here?"
This proves it: They're not twenty-five finalists, they're a real roving band of minstrels sent to terrify people into submission with their five-part harmonies. This the group accomplishes admirably, singing together on the bus, as they process slowly out of the bus and into a big empty room, and as they gather in said room's center. They don't need no stinkin' words, either -- just "Oooh ooh ooh, oooh, ooooh," sung ooooh-ver and ooooh-ver again. They clap. Hey guys, don't be so quick to cheer -- in Monty Python and the Holy Grail the knights ate Sir Robin's minstrels. A definitely doomed finalist named Earl from Irving, TX, appears from nowhere and talks about how special it's been to bond with twenty-five guys in just three days. Hope you enjoyed it while it lasted, Earl. Bunim-Murray apologizes for not showcasing your talents, and hopes you signed the legal disclaimer.
The spotlight's on Lou, who's kickin' it onstage as though he doesn't know who the eight winners will be. Everyone's arms are draped on the shoulders of their pals as Lou cracks open the envelope. You know, the polite thing might have been to let them all go and then break the news privately at home, but they didn't ask me, so let the waterworks begin. First winner: Paul Martin. He puts his hands over his face and staggers onstage after hugging random people to him. "I could not stop smiling. My cheeks were just, like, up in my eyelids," which, when you have sharp features as he does, can be devastatingly painful. What a sport. Second: Jacob Underwood and his blond streaks. He's speechless, Jacob says, contradicting himself. "My heart's racing," he pants, grabbing Lou's microphone. "If you put it right here, can you hear?" Lou snatches it back and smiles. "Later," he winks. Third: Bryan Chan, who tries to get onstage but who gets accosted and chest-slammed by an elated Erik-Michael, who is clearly trying to get some added camera time just in case. Fourth: Ashley Angel, who stammers, "I can't feel my legs." Lou opens his mouth, thinks twice, closes it and looks back at the list. Fifth: Ikaika Kahoano, who can say little except, "I don't know what to say." That's because Ruthie has stabbed a pin in the mouth of her Ikaika Voodoo Doll. Sixth: Mike Miller (hello? who?). Erik gets in his face too, "celebrating," I assume. Now, if we'd all gotten to know Mike a little better -- we've seen him perhaps twice so far -- the following might seem less incongruous. To the crowd, Mike booms, "I love every one of you guys. And what I said before: REUNITE. Reunite, baby." As though they understand, everyone nods, with special attention to the vigorous head-bobbing by our resident camera-hog Erik. He needn't have bothered. Seventh: Erik-Michael Estrada. For all his spastic behavior earlier, he is remarkably restrained, which won't do his ChiPS namesake proud at all. Step it up, please, E-M. We see Jackie, and hear him saying that everything happens for a reason, but he desperately wants to make it. Trevor trembles. After cruelly long pauses, Lou ends the agony. Eighth: Trevor Penick. The hugging crowd hugs a little less merrily. Trevor weeps while Jackie holds back tears, because we all know med school was his mother's dream, not his. Jacob clasps his roommate Trev tightly and, I hope, flips off the interviewer from earlier in the day. Jackie Salvucci, M.D., tries to be magnanimous but he's clearly crushed.
Hungry and desperate to chew yet more scenery, a self-indulgent Erik-Michael grabs the mike, refuses to share it and starts a stirring -- read: "nauseating" -- rendition of "Amazing Grace," in which both losers and winners join. "I've been on sports teams, I've been in...other groups, and there's nothin' like this," Erik says. Cut to Jackie, the loser we all love, who explains just being in Orlando and participating made it a win-win situation, by which he means, "This was a completely crushing defeat for all seventeen of us, our self-esteem is shot to pieces, and to top it off we must suffer the indignity of watching our pathetic loss on national television." Yup, that's Bunim-Murray: Playing favorites, ruining lives.
Outside, in a moment faker than Tori Spelling's breasts, Jackie and Erik stand alone and look mournful. "You the man," chokes out Jackie, whose face we never see because he is clearly reading lines like: "I'll see you in the big time, baby." Erik-Michael rolls his eyes semi-uncomfortably, gives a half-grin as the directors give him a huge off-camera thumbs-up, and hugs Jackie tightly, proclaiming them friends-for-life. Cute, since we never saw them speak at all. E-M then ruins it all by glancing up toward a camera mid-hug with a bored expression.
Lisa Ling of ABC's The View is hawking Old Navy khakis. Just when you thought those commercials couldn't sink any lower.
In Honolulu, Ikaika's mom scolds him for staying too late with his girlfriend. "Didn't you know you were supposed to meet somebody at 11:30?" she gritches, but he shrugs it off, Gosh, will Ikaika have punctuality issues? He's thrilled at the idea of "rocking the house" as a boy band and supporting his family. He professes love for Malia, his brooding babe (who weirdly resembles Real World's Ruthie), saying he wants to return to her unchanged and still devoted. "She's my world, you know?" Yeah. Your other O-Town. We know.
Paul shows up at Mississippi College's performance hall and kisses Carrah, his girlfriend of a year and three months. The narcissistic Paul asks his pals to write him a goodbye song and the fools oblige, popping out atonal lyrical gems like "Have fun in Orlando," "Don't get too crazy," and "Remember you still have a girl." Bryan Adams couldn't have said it better. No, really, he couldn't have. To the camera, Carrah -- the picture of blond Southern sweetness -- says she's proud to be part of Paul's life no matter what the O-Town outcome. Paul admits he's flirtatious and that Carrah is fine with that. Yeah, right. She accepts it like most places accept American Express.
In California, Ashley and Shelli, his girl, are eating dinner and she says she hopes this breaks his habit of sleeping too late. Foreshadowing. It's scary to Shelli how much Ashley deserves this big break. He nods, as if to say, "It IS scary how much I rule." The tearful airport goodbyes: Shelli cries, Ashley smiles excitedly. Carrah clings to a mortified Paul like a leech, and he pretends to laugh when a friend jokes, "She'll have to be surgically removed." A voice-over tells us Carrah trusts him implicitly, but -- ouch -- Paul's confessional reveals that he's young and wants to live a little, or indeed screw around a lot, because he'll be surrounded by tempting beauties. Well, at least he's come to terms with his impending infidelity.
Lou and his limo cart the boys to their house, a sprawling one done up nicely, not harsh and garish like the Real World domains of late. Someone likens it to a cedar closet, which sounds hellish to anyone who lives in Austin. There's a "jungle" out back, a gym, a lake and a boat. Mark, appearing out of nowhere (possibly, Lou keeps him in the limo trunk) and gives a stern speech to the cast. He'd rather not make the experience sound like boot camp, but...it'll be like boot camp, Mark says helpfully. He then tries to link vocal range and sound quality to the condition of the body, which supposedly includes eating right but which we all know is code for "keep your bods buff." Mark wants them to train like pro athletes. Ten-four, Sarge. Because if you can't sound good live when you stand on a stage with twenty-thousand deafening fans and teenage girls, "What are you gonna do?" Mark asks. Yeah! Pop-quiz, assholes. Instead of answering, the cast decides to party -- Angel dishes out a hurried "I love you" to Shelli before slamming down the phone and joining the guys at a club. Our heroes sing their way past the bouncer and stand in the back doing some kind of doggie-style shag dance. Is that what they teach the young folks in Orlando these days? "Yes," Lou tells me. "Why do you think it's called O-Town?"
Morning has broken. Everyone struggles to get up, and Jacob greets Mark Piacenza, the "den mother" in a Rangers jersey who's charged with making sure they get places on time. Translation: He's whoopin' some Hawaiian booty. But perhaps not today -- everyone's late, and Mike Miller and Angel are just waking up despite the fact that their first session with Mark is in fifteen minutes. As Ranger Mike drives the band to the Trans Continental Studios, someone has the audacity to ask, "Are they ready for us, or are we going to get in there and just wait around?" Look, foolish tenor, you're the ones who are two hours late.
Mark is mad. Someone brats, "Sorry we're late," in a sing-song (apropos) voice. But his joviality is not to be, as Mark angrily points out that this is his life, his career, not some game for a bunch of cocky young guys who are easily replaced. The cast looks semi-humbled. "One time," Mark warns. "What's gonna determine whether you stay here or not is how hard you work, not how pretty your face is." The Spice Girls shred their application for a Trans Con contract, Erik's enormous lips look disappointed and Mike hangs his head. The horror, the horror.
week: Ashley "Fallen" Angel and Paul look primed to succumb to temptation as a horde of girls flock to them. Ikaika, after waxing poetic about his girlfriend, mouths off about his bandmates. Oh, and some nonsense about going to voice-training class.