Last time, Lou finally cleared up the mystery surrounding Mike and Bryan: They were included so they could be cut. Taking stock of events, it all really makes sense. No one's cutting Ashley, not with that name and face, and Trevor couldn't get axed because he's the sentimental favorite. Jacob's been crooning since he was but a glint in his father's eye, which makes him really valuable, because O-Town's first album includes a stirring remake of "I'm a Little Teapot." Alas, nothing explains Erik-Michael -- well, actually, he wins the "I owe my impending fame to Paul" award. So like I said, someone had to get cut, and Heaven forbid it should be the least reliable and emotionally stable cast member (Hello, Ikaika!). Lou, ever the diplomat, explained to the guys that The Big Cut shouldn't be interpreted as five people winning and two losing. Instead, Lou says it's just a case where five guys get to form a group, and two can move on to other opportunities -- which, if I heard that correctly, in fact makes two winners and five losers. In a subplot, Ashley and Shelli sowed the seeds of their relationship's destruction -- she admits she'd prayed he wouldn't get it so he'd come back to her in California. When he finally puts two thousand and two thousand together -- as in, miles -- a light bulb flickers on above Ashley's head, and he tells us he understands why long-distance relationships are hard.
Mike and Bryan aren't even gone yet, and the producers already excised them from the credits. Must've been a "put out or get out" situation. Instead of ogling Mike one last time, we're treated to a shot of Jacob, shirtless and singing in an official-looking venue. I'm guessing O-Town's reduced to gigs at Chippendale's.
In the living room, Trevor is bawling, having just learned he's stuck with Lou Pearlman for another decade. I'd be crying too -- crying all the way to the bottom of a tequila bottle. Erik, being clutched by Trevor, tells us he wanted all seven guys in the group, but Trevor's special because he "puts his heart into everything he does, and he wanted it so bad." Bryan graciously says to the camera that he is truly thrilled for everyone. "The five guys that were chosen were the five that were meant to be chosen, and I'm so happy to have known them," he says. More hugging, more tears, more nausea. Bryan whips out his camera and takes photos of the five bandmates. These pictures will go in the "Before" album. The "After" album, filled with shots from, oh, later this year, will contain pictures from the bar mitzvah that books O-Town only when the Captain and Tenille back out last-minute. For now, though, the group stands in a circle, arms across each other's shoulders. Lou takes up about one-third of the space. "I wanna be proud of all of you," Mike says. "I'll be watching and praying for every one of you." And as Lou's outreached arm (spanning three guys) grips and re-grips Mike's arm, Mike suddenly understands that even devout worship can't save his friends from Touchy McFeely. Ashley appreciates Mike and Bryan's stoicism. "They're bigger men than us," Ashley says. "They wanted to cry, and didn't…they wanted us to enjoy our moment." As we hear this, the camera catches Bryan winking at Jacob. Bryan must have just said, "You know, I really thought I was going to make it," and then given the ocular equivalent of a resounding, "Not!" In the Circle of Doom, all seven guys and Lou put their hands in the center and shout, "One…Two…Three…O-Town!"
Mike picks up the phone and calls someone that the producers don't bother to name. Mike tells "woman" that he didn't make the cut. "Woman" is perplexed and sad, and before Mike opens his mouth again, the screen splits and we hear Ashley telling his mother the good news. "She was like, 'Whooo!'" Ashley grins. "I've never heard her scream that loud." Ashley makes a bizarre comment about wishing his stepfather could have been there too, so he could get on the phone and hear Ashley's news. But we all know Ashley's stepfather was indeed there, sucking back Old Milwaukee beer, spewing obscenities and reading Creative Medicine 101: How to be Allergic to Tenors When Your Son Joins a Boy-Band. Ashley profusely thanks his mother for her support, while his father makes a series of gestures that, roughly translated, say, "Honey, I'm momentarily indisposed and cannot personally tell my stepson of my renewed disgust in him. Pray, dearest, might you pass along that he's disinherited? A thousand thanks." Bryan calls what we assume is his house, and chats with "boy." "I'm coming back home," Bryan says with a calm smile. "And I hope my room is intact." This "boy," probably a brother, expresses total shock, because at that point, he hasn't seen the show yet. Bryan promises that the guys who made it are worthy, and he says he's completely fine with how things are ending.
In the room they share, Ashley asks Mike how he feels. "Honestly? I knew it," Mike says, surprising Ashley and flashing an encouraging sign that he's a smart guy. Before the old crony Ken brought the contracts over, Mike apparently paid attention to the body language of Jay, Lou and Ranger Marc -- none of them caught and held his gaze, neither did they make eye contact with Bryan. "It'll hurt for a long time, and I'll probably never get over the fact that I could've been in that group," Mike says in voice-over as we watch him pack. He talks about his hope that school and modeling -- huh? -- will preoccupy him enough to help him forget. Bryan says he's rarely gone into situations and had them go the wrong way, but when it does happen, he tries to take a lesson from it. Like, say, "Never do anything like this again."
Sunrise. Bryan's making his bed and finishing up the packing. He tells us the biggest struggle for O-Town will be staying humble. "We've all been incredibly blessed," he says. "I hope they don't lose focus of how hard it is to get to this point. We've skipped steps a lot of people struggle to go through." Meanwhile, Mike's leaving a note for everyone, scrawling "Make us proud!" on a piece of paper. I hope it's his contract. He then goes into Jacob's room and high-fives his half-asleep friend; in the living room, Bryan taps on a goose-down cocoon and Ikaika emerges. He's chained to Malia via the telephone, and breaks from his futile booty call long enough to say "Peace!" to Bryan. It warms the heart, doesn't it? Hammering the point home, background music plays: "Time for me to wave goodbye…Did you ever think I'd be the one to wave goodbye?" Um, yes, actually. As Mike and Bryan board the Man Van for one final time, it's clear no one bothered to get up and say a proper goodbye. A pox on those selfish shitsacks. Mike admits he's going to have mixed emotions when he sees the guys on television. "To not be part of it…It crushes me," he says. Bryan tearfully tells the camera, "If someone came up and offered one million dollars in exchange for this experience, I wouldn't take it." The mind boggles. If someone offered me a million dollars in exchange for sharing their experience, I'd be on it like Jacob to a mirror. And so it ends for Mike and Bryan. The Man Van revs up and pulls out.
Two sponsors. Two. I need a longer break than that, people. Are you listening, ABC?
Later, en route to the studio, Ashley says it's suddenly hitting him hard that he's essentially married to the four people sitting to him. Ikaika stares straight ahead, serious, wondering how Malia feels about bigamy. "These are the people we're gonna see now," intones Erik, who's steering the Man Van. "We're gonna be one. We're gonna totally be a group." He is a quick study.
The guys encircle a conference table and face Jay. "Everything changed last night," he says. "Congratulations." The pleasantries end there. Jay preps the guys for what he thinks will be the toughest reality. "The five of you decided you want to be famous," Jay says, smirking. "Your families didn't." Ikaika's head twitches. "Mine did," he thinks. Jay insists that all the families need to change their telephone numbers immediately. "My family's had the same phone number for twenty-two years," marvels Trevor, as though they're incapable of memorizing seven more digits. Jacob's confessional scene informs us that he's trying hard to stay grounded, and prepare himself for the onslaught of fame and fortune. He's steeling his moral resolve, to help him cling to what's really important in life. Or he's jonesing for screen time by waxing virtuous. "I just hope the band as a whole can remember that," Jacob says of his "stay grounded" plan. Because if he's gonna eschew a lifelong solo career so he can sing with four others, then they'd better mold themselves in his image. Jay talks about the public's perceived right-to-know, deeming it out of control. He then lowers the boom one more time. "I'll never ask you not to have a girlfriend," Jay tells the wide-eyed guys. Ikaika twitches again. "But I defy any of you to be able to keep one," Jay concludes. Cut to a nodding Ashley. Gosh, could he and Shelli be in trouble?
"I am like nooooot going to be able to do this," whines Shelli. "It's going to be soooo hard for me and it's not going to work." Shelli's call-waiting beeps. It's Norman Vincent Peale. "What the fuck is this?" he rants. "Did I stutter? Power. Of. Positive. Thinking. Come ON, dammit!" Ashley's preoccupied with whether Shelli's issuing an ultimatum, which of course she is, despite her lame attempts at denial. The confessional scenes are freshly shot, and it's clear Ashley's been dressed and done up by a professional. He's sporting spiky hair standing straight up, and some funky-ass eye makeup. "Shelli needs attention in a relationship," he informs us. "And now more than ever, I have less personal time." The two of them go back and forth in a tedious semi-fight that's hard to follow because they're so vague. Shelli mutters something about being unable to stay in Redding (Calif.) any longer, and then seems to think Ashley's adherence to his O-Town dream is some kind of rejection. "I kneeeeew you'd change your miiiiiiind," Shelli complains. She makes me sorry vowels were ever invented. "If that's what you want, that's what'll happen and you'll forget about what I want," she finishes, lamely. At this point, I'm not even totally sure what they're talking about, because the editors sacrificed coherence for brevity. An unfair trade. They hang up, with Ashley lamenting his inability to change the subject and stem the tide of arguments.
Thank God for TyJuan, whose mere visage cheers me up. "It would've been difficult no matter who left," he says. Jacob does a double-take. "Someone left?" he thinks to himself, vaguely aware that there's fewer people around. "They didn't consult me." TyJuan proceeds to remind them that singing and dancing aren't the only ingredients for a light, airy O-Town that doesn't collapse in the oven. No, it's about image, he says. "It's time to make it happen," TyJuan says, cuing up the hip-hop rhythms. In a wacky triple-split screen, we see the guys doing sit-ups and synchronizing shoulder movements. Erik steps into the confessional. "It'll take a lotta time to recondition myself and get to the place where going home and practicing, going to bed early and eating right is my way of living," he says. We see Hot Lips himself doing sit-ups, and struggling. Ikaika chips in that there's a performance in eleven days, so there's no time to mess around. "We have to be on our game, and get our act together," he says. "I'm actually scared. We don't have the luxury of time." The guys stand in a row, turning their heads and moving their shoulders. They grunt. Ashley's wearing…a fedora? What is he, a 1950s journalist? Oh, man.
Raymond del Barrio pops back on-screen to crack the whip while TyJuan takes a breather. He's singling out Hot Lips. "What I see is that Erik wants to do his own thing, and he's gonna do his own thing," Raymond snipes. "You're bringing down the whole thing." During the reprimand, Hot Lips pouts, although I'm not sure he has much choice -- a pair of kissers that big pretty much does its own thing. Ikaika's voice-over points out that Erik's his biggest concern: He's "very egotistical, very caught up in his own ego," Ikaika says. "It irritates me." The camera still hasn't cut away from Erik, who's staring away to the side, looking like an angry young man. Raymond notes that unless Hot Lips pipes up when he's lost or behind, "I'm going to keep coming down on you" -- off-camera, Lou chortles suggestively -- "and that's what you don't like." Pout, pout, pout. We get it.
The guys practice their new slow song, and Ikaika's on the lead microphone. His voice sounds rather good, but the five of them together really haven't meshed yet. Jacob's obsessed with leadership, as usual, saying he's shocked that no one's really jockeying for the Top Dog job. "There's no leader. There's a lot of individuals coming together to make an idea, then splitting apart to achieve it in different ways," Jacob gripes. "It's a big, annoying…circle." Apparently, Jacob's been taking eloquence lessons from Erik-Michael. Meanwhile, TyJuan wants the guys to go see C-Note, a B-list band (with a downward bullet) that TyJuan's trying to pass off as an A-level act. He figures seeing a "real" group will highlight just how far O-Town has to go, but unfortunately the best he can come up with is C-Note, so he crosses his fingers and hopes there's a lesson there somewhere.
Strobe lights are in full effect at the C-Note show. Ashley explains that "it's a good experience" to watch C-Note because "when we perform we wanna go out there and kick." As C-Note sings a ballad, we see Ikaika belting out the song from up in the cheap seats. Apparently, Lou Pearlman's heft far exceeds his actual clout -- if the guys were any closer to the rafters, they'd have nosebleeds. Trevor looks shell-shocked. "I think we were all just like, whoa, reality check, we really gotta practice," he says. Ikaika sings once more, with feeling. The curtain drops.
At a pizza place after the show, Ikaika explains his reaction to C-Note: "I almost cried. It's so beautiful, what they do, putting so much heart and soul into [the song]," Ikaika gushes. Everyone agrees they're nervous about going onstage and screwing up royally. Lou's wearing a napkin bib. Figures. Ikaika's logical step is that they work out like fiends. "No excuses. We start tomorrow, get our butts up and run and lift," Ikaika warns his friends. "It's gonna be a regimen, fellas." At ease, please. Jesus.
In the morning, true to his word, Ikaika rouses Erik and Ashley for a run. Hot Lips doesn't like it. "Ikaika tries to be a motivator when it comes to working out, and I just don't see it happening right now," he says. "I don't think anyone's a leader yet." Will you shut up about the leadership? I swear, if anyone busts out with "You're not the boss of me," I'm tossing the television out the window. Ikaika's take on the situation is that someone has to keep the group in line, and he thinks his age -- he's the oldest, at twenty-one -- qualifies him for the task. "I have a lot of drive and determination I can bring to this group," he boasts. Yes, true, and right now it's driving Erik's lungs into overdrive. I think he just busted one. "Start off doing twenty-five [push-ups] and tell me how you feel," Ikaika instructs. "I do five sets of fifty." Braggart. Jacob calls him on it, joking that he's belittling them. "Oh, I usually do six hundred, but you boys start with ten," he mocks, and Ikaika laughs along with everyone else. "Dude, you're so dead," he thinks at Jacob. For his part, Jacob's exercising while wearing a boater's hat. I hate him for it, and yet it's sparing me an eyeful of his hair, so I shouldn't complain. Especially not when I'm treated to him -- and to be fair, everyone but Ikaika -- badly botching the push-ups and barely even bending his arms.
Ashley's jamming a fork into the red Bat Phone. "I don't think this is quite cooked yet," he thinks. Silence. "I'm kinda bummed," Ash says into the phone. "It's not a very happy time any more." He forks the phone again, so I assume it's a lot more fun than it looks. In a voice-over, Ashley admits Shelli's letting him down by not being strong enough to handle long-distance issues. "Why do yooou have to be the one I like fell in love with, and you left," Shelli moans. Diagram that sentence. Ashley gently tells Shelli he'll understand if she wants to abandon the relationship, but Shelli would rather play the Ultimatum Game again. She reminds Ashley that he said he'd come home with a few words from her, and essentially Shelli tries to collect on that. "I can't believe you're asking me to do that," Ashley says, dumbfounded. Shelli regrets supporting his audition, fixated on how much she gave up to let him out of her life -- about one-hundred-sixty pounds of sweet lovin', to be exact. Ashley's understandably angry. "So you wish for me that I never got to see my dreams come true, and that you did?" he asks. To us, Ashley confesses her words wounded him, and made him wonder about the value of a girlfriend who actually wishes his ambitions won't ever be reality. "I was everything to you, and now this is," she laments. Ashley tells her he's always wanted this lifestyle and she knew that, and that's enough to make Shelli hang up on him. The Ultimatum Game has a funny way of turning into Solitaire. Ashley retreats. Erik, who'd been shamelessly staring and listening, touches the phone and stares at it in wonder, as though he doesn't understand this special talking gadget. I think he's Unfrozen Cave Man Tenor.
In a montage of all the shows of which ABC is proud, Making the Band clips are conspicuously absent.
Ikaika is the gym teacher from Hell, forcing his bandmates to hang from the doorframe and do pull-ups. He will be installing a rope in the living room tomorrow. On the phone with Malia, Ikaika boasts they'll be in shape in no time, and assumes they're really grateful for his athletic influence. "I'm great for that, because it's what I do for myself," Ikaika says. To his girlfriend, Ikaika mocks Erik's inability to do one pull-up. Simultaneously, we see him struggle, with Jacob holding his knees as his legs flail and splay around. Erik does six and quits, and for some reason fails to kick Ikaika in the teeth. "I shoulda said, 'Come on guys, my girlfriend lifts better than you do,'" Ikaika laughs rudely. He is a rotten pineapple. Jacob butts in that no one likes it when Ikaika takes over like that, and implies they aren't working hard enough or that they have no concept of a truly great workout. Later, in the studio, Ikaika is busy laying into Erik, accusing him of slacking. "Did I not come home sweaty?" Erik protests. It's not good enough -- Ikaika didn't see him in the gym, and thinks he's not committed to the cause. Whatever, Ikaika. Muscles and washboard abs won't get your voice on-key, or turn your extra left foot into a right one. They argue loudly, with Erik contending that Ikaika's out of line. "I'm not up to your level, bro, so don't put me at your level. It's not your place," Erik yells. "Over. Done. Serious." Verbs. Sentences. Unnecessary. Jacob shows up in confessional mode again to reiterate that Ikaika's too judgmental about their fitness levels, and he's wrongly putting himself on a physical-fitness pedestal. Ikaika wants to bitch. "Erik makes a lotta damn excuses, and he's gotta stop doing that," he says. Trevor was practicing in the background that entire time, but the others don't waste their time with piddly band-like tasks such as singing.
Man Van. Ashley's had an epiphany. "Everyone in the entire world is looking at this, and they're gonna want to watch and see if we fall on our faces," he asserts. Damn right! It's only a matter of time. Jacob urges them to remember that they are capable, and can get the upcoming show together in time. "This could be the turning point where we surprise the hell out of everybody," Ashley whispers. Jacob tries again to take over as Chief Motivator, pointing out that the band will never be tight unless each member helps out his other bandmates when they miss a step or forget synchronicity. "Honestly? We're going to need some vocal help," admits Erik. Ikaika agrees the vocals sound awful. "The pitch pipe should be in here," Ikaika says sagely, tapping his forehead. Pitch pipe, schmitch pipe. Pass the crack pipe.
Lou and Dakari chill in the Trans Con studio. "This board only makes hits!" Lou chortles, pointing at the equipment. "Do this. It's a hit-maker, this board right here is a hit-maker." A horse drops dead, and Lou beats it. Ikaika steps up to the microphone to record harmonies for the love ballad, and the captioners again come through with the "off-key" designation. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes, wincing. Dakari coaches the right breathy tone from him, and Ikaika records it successfully but strains his vocal range. "That's kinda high," Ikaika laughs uncomfortably. "I don't care, you went there!" celebrates Dakari. "You shouldn't have done it, but you did, and now I'm lovin' it and you're gonna do it. I'm gonna find some range in you, boy," Dakari cackles evilly. Outside the booth, Dakari plays it back for Ikaika, who blushes and high-fives Jacob. "Ikaika's started to embrace this entire situation, his whole attitude has changed totally," Jacob semi-enthuses. Ikaika must have pulled this newfound interest out of the second asshole Jacob ripped him two episodes ago. Ashley's stunned at Ikaika's range, and can't duplicate the technique. "My voice always cracks on me," he laughs, blasting out a few notes that sound like he's speaking Wookie. Ikaika becomes the third person in twenty minutes to mention how much he's given up in relation to O-Town, and he commits himself to doing it correctly. "Right then, that's when I changed my mind about Ikaika," Erik-Michael recalls. "Maybe he becomes a performer like no other." Dakari makes a joke about Ikaika's new confidence. "Excuse me, I'm going solo now," he jokes, pretending to be a strutting Ikaika. Trevor wants in on the fun, so he slaps hands with Ikaika.
Hot Lips boogies through the house with embarrassing moves, evoking painful memories of misfits gettin' their grooves on in The Breakfast Club. His shirt's on inside-out AGAIN -- good thing he'll have people to dress him for public appearances. "I wanted to give Ikaika a clean slate, and wanted to keep my sanity," Erik says. "It's the only way anything's going to be productive at this point." So he makes peace by asking Ikaika to lift weights with him. It's so touching that I need absolutely no hankies whatsoever. None. Zilch. Erik tries lifting three sets of weights as a joke, balking because they're far too heavy for him. As we see them work up a sweat, Erik admits Ikaika has "potential," and says he's impressed by the sharing and joking Ikaika's done since Lou made the cut. "This is stuff that we need to grow, and he's done it," Erik says. Ikaika shakes his hand after completing push-ups.
Morose, Ashley is again stuck in conversation with Shelli. "I feel like I'm ruining your life," he says, upset. She's pretty adept at laying a guilt trip. Shelli does take a stab at the "it's not you, it's me" line, but Ash refutes it because she's been blaming him for everything the entire time they've fought. "The conversations we've been having are building up…to a final decision," he says in the confessional. To Shelli, he says it will be too hard to be together, and suggests not necessarily splitting up, but giving each other space. "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said," Shelli spits at him. "There's like four thousand miles between us. You want some more space? Why don't you go overseas?" If he had a snappy answer, the producers denied us the pleasure. Instead, we hear him talk about how distance alone isn't the problem: "It's me doing what I'm doing and having it take up so very much of my time and devotion and strength," Ashley tells us. "It doesn't allow a lot of room for love." One brain blanked, four to go. This is why they pay Jay the big bucks. "I don't want you to feel bad any more," Ashley says sadly, hanging up. Obvious background tunes play, oozing sentiments like, "She's the best thing I ever had," and, "Yesterday's gone with my love." Sucking a slushy, Ashley leans against a doorframe and frowns. A tear trickles down his cheek. America falls in love with our little bruised Angel. Well, all Americans under eighteen. Everyone else probably just sighs and turns on The Simpsons.
up: the first performance.