Last time, we bore unfortunate witness to O-Town's first performance, which took place in an Orlando asylum that's code-named "Southwest Middle School." Young girls screamed. They're Lou's modern incarnation of Pavlov's dog: Find five pretty boys, ring the dented, dull bells that are their vocal cords, and an entire demographic stands and salivates. Jacob's just warming up, though; he shares that SW M.S. was just a practice for him, where he and his cohorts went out and tried to do their best whether the audience reacted or not. Good thing Lou paid them to cheer, fed them stimulants and programmed their minds for good measure. "They may confuse girls screaming with it being a good show," TyJuan says to the camera. "When we review the tapes it'll be a reality check." We see six girls in the bleachers swaying, which looks like rhythmic cheering but which is actually a result of wooziness; they're way up in the rafters, and their noses are hemorrhaging. Finally, Jacob reminds us, "Record executives will be looking at us on Friday, so we have to be as good as possible."
And the credits roll. We'll dedicate this episode to TyJuan's passion, sacrifice and determination, since he's a stud and his career's in the incapable hands of five lackluster singers.
Dramatic drumbeats take us into our first overhead shot of Orlando. We slowly locate the O-Town house and peek inside at the action. And boy is it hoppin' in the O-bode: Trevor's in bed and Ikaika's taking a controversial stroll into the bathroom. Thrills and chills. It's all there. Trevor's yelling at someone not to use all the hot water, and suddenly, I know exactly what's coming . My nudity alarm beeps loudly. And there, standing under a piping hot shower spray, is a dripping wet, self-scrubbing Ashley, putting the "show" in Shower Cam. Sitting in the studio talking to the cameras, Trevor tells us that today, they're practicing on a real stage for the first time. No basketball nets, no paint on the floor, no pretty banners that say "Girls' Volleyball Regional Champs" and no grade-six gym class playing an intrusive game of dodgeball during the show. Excited, Erik recklessly defies directions and squirts a SECOND quarter-sized blob of hair gel into the palm of his hand, massaging it into his crunchy mop. We're through the looking glass here, people. He then dons a sweater vest, glasses and a baseball cap -- nice planning with the hair! -- and climbs aboard the Man Van.
Tense guitar music guides the Man Van through the boring Orlando highways toward a ramshackle shed that is supposedly the back entrance to the House of Blues. It's time for serious rehearsal. Raymond explains that, before they go over the songs, they'll have to chat about the Southwest Middle School show. Ikaika shows off the adeptness with which he fibs. "We thought we sucked, so go ahead and give it to us," he tells Raymond. What a wimp. He was ecstatically praising their effort last time until Jay urinated all over the O-Town parade. Off-camera, Ashley chips in that all things considered, everyone felt really pleased with the performance. "The Southwest Middle School show was fun," Jacob says in confessional. Got that? Southwest Middle School. It's a fun place. Yes, this fine educational institution is the only one in the world that can guarantee your child at least one Lou Pearlman sighting. Enroll today! Do it now and get a free vial of Ikaika's new fragrance, "Indecision." "The girls were screaming so loud, we couldn't hear ourselves," Jacob says, adding that as a result they all missed a lot of notes -- and I don't mean the "Will you go out with me? Yes/No, Circle One" kind of notes the teenage audience balled up into sweaty wads and heaved at O-Town.
TyJuan takes over the meeting, telling the guys he especially enjoyed the high energy each one exuded. "I could tell you were mesmerized at times at the reaction you were getting from" the crowd, TyJuan says. "Erik contained himself more than I thought he would, whereas Jacob, who had it under control the whole time, went behind the sound booth." Forbidden territory -- the performer's equivalent of groping and french-kissing under the bleachers, which probably also happened during the show. We see a black-and-white recollection of the moment, where Jacob responds to screaming fans stuck in terrible seats. He laughingly tells TyJuan he was trying to be fair, since they were so far afield from the makeshift stage. Everyone smiles because Jacob finally thought of someone other than himself. The room -- a musicians' lounge -- is cast in a disturbing red light. I guess it's supposed to be hip and edgy, but it just makes me thirsty. For blood. Type O. Although I'd be willing to settle for some Orange Gatorade. TyJuan praises the guys, attaches the usual "all things considered" caveat and then launches into a lecture about sensationalism. "Be in control of the audience. Don't let it control you," he advises. TyJuan has toned down the Lenny Kravitz/Richard Simmons look, replacing it with a James Brown hairdo and kinky glasses. The man is a chameleon of funk. Giddy in the presence of the Godfather of Soul, Ashley privately waxes rhapsodic about the wonders of music and the feeling of communicating passionate messages to others. He does it in voice-over as we see the moment he's verbally recreating. "It was magic," Ashley gushes. "I was singing to a girl in the audience, looking at her in her eyes...She was feeling everything I was feeling." Judging by the expression on her face, then, Ashley was feeling nausea. Or his testicles. Or a hankering for some really dirty man-on-animal porn.
Mini-Lou brings the guys to the stage and then dumps on them like a truck of shit on Biff's 1955 black convertible. "Yesterday was not acceptable," he says sternly. Jacob shakes his head, as though he too is admonishing everyone. We see bits of both songs with the live singing isolated -- and oh, wow. They sound so terrible. This is amateur hour at the local karaoke bar, O-Town's had a few Bud Lights too many, and they're yelling lyrics so the drunk transvestite outside the bar can chime in on the chorus. First Erik, then Ikaika, then -- hell, all five of them sound like they're straining their voices. This, to me, proves the pre-recorded songs backed them up during the show. Mini-Lou grabs the screen again. "You have to run your show," he says. "You cannot allow the audience to take over because it will, and your show goes downhill." If O-Town doesn't sound good on-stage, then this whole show is over, Mini-Lou adds for dramatic effect. He points out that when they perform to huge crowds, anyone could be in the audience -- so always go out prepared to wow any industry execs who can help O-Town rake in the dough. Because you just never know, you really never know which cable-television executive might coincidentally stroll into....
....Hark! And there he is. Van Toffler walks in, strutting like he's the goddamn general manager of MTV or something. Lou rolls in after him and introduces him as such, so the guys and ABC's viewers are suitably impressed. "Van. Van's the Man," Trevor grins as he shakes Van's hand. Who can kiss the ass of Van the Man? The Man Van men can. Lou asks for a run-through in honor of Van-Man's visit. "It's a big deal," Jacob shares. "I know everyone's kinda worried. We have to be as good as possible," which in O-Town terms translates to a very shaky mediocre. The guys open their mouths and unleash horror onto Lou, Van-Man and the Trans Con staff. Ashley sums it up neatly, telling us the choreography fell apart and they missed most of the harmonies while they bumped into each other. "He just had an effect on us," Trevor recalls. Mini-Lou looks down, shakes his head a fraction and paces, while Raymond simply stares at the floor. They finish and earn a smattering of applause, and right away Trevor requests two minutes alone with his bandmates.
O-Town convenes in the hallway as Trevor says in a confessional, "It was horrible, absolutely horrible." Back by the stage, Lou is telling Van-Man about his guys. "I have interest from a lot of record companies, needless to say, in what we're doing." The camera cuts away before we hear him add, "And right now I'm shitting enough bricks to build a mansion." Because it's important to honor O-Town's desire for time alone, Mini-Lou storms backstage to lecture them. Commence reprimand: "How come it is when I point at you, you just blank and don't think of anything?" Jabba Jr. says to Ashley, butchering the language. Mini-Lou demands that Ashley focus his mind instead of dreaming about an auditorium packed with hundreds of thousands of fans. Ash looks down, unwilling to admit he was dreaming about using record royalties to buy his mother a brand-spanking-new divorce. He darts a glance at Erik, who bows his head to suppress a snicker and even turns his back for a second before composing himself. Hello! Did you hear yourselves out there? Don't be cocky, children. Listen to the genetic impossibility that is Mini-Lou. "One person walked in and you got caught up in it...You cracked face," Raymond snaps. "You're so ahead of yourselves and psyched out." Mini-Lou accuses the five of being in the band for the wrong reasons. Well, that's what you get when you serve up the Fast-Track to Fame on a nice silver platter garnished with julienne vegetables and a killer Hollandaise. "If in your heart of hearts you're here for the right reasons, we need to see it now," Mini-Lou says. "Get on this train, because it's rolling and you're gonna get run over."
Domino's Pizza has a new slogan: Bad Andy, Good Pizza. ABC's new slogan: Bad O-Town, good ratings.
We return with a close-up of a microphone, then a serious shot of a darkened stage with five empty stools. The five bums that belong there are getting verbally spanked backstage by TyJuan. "This is serious art for us...It upsets me when you take it for granted because I work too hard," he says. "I didn't audition and get picked." Mini-Lou chips in that a bad performance will make O-Town look like total chumps. The King Chump walks over and Trevor gets contrite. "Sorry to make you look bad," Trevor tells Lou, who simply pats Trev on the back and calmly tells the guys to heed the staff's advice. "Keep striving for more and more perfection," Lou says, implying they have any perfection on which to build. "Practice makes perfect." Satisfied with this fatherly advice, Lou leaves and further cements my opinion of him as an irrelevant figurehead.
O-Town retreats to the musician's lounge, despite the fact that by definition, none of the guys belong in there. "What we did SUCKED," Trevor says, and everyone agrees. Ashley's more concerned about mood, though. "Feel the energy in this room," he says. "If we go down there like this, we'll mess up. Those talks...bring me down and intimidate me more." Ikaika lamely says all they can do is their best with what they know. A disbelieving Jacob asks if Ikaika really thought that was his best work. "I thought I did my best, yeah," Ikaika says. "I'm never going to leave anything saying I didn't do my best." That allows for a lot of self-deceit. Trevor, riled about the intrusion of the coaches, resents that everyone turned a deaf ear to his request for two minutes of private time. He, Ashley and Erik agree that the backstage confrontation with TyJuan, Raymond and Mini-Lou did nothing but beat down their morale. After brooding for a bit -- who does he think he is? Malia? -- Jacob stands up and quietly walks out of the harshly-red-lit room. Trevor calls out, "Where are you going?" and when he gets no answer, a dumbfounded Ashley wonders aloud what sparked the tantrum. "Know what that was?" Trevor asks, and the other four chime in on the answer. "That was, 'I'm Jacob Underwood! I'm better than anybody else!'" If four people who live with Jacob consider his ego unwieldy, then I feel justified in re-christening Jacob as "Just Another Conceited Overindulged Bastard." I'll refer to him by the acronym, which is simply "Jacob." Nice how that works. They all laugh, but sadly, not at my joke. Erik remains a tad somber. "I know right now that we didn't need that," he says. Erik is wise.
Ranger Marc escorts Jacob on a pouty stroll outside. "I asked for a three-minute break, and we're four over," Marc chides Jacob. The prima donna walks with his head down. We're treated to a long profile shot of an angry young man burning for a shot at solo stardom...then, the camera leaves Ranger Marc and switches to Jacob. This is a fifteen-second snore of a shot."We have the capability of being ready, but it's up to us," Jacob says in voice-over. "We have what it takes to make it happen but we have to focus." He has a point. But he's still a bitch. Jacob returns to the House of Blues with an enormous case of them.
Marc appears in the lounge doorway, peering into the red room. "Why did Jacob leave?" Trevor asks twice, but Marc ignores him as though all the ills of Jacob's world are Trevor's fault. "He's downstairs," Marc simply says. Erik repeats that Jacob left "because he's Jacob Underwood." More laughter and slapping of hands. Smart Clapper turns off the lights. Downstairs Jacob sits alone on-stage, cross-legged and nursing a water bottle. Marc takes his hand and pulls him up, bringing him over to the other four. Erik's half-hearted "What's up?" wins nothing from Jacob. "I can't perform to Jacob and have a fun time, interacting with him onstage, when I don't know if he wants to punch me," Ashley says in voice-over. A super-surly Jacob says, "I'm fine" to no one in particular and angrily throws down his bottle cap. The guys line up to perform, and TyJuan calls for an onslaught of energy and excitement. Privately, Raymond says, "Jacob's the workhorse." TyJuan agrees, "He has the work ethic they all need." Please, guys, stop giving Jacob so much head. If you do, maybe his ego won't have as much room to bloom and grow forever like it's fucking Edelweiss.
On stage, Jacob sits slightly away from the other four, who stand together and stretch arms across each other's shoulders. A Bunim-Murray staffer actually sneaks up behind me and hits me over the head with a videotape of this scene. TyJuan tells the guys rehearsal is just a foundation, onto which they add their own personal touches to really grab people's attention. He singles out a little arm motion Ashley does, and everyone giggles. "Jacob was total intensity," TyJuan says. "Total Sisqo/Michael Jackson. Moonwalk and sidewalk and glidewalking, popping and jumping and hopping." Yeah? Well I do not like that Jacob man. I do not like him, Sam-I-Am. TyJuan encourages the guys to allow themselves to go with the flow and keep the shows alive. He then extols Jacob's virtues again. "Everyone touch Jacob and get a little of that energy," TyJuan says. "Go over there and touch the man!" Silence. No one moves. A lone cough breaks the quiet. TyJuan whips out his ten-foot pole, and still no one wants to touch Jacob. Lou's hand slowly reaches out from behind the curtain but a production aide abruptly yanks it back. The producers want us to love him. "I don't think any of us here have earned this," he says in confessional. "We have to prove to everyone that we have the right to be here." If Jacob acted a little less like an asshole, I wouldn't mind that he sometimes makes sense. But as it is, he could call me beautiful and I'd still want to kick him in the teeth.
Enough talking. The guys start rehearsing, breaking into "Baby, I Would." Jacob starts and sounds fine, very nasal as usual. Erik is supposed to pitch in a harmony on the second line, but he forgets. Instead he sits there staring at the floor, bored -- and yet, I still hear the harmony faintly in the background. Proof # 2 that the recorded single is backing them. TyJuan shouts out that Erik inexplicably missed the harmony. "I told Erik he has to stop making the same mistakes over again," Ikaika tells the camera, frustrated. One would think Erik could figure that out on his own, but at least someone's looking out for him. Raymond is less gentle. "I'm not gonna let you get away with that," he shouts at Erik. "You've got to focus, I don't care what it is. I don't know what else to tell you." Erik is obstinate. "Have you seen my lips? I can't move these things at will," he complains. Raymond points out that the coaches are there to give them helpful tools, but it's up to the guys to use them correctly. So far, in those terms, Erik's basically been trying to eat cereal with a knife.
After rehearsal, TyJuan gathers the guys downstage and comforts them. "It's getting better, so don't think that it's not," he assures them. "It could be even better, and I'm never gonna settle." He explains that, as their perfectionist teacher, he's probably never going to be entirely happy with anything they do, but he at least expects to see a drive to succeed. "Things will continue to compound from this point," Raymond tells the guys. "It'll only get more difficult." TyJuan slaps their hands and vows that the night, they'll give a blowout performance. Ashley's more concerned about a blowup than a blowout. "Ikaika, Erik, Trevor and me [sic] talked, but no one knew how Jacob felt because he got up and walked out," Ashley says. Tensions rise.
In the hellish red room, Erik tries to engage Jacob. "All we had to do on the whole was boost ourselves up," he says. "Honestly we didn't need that discussion before." Jacob would rather not hear about it. Anything that happened without him couldn't be worthy of prolonged discussion. Erik keeps defending their bitch session. "And did it help?" Jacob spits. "That time alone up here with you talking. Did it help?" Erik insists it did, but Jacob contradicts him and starts to ask Erik why, if their private time helped, the recent rehearsal was so terrible. Trevor, desperate to be the meat in the Erik-Jacob sandwich, eases himself between them to demand they hold off on talking until Ashley arrives. "I'm discussing this with Jacob," Erik snaps. "You're breaking my conversation." Trevor points out that they all want to talk to him about the same subject. "Let me talk to him," Erik says. Jacob just stands there watching two grown guys argue for the right to turn around and argue with him. Trevor shouts and grunts in frustration. He sees it all too clearly: First Jacob and Erik write ridiculous songs together, then they argue together...pretty soon they'll be catfighting in a pool of mud, and yet again Trevor won't get in on the action. There's no justice.
Still in the Red Light District. Ikaika looks sullen and Jacob acts mad. "I told you, don't kiss on the mouth!" he shouts. Trevor finally gets his chance to have words with Jacob. "Listen, you got up and you just left," Trevor says firmly. "We are a group. You don't just get up and leave." Bunim-Murray thoughtfully blurred the entire room -- shirts, hats, walls, even light fixtures that might have the audacity promote a non-paying entity. None of the boys faces are fuzzed out because they're pretty much paying for this with their lives. Jacob wants the spotlight: "The four of you were having this pity party and I [didn't want to be] part of it," he shouts. Ashley interjects that it's impossible for him to go onstage and feel energetic after getting reamed by Lou's chunky clone. That demoralized feeling only hurts his performance more, Ash says. "If I make one mistake I dwell on it," Jacob counters. "And I will not let myself do it again without getting irate at myself." Ashley decides there's a critical distinction between criticizing oneself and dwelling on mistakes. Jacob screams that it's their pity party and they can bitch if they want to, but he has no patience for it. He's worked his ass off, Jacob says, and doesn't want to make a fool of himself with bandmates who can't get it right. "There's no reason why you should've got up and left," Trevor yells dramatically, smacking his hands together. Ikaika wants in on this suddenly, and busts out with some nonsense. "If you got up and left, what gives me no reason to get up and beat the crap out of you?" Ikaika asks. Erik, his brother in inanity, looks proud. "He speak good. Much nice logical," his lips think. Ashley shakes his head and the room is even blurrier. I wonder vaguely if I'm drunk, and then I see a commercial for Double Platinum, the TV movie rerun of the year that brings Diana Ross and Brandy together at last. And I realize I'm stone-cold sober and in programming hell.
A brightly painted arrow points upstairs to the Red Light District. "Get it here," it reads. We hear muffled arguments. Jacob is criticizing someone for going to an extreme, but because continuity is not of paramount importance to Bunim-Murray, we have no idea who or why. "Well, you went to a fucking extreme!" Ikaika shouts at Jacob. Prima Donna can't believe his pierced ears. He retorts that walking away from a room of bad energy shouldn't count as an extreme measure. "You were doing something that I didn't agree with!" Jacob says, because it's so inconvenient when he's not allowed to control what the other four do. "Then don't agree with it," Trevor urges. "But don't get up and walk away." Ikaika drops the f-bomb again, because this is a fucking family show, Jacob is his goddamn "bro," mothafucka, and you fucking have to swear like a bitch-ass ho or else it's not fucking keepin' it real. Ashley encourages Jacob to voice his objections because anything else comes across as an ego trip. In the background, Ikaika is wailing "Hell no! Hell! No! No hell no!" It's probably because the B/M editors, having used up the bleep quota for this week, have resorted to washing his f-ing mouth out with soap. He spits out the Lever 2000 and rejoins the argument. "Jake has a point. We have to focus," Ikaika says. "But I don't think any of us can say we haven't done 100% any time we've gone out there." Erik checks the contract and confirms that indeed, legally they are not allowed to admit they've done less. Jacob completely calls Ikaika on what is essentially a bullshit statement. As Ikaika polls the room for confirmation that everyone's tried his hardest, Jacob turns on Erik. "When we say snap and clap and you don't do it, why not?" he yells. Underneath his lower lip, Erik hides his dog-eared copy of Snapping and Clapping: The Mating Dance of Cannibals and just shrugs at Jacob. Erik is wearing a red t-shirt that blends seamlessly with the hellish lighting, so he looks like a disembodied head floating around. His head tries to argue that it's okay to have messed up only once. So you pilots out there, take heart: Erik says it's fine if you've only crashed the plane once. "I missed the harmony one time and you throw it back in my face, like you throw it back any time anyone does anything wrong," Erik accuses Jacob. Trevor challenges Jacob, asking if he's implying that he did everything perfectly. Jacob basically acknowledges that yes, he is flawless. "How many times have I heard you crack? Tons of times, but I don't throw it back in your face," Erik says, throwing it back in Jacob's face.
Irritated, Jacob isn't done with Erik. "When we stay stand here and you don't stand there, why not?" Jacob asks. "It's always something." He then lies that he doesn't enjoy being the guy who delineates all of his pals' mistakes -- but he doesn't want to participate when the others make excuses for themselves, either, Jacob says. "That's a bunch of crap!" Ikaika yells, spitting fleks of Waterfall-fresh-scented Irish Spring out of his indignant mouth. "I have the highest notes in this whole song and I don't ever make excuses about that." Easy. That's because there is no excuse for it. The tiff deteriorates into whether Jacob's complaining about the singing or the dancing. It's spun wildly off the topic of Jacob's arrogant departure from the earlier group discussion. Deep down, I don't think anyone was sorry to see him go.
Outside, a surprised Jay gets the skinny from Ranger Marc...and afterward, he gets an update on the band's verbal scuffle. "This one's on them, so let them resolve it," Marc says. "This is a classic band squabble and I think it's their first." Aw, the First Time. Marc and Jay look dreamily at each other and sigh, because as they speak, five guys are upstairs in the Red Light District losing their collective virginity.
Back in Hookerville, Jacob's discussing oral techniques. So that's what Mini-Lou's been teaching them. "With your voice, whatever comes out, comes out," Jacob said. "If they say 'move here' and you don't, it's because you forgot. You don't forget not to crack." Erik is silenced. Jacob then hammers him with one final, and accurate, point. "I see you miss it six times in a row, and you say you're working at 100%," Jacob argues. "But if you miss it six times in a row, you've obviously NOT working at 100%." Erik's floating head pouts. Silence. Awkward looks. Erik raises his hand. "My cat's name is Mittens," he blurts. Jacob's just getting going, though, and he's delivering the final blow. "We suck," he yells. "Finally!" Lou weeps. Jacob urges the band to go out the night and prove to the world that they deserved to be chosen from thousands of wannabe singers.
Welcome to the dubious resolution -- O-Town's roiling orgasm of fury is about to anti-climax. Erik takes a deep breath and says, "Everything you just said, we said when we were in the room before." Jacob blinks. "Right. I should have stayed." That's it. The last ten minutes of fighting boiled down to that quick and simple conclusion. All that posturing, squabbling, yelling, finger-pointing and whining boiled down to that statement that had all the the drama of me tossing a pencil at a Nerf water gun.
Ranger Marc appears to evict them from The District because there's a couple of prostitutes from down the street who need to get set up in their headquarters. "Everyone hug each other!" someone shouts. Ikaika and Ashley hug. Jacob and Erik hug. Jacob and Ikaika hug, and Ashley and Erik hug. Trevor, left out, sits and squeezes himself. "I love you, kneecap!" he gushes. Ashley and Jacob exchange I Love Yous as well. "This is what's gonig to make us tighter, man," Ash says. Jacob grins. "I know," he says, "we'll fight and make up, and it's going to be sweet, sweet loving." They stare deep into each other's eyes. Music swells. Lou swells. The theme from From Here to Eternity plays as Jacob and Ashley lick their lips and pant...the record scratches. Ranger Marc drags them to the Man Van. Jacob closes the moment with one thought: "I want what's best for the group and I think the way I correct things can be more condescending than helpful sometimes," he says, grabbing a copy of Webster's Dictionary and erasing the definition of "understatement" so he can rewrite it.
At the O-zone, the guys are watching the eclipse. Ikaika and Jacob sit outside on deck chairs, and Ikaika is guzzing something from a pitcher. Margaritas, anyone? "It felt good performing for those people today," Ikaika says, "Even though it was only those people." Is he dissing the Van-Man? Wow. If he's not careful, he'll never get invited to judge Say What? Karaoke. Ikaika admits he didn't realize how tough it would be to accomplish all this in so little time. He looks tipsy. "I didn't know what to think," Jacob says. "I didn't think it would be easy." He keeps talking, and I'm suspecting they're both hammered out of their minds. Check this shit out: "How good would it feel when we do a show, and I know we can do a good job, we bust our butts and do a really good job and then shower everyone we could do it when we got up and did a show?" Phew. Jacob and tequila don't make the greatest cocktail. Both of them have bloodshot eyes. "That would be phat," Ikaika says dreamily. They stare drunkenly at the moon. The camera pans out and we see the other three passed out on the patio with margarita mix spilled all over their shirts, and things like "Boyz are purdy!" "Pinch me, I'm an Angel" and "Me + Lou 4 EVER" scrawled on their foreheads with eyeliner and a red Sharpie. The background music brings it all together: "I need to know that I can show what makes me better." Um, good luck with that, guys.
week: the House of Blues performance. Attention, K-Mart shoppers: There's a special on earplugs and blindfolds on aisle three. Go forth and protect yourselves.