American Idol

From The Gong Show to Star Search to Pop Idol to American Idol…Americans (and others) are a very spoiled (and very large) bunch of talent show viewers.  If it sings, we listen.  If it wants to sing but cracks and flounders, we watch.  If it makes it to singing and nearly flopping then returning to sing again we vote.  And if it, now glamorous and far-ranging she, now inventive and iconoclastic he, can withstand the back-biting, the front-stabbing, and the hisses, boos, cheers, cries, and laughs, she/he might just become the apple of our American Idol eyes, the center of our American Idol focus, and the priority of our American Idol purchases.

I am forty-six years old and have no problem admitting I am utterly fixated on, transfixed by, American Idol.  I wanted to be—after writer for hire—a singer.  So I identify with the challenges, the competitiveness, the esteem and wavering of esteem that is attached to climbing the musical tree to be the star at the top.

Further, I appreciate a great, nurtured voice (as one with a kick-ass country-rock style that once riveted her own listeners, ahem).  I respect singers who can stand in front of the practiced, experienced wisdom of Paula, the in-crowd understanding of what works musically of Randy, and the caustic but honest brutality of what works financially of Simon. 

Like thousands, I’m sure, I cry when a song reaches celestial greatness, has an impact on the viscera that moves bowels, has an unerring and seamless delivery…made by the intense and sustained focus of Clay Aiken, offered as bedroom innocence and cool by Ruben Studdard, given as heart-wrenching and body calling energy and devotion by Fantasia Barrino.

Like thousands, during the state-to-state auditions, I too laugh and snap invectives at the dimwit with the exaggerated sense of self auditioning so badly my cat startles. 

Like thousands, during the audience-decided rounds, I anxiously, literally hold my breath as I phone in to vote and have to hit redial until the automaton says thanks for voting for Nadia Turner, Constantine Maroulis, Vonzell Solomon, and, especially, Beau Bice.  [Sorry Carrie, can’t stomach the balloon with a wig persona attached to a not all that remarkable in range or creativity or wisdom voice.]

And at the final show of the season, I dress up and prepare special award-ceremony foods, and enlist my friends to participate in the hooting and hollering (having already lured them in months earlier to the addicting character that is American Idol, anyway).

The only American Idol behavior I stop short of is holding up signs, which no one but my poor, overwhelmed roommates would see.  But I use the right names a lot, chanting for Vonzell, cooing about Clay, and Canvassing for Beau as if I had some stake in the show.

After Fantasia, who was (is) the most musically effusive, most physically immersed, and most adeptly skilled beyond the margins vocal genius since Janis Joplin and Patti LaBelle and Bette Midler combined, I was proud of the rockers who (in 2005) invaded the otherwise “eh” American Idol genre choice (though I am well aware that pop sells and that the largest album-buying crowd right now is the bubble gum-snapping pre-teen).  As a former seventies adolescent, that is, I screamed and groaned in ecstasy whenever a rocker ripped off a brilliant version of songs by Sting, Nickleback, Greg Allman, Otis Redding, Lynnard Skynnard, and more.  Of course, that’s when the singer nails it.  When the performer sings a slow, mournful ballad but is hopping and grinning, or when he/she is cracking and unsure and destroying the memory for me, I am less than pleased and thinking up ways to ensure that boob never sings again.

Hell, the rock music isn’t the only compelling element of American Idol.  I get goose bumps just writing about American Idol…or every time I see the new promotions for the new season, which begins—thank God!—January 17th.