American Idol 5: Upside Down — And All Fucked Up

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Idol Comeuppance: Elliot Yamin Grabs A Golden Moment

I watch American Idol for those magic moments when a transformation takes place, the crossroads moment, the moment when the kid on stage becomes a budding star in command of that stage.

And last night’s Idol offered up so many moments — both ill and golden — it was like watching one of those Cum-Shots-Only porn reels. I felt giddy and spent and wanted a cigarette afterwards. I was so tweaked I needed to clean myself up. The entire hour was one long clarifying moment when the gods and goddesses of Fame parted the veils and we saw right straight into the soul of each contestant. Fakers were exposed; true-blues glorified.

David Ogilvy, the godfather of Madison Avenue, would have understood the magic of last night’s show. In his seminal book On Advertising Ogilvy described how advertisements that feature before and after scenarios are always the most riveting. The public scrutinizes these ads intensely. It’s the fascination of the Cinderella story. Our curiosity about transitional moments works out of the unconscious as it tries to see into that mysterious middle space, the bardo realm, as the Buddhists call it, where magical life-change happens

If Ogilvy were watching the show with me last night, he would have marveled as I did when the frog became a prince, but also when a couple of swans turned back into ugly ducklings. Oh, I know. American Idol is just a cheesy karaoke show, but here’s the thing: This plastic pop marathon of winners and losers has actually changed the face of popular music — and popular culture. It isn’t as cheesy as it looks. In fact, it’s compelling and addictive. And most of us tune in regularly. Rabidly.

The Final Six each had their moment — of truth, yes, but not always of the pleasant sort.

Katharine McPhee, for instance. She tried to scale the heights of a Whitney Houston song. But it was as if the fallout of Houston‘s ongoing cataclysm blew through the theater and shrouded the once bright aura of McPhee in its dusty, drug-flecked fog.

And so she delivered an arrogant, camera-flirting performance that was more about posture than pipes. In the end all that was left were the judge’s harsh, pinpricking opinions and the roar of shock from the rafters as the audience realized how they had been hoodwinked. Within seconds, Kat went from puffed-up to depleted. I was expecting a stretcher to carry her away before Ryan even finished ticking off the phone numbers.

Kellie Pickler‘s denouement was the most sadistically satisfying of the evening. Last night proved she was just a goofy amateur — the beneficiary of a pre-pubescent voting block of little southern girls just like herself. They had secured her a spot in the competition several notches above her abilities.

Her performance was the equivalent of watching someone positioned atop a trap door that opened in excruciatingly slow motion. By the time we got around to hearing what the judges had to say (unanimous pans) all that was left of Ms. Pickler was the very tip-top of her Cameron Diaz bangs from There’s Something About Mary. The bulk of her was already gone, gone, gone; down the shoot towards obscurity. God Bless America.

Paris Bennett made a mighty mighty run at a Streisand classic but stumbled on her own youth. The performance threw into high relief Bennett’s lack of lived experience, a missing depth that limits the emotional impact of her overwrought singing. No matter how much she emotes and soul-shouts, the overall effect stays stuck at tepid levels. This tends to bring out the dreaded “pageant vibe curse.” And, well, we all know how those things turn out. (Paging Lisa Tucker.) Tonight’s vote-off, I suspect, will be Paris’ last moment on the big Idol stage. Wish her well my children.

Whenever I call my mom at work to discuss Idol, she always mentions the same news: “Everyone here is still voting for that old gray-haired guy.” I remind her that Taylor Hicks is 29-years-old. And she is always shocked: “Really?”

I suppose this is why Hicks shows up at the top of the heap week after week, according to Dial Idol — a site that eerily predicts the show’s winners and losers by tallying the number of busy signals for each contestant during the post-show voting blitz. Oldsters feel like one of their own has stormed the gates of Teenybop Land. And so they feel OK about doing something as girly as dialing the phone over and over again for their chosen Idolette.

Oh, and with Hicks, there’s also the Southern Thing. The Washington Post recently reported on The Southern Thing and its annual recurrence on Idol :

“For five years [the show has been] thoroughly, totally and completely [dominated] by kids from Southern Hicksville, USA. Seven of the eight top-two finishers in the first four years were from states that once formed the Confederacy, and five of the seven remaining finalists this season are, too.”

I guess it won’t matter that last night Taylor gave his worst performance ever. He seemed to have run out of all his tics and pre-packaged vocal gymnastics, leaving him at the mercy of just singing. And wow, a tender mercy it was not! It was a true Emperor Has No Clothes moment. (I see David Ogilvy smiling somewhere out there in the ether.) All we got was the lounge-act version of a James Ingram classic. Hicks’ rendition was bland and sedate, livened only at the very end when he upped his body spasms and started grunting and straining like a constipated bear. Cue Sweet Home Alabama … “Carry him home to see his kin…”

I was never a fan of Chris Daughtry (remember my tirade against him a couple of weeks ago?) But one of the nice things about Idol are those moments when I’m forced to reverse my opinion of a contestant, especially someone I vehemently dislike. And last night Daughtry’s take on Bryan Adams’ bizarro ballad Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman felt true, non-contrived and, more importantly, a sure sign that Daughtry was maturing into himself. He no longer seemed to be copying the affectations of his musical idols. I was impressed, dawg.

And then there was the show’s big golden moment. The one that made Paula Abdul cry and blew out the back walls of the theater when the audience started to applaud. The one that I’d been waiting for since I first glimpsed Elliott Yamin skittering around the fringes of the Hollywood tryouts where he was bookended between the horrifying Brittenum twins, yet still managed to flip skull caps with his rendition of It’s In His Kiss.

I’ve squirmed through so much with Elliot: his Amish haircuts, crooked teeth, deer-in-the-headlights stage fright, frumpy hoody attire and a nervous vibrato that sometimes sounded goaty. But last night Yamin fulfilled his three months of promise and finally delivered a showstopping performance that will secure him a spot in the show’s final top three. And he did it with an intricate, jazzy Donny Hathaway tune that the show’s teenage fans may not even recognize, no less

It wasn’t so much that his interpretation was stellar (I’d have preferred something a bit more intimate, to match the soul of the song, A Song for You, which when I listen to it with fresh ears is truly one of the greatest love songs of all time.) It was because Elliott finally crossed the line. This ugly duckling made it into Swan Lake. He went beyond American Idol, in one fell swoop. Fantastic.

© 2006, David K.. All rights reserved. Nightcharm.com

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“Idol” Gossip: How To Sidestep Your Self-Made Scandal

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American Idol‘s Grassy Knoll

Of course I’m making reference to the small patch of land that became infamous following JFK’s assassination in 1963. It has been speculated that extra gunshots were fired — in synch with Lee Harvey Oswald‘s — from the bushes of the knoll, doubly insuring the president’s demise. In a similar conspiratorial spirit I offer you my observations about last night’s big Idol sing-off and why hidden forces worked extra hard to guarantee that Elliott Yamin would not be back for his well-deserved Kodak Theater moment.

It’s a freaky coincidence how the first singer to begin each year’s Final Three show is the Idollette voted off the following evening. This mystery has proven true since Idol debuted four years ago. Elliott, of course, went first last night.

The AI band, lovingly referred to by detractors as Bandzilla, was set on stun and destroy whenever Elliott took the stage. The effect was like watching a small boat negotiate gigantic waves and treacherous tides on its journey home. To stay the course Elliott had to push his voice hard and then compensate for the extra effort by losing some of his natural flair. Even with the extra contorting, he never wavered — despite the higher key he used to churn out the cheese during Count Chocula’s pick for him: Journey’s Open Arms.

Who was counting? I was. Why was Katharine McPhee‘s sprawled-on-the-floor, Eva Cassidy-cloned, melisma-clogged Over the Rainbow allotted nearly three minutes of air time, while Elliott’s songs were clipped to near-forgettable 80-second bites?

I’m just saying, people.

Or does it even matter? When I consider how badly I wanted Elliott to place in the finale all I need to do is listen to Bo Bice‘s atrocious post-Idol record. Or give a spin to Diana DeGarmo‘s RCA release — a gone-to-the-vapors collection of songs fit to accompany feminine hygiene TV commercials. Hearing both mishaps quells my disappointment instantly.

Sour grapes? Oh, fuck off!

After reading gigabytes of harsh commentaries regarding Elliott’s lack of fireworks last night, I was pleasantly surprised when I played back his performances this morning. He broadcast mature, cool professionalism throughout. His demeanor was classy and in command — despite his awareness of the odds against him. The guy just doesn’t have it in him to compromise, grub or whore.

While Taylor Hicks and Katharine milked the AI tit raw (blasting their glory notes, contorting for the Soul Patrol, winking and batting their eyes for the weepy papas in the audience), Elliott came across as his own man: A gentleman. He made me aware that, wow, someone had really evolved and deepened as an artist throughout the run of the show. Excuse my clichA©, but for that feat alone I consider Yamin a winner.

Their futures?

Katbot McPhee? As the zingy Linda Stasi posits: “So is she real or is she Memorex?” We may never know, after the ominous Scientology hovercraft sweeps Katharine off to its guarded cloister of celebrity. I’ve nothing against Kat. She calls to mind that famous Gertrude Stein quote: “There’s no there there.”

Taylor “Mr. Impersonations” Hicks? Well, last night, over on Datalounge, a frustrated Elliott fan summed it up better than I can:

I have to believe that in a few years, Taylor Hicks will have his own theater showcase, much like Celine Dion. Except his will be in Branson and will be located in a red barn by the highway. And the words “All You Can Eat Buffet” will be bigger than his name on the side of the barn.

And Elliott? The post-Idol Elliott will be doing what he does best: Making Deep Soul music and having a good time — being himself.

© 2006, David K.. All rights reserved. Nightcharm.com

View the original article here

The Men of Raging Stallion Handle Loss

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I Wish I Knew How To Quit You, Elliott Yamin

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Adam Lambert and the New Gay Crusade

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Go Elliott! Go Kat! (Taylor: Just Go)

It was one of those ultra supreme American Idol moments last night. So cruel, so surprising, so whacked out — Paula’s face buried in her hands. Simon’s anger clamping his sphincter as tight as a vise. You could almost call it Greek-mythic. “America voted,” and Ryan Seacrest delivered the result in a nonchalant trice: The fatal pronouncement, like a trapdoor deathblow, melted Chris Daugherty‘s face right on the spot — so much so my heart actually sank for him.

But then I felt great.

Buh-bye Chris — pictured here with Morticia Addams Priscilla Presley as she welcomes the one-note Creed knockoff to her Hall of Irrelevance. Cue the haunted house sonics. Especially that effect of a large door slamming shut.

When my boyfriend mentioned that Chris shouldn’t have talked about his underwear on Elvis night, I thought he was joking. On second thought, he’s probably right.

I mean, Tuesday night was the first time in a while I was starting to warm to Chris — his performance of Suspicious Minds was understated and believable. Almost charming. But who’da thunk some boxer-brief chitchat would freak out his straight-guy fanbase to such a degree? Was it too “gay” for them? Or maybe it was too vulgar a confession for his Christ-O-Rama constituents? Not to worry. I’m sure Chris will be announced as the new lead singer for Fuel next week.

Whatever.

With Daugherty out of the way it’s Elliott’s Yamin‘s show now — and rightfully so.

For those of you still longing to savor every moment of last night’s shockfest,
visit Malcontent and Robbie for some fabulous screencaps and vid clips.

“I have to realize God has a bigger plan.”

Style queen Robin Givhan declares the survivors “lack any distinctive personal style.”

Paula: “I want Elliott to win…”

The politics of why Chris lost. And why Elliott will win.

© 2006, David K.. All rights reserved. Nightcharm.com

View the original article here

Hopes For The Queerest American Idol Ever Are Dwindling

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I Wish I Knew How To Quit You, Elliott Yamin

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

American Idol‘s Grassy Knoll

Of course I’m making reference to the small patch of land that became infamous following JFK’s assassination in 1963. It has been speculated that extra gunshots were fired — in synch with Lee Harvey Oswald‘s — from the bushes of the knoll, doubly insuring the president’s demise. In a similar conspiratorial spirit I offer you my observations about last night’s big Idol sing-off and why hidden forces worked extra hard to guarantee that Elliott Yamin would not be back for his well-deserved Kodak Theater moment.

It’s a freaky coincidence how the first singer to begin each year’s Final Three show is the Idollette voted off the following evening. This mystery has proven true since Idol debuted four years ago. Elliott, of course, went first last night.

The AI band, lovingly referred to by detractors as Bandzilla, was set on stun and destroy whenever Elliott took the stage. The effect was like watching a small boat negotiate gigantic waves and treacherous tides on its journey home. To stay the course Elliott had to push his voice hard and then compensate for the extra effort by losing some of his natural flair. Even with the extra contorting, he never wavered — despite the higher key he used to churn out the cheese during Count Chocula’s pick for him: Journey’s Open Arms.

Who was counting? I was. Why was Katharine McPhee‘s sprawled-on-the-floor, Eva Cassidy-cloned, melisma-clogged Over the Rainbow allotted nearly three minutes of air time, while Elliott’s songs were clipped to near-forgettable 80-second bites?

I’m just saying, people.

Or does it even matter? When I consider how badly I wanted Elliott to place in the finale all I need to do is listen to Bo Bice‘s atrocious post-Idol record. Or give a spin to Diana DeGarmo‘s RCA release — a gone-to-the-vapors collection of songs fit to accompany feminine hygiene TV commercials. Hearing both mishaps quells my disappointment instantly.

Sour grapes? Oh, fuck off!

After reading gigabytes of harsh commentaries regarding Elliott’s lack of fireworks last night, I was pleasantly surprised when I played back his performances this morning. He broadcast mature, cool professionalism throughout. His demeanor was classy and in command — despite his awareness of the odds against him. The guy just doesn’t have it in him to compromise, grub or whore.

While Taylor Hicks and Katharine milked the AI tit raw (blasting their glory notes, contorting for the Soul Patrol, winking and batting their eyes for the weepy papas in the audience), Elliott came across as his own man: A gentleman. He made me aware that, wow, someone had really evolved and deepened as an artist throughout the run of the show. Excuse my clichA©, but for that feat alone I consider Yamin a winner.

Their futures?

Katbot McPhee? As the zingy Linda Stasi posits: “So is she real or is she Memorex?” We may never know, after the ominous Scientology hovercraft sweeps Katharine off to its guarded cloister of celebrity. I’ve nothing against Kat. She calls to mind that famous Gertrude Stein quote: “There’s no there there.”

Taylor “Mr. Impersonations” Hicks? Well, last night, over on Datalounge, a frustrated Elliott fan summed it up better than I can:

I have to believe that in a few years, Taylor Hicks will have his own theater showcase, much like Celine Dion. Except his will be in Branson and will be located in a red barn by the highway. And the words “All You Can Eat Buffet” will be bigger than his name on the side of the barn.

And Elliott? The post-Idol Elliott will be doing what he does best: Making Deep Soul music and having a good time — being himself.

© 2006, David K.. All rights reserved. Nightcharm.com

View the original article here

Hopes For The Queerest American Idol Ever Are Dwindling

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Go Elliott! Go Kat! (Taylor: Just Go)

It was one of those ultra supreme American Idol moments last night. So cruel, so surprising, so whacked out — Paula’s face buried in her hands. Simon’s anger clamping his sphincter as tight as a vise. You could almost call it Greek-mythic. “America voted,” and Ryan Seacrest delivered the result in a nonchalant trice: The fatal pronouncement, like a trapdoor deathblow, melted Chris Daugherty‘s face right on the spot — so much so my heart actually sank for him.

But then I felt great.

Buh-bye Chris — pictured here with Morticia Addams Priscilla Presley as she welcomes the one-note Creed knockoff to her Hall of Irrelevance. Cue the haunted house sonics. Especially that effect of a large door slamming shut.

When my boyfriend mentioned that Chris shouldn’t have talked about his underwear on Elvis night, I thought he was joking. On second thought, he’s probably right.

I mean, Tuesday night was the first time in a while I was starting to warm to Chris — his performance of Suspicious Minds was understated and believable. Almost charming. But who’da thunk some boxer-brief chitchat would freak out his straight-guy fanbase to such a degree? Was it too “gay” for them? Or maybe it was too vulgar a confession for his Christ-O-Rama constituents? Not to worry. I’m sure Chris will be announced as the new lead singer for Fuel next week.

Whatever.

With Daugherty out of the way it’s Elliott’s Yamin‘s show now — and rightfully so.

For those of you still longing to savor every moment of last night’s shockfest,
visit Malcontent and Robbie for some fabulous screencaps and vid clips.

“I have to realize God has a bigger plan.”

Style queen Robin Givhan declares the survivors “lack any distinctive personal style.”

Paula: “I want Elliott to win…”

The politics of why Chris lost. And why Elliott will win.

© 2006, David K.. All rights reserved. Nightcharm.com

View the original article here

Adam Lambert and the New Gay Crusade

Leta€™s imagine for a moment the possibility of an Adam Lambert win in the face of all the Danny Gokey fans aligning themselves with straight, married, Christian Kris Allen (who is pretty much David Archuleta with pubic hair).

There are serious Ameri-capitalist questions to be answered in the alternate universe of a Lambert Idol.

Imagine, purely speculatively, Coca-Cola executives and Ford marketing directors sitting around steel tables forty-feet long, assessing the possibility that Adam Lambert could win American Idol.

a€?Oh, one last thing on todaya€™s agenda,a€? starts a marketing director for Coke Inc., hands flipping through a gold-laced memo book paid for with the blood of Guatemalan workers who tried to unionize, a€?Our contingency plan for an Adam Lambert win on American Idol.a€?

a€?This is problematic,a€? says a gray, pruning executive at the head of the table, a faint mumble forty feet away.

A steely woman in a pantsuit the same shade of gray as the table sits across from the marketing director, hands curled into a double fist of concern. a€?What if hea€™s, you know, a political homo?a€?

a€?You mean like Rosie Oa€™Donnell political?a€?

a€?Yes.a€?

Mumbles of concern sprout down the table.

The marketing director sighs. a€?Gay marriage has been big this year. Lambert could stoke those flames into a firestorm, a firestorm that could singe our branding.a€?

A jockish executive who floated through his MBA at Arizona State laughs. a€?Flames, I get it. a€?Cause hea€™s a faggot.a€?

a€?Calm down Brett,a€? the director says. a€?Seriously. Will this mean Coca-Cola is endorsing gay marriage?a€?

The steely woman says, a€?Simon Cowell is contracted to sip from his twenty-ounce mug of Coke every three minutes; no one has complained about that.a€?

a€?For the last time, Cowell isna€™t gay,a€? the director moans, a€?he just likes V-necks and has a fetish for crew cuts.a€?

a€?But hea€™s so catty and Eurofaggy,a€? complains the woman. a€?It hasna€™t been good for our rural numbers.a€?

a€?Yeah,a€? Brett broods, boxy shoulders seizing, too-prominent brow furrowing, a€?think about those rural numbers if Lambert actually wins. Black eyeliner and nail polish, cock-sucking, fucking ass eatera€¦ over my dead Coke-chugging body.a€?

a€?Dr. Pepper is making huge inroads in the South,a€? the steely woman says. She taps her laptop and an ominous declining line graph flashes on the wall. a€?Our Georgia and Texas numbers are nosediving. It was bad enough our CEO went to Obamaa€™s inauguration, now wea€™re going to put a fucking Coke can in Lamberta€™s hand?a€?

a€?Wait,a€? starts a young nerdish intern who has been scribbling notes furiously the entire time. a€?I thought Coca-Cola was trying to progress. Thata€™s why we instituted a non-discrimination policy for gays.a€?

The rest of the table laugh riotously, even the old man at the head. After a stretched minute, they settle.

Brett wipes a tear. a€?Wow man. Most people dona€™t even know the laws in their own state, let alone the EEO policies of a Fortune 100 company. That change was made to throw a sausage to gay lobbyists and media and to enrich our coastal urban appeal. We hardly promote it otherwise.a€?

A dawn of realization washes over the steely womana€™s face. a€?Wea€™ve got the power to have it both ways. We didna€™t build ourselves into the worlda€™s most admired company by taking sides. If Lambert wins, we can pay him three million dollars to deep throat a Coke Zero in the Castro and then turn around and do a new promo campaign for the U.S. Army.a€?

a€?Even better!a€? pipes up the marketing director. a€?We can tie it together. Have Adam sing the National Anthem at a base in Afghanistan deep-throating our new Cherry Vanilla Coke Zero. He can be straight and gay at the same time!a€? The director weaves his fingers together like two bony rakes.

a€?He can do it with the Elvis hair he had Motown week!a€? the steely woman chimes rapidly.

a€?We can put it on YouTube!a€? Brett punches the air.

a€?Synergy!a€? the table cries like any normal person would cry a€?Eureka.a€?

The building then explodes. Everyone dies. Boom. Death.

But none of this a€?fictionala€? discussion will matter if he loses. Adam Lambert faces a daunting battle Tuesday, a battle in the gurgling culture war between left and right, rural and urban, straight and queer.

Kris Allen has had the luxury of never changing his image the entire season. He has been plaid shirt, jeans, smarmy Arkansas dark horse every fucking week, while Adam Lambert has shifted with Madonna-like klutziness from 80s rocker, to TrA© Cool punk, to fresh-faced Elvis temptation, and back to his queerish self.

This Tuesday he will have to climb the highest mountain of transformation: morphing into an American Idol. Adam Lambert is the epitome of the chameleonic nature of homo in America. Pick a color on the rainbow Adam. Ia€™d want you to win as yourself, emo bangs and nail-polish and all. Ia€™d want you to come down those flashing Seacrested stairs as a genderfuck Broadway showboy a€¦ because I know thata€™s what you want to be (Ia€™ve seen your YouTube videos).

If you could win over America as that, you would prove we are shifting into, not a gay-blind society (a lamentable erasure of identity), but a gay-apathetic society: Where a boy from San Diego can be judged by middle America on ability, talent and prowess, and not whether he looks like Marc Almond and puts dicks in himself.

Or maybe Adam will do something completely understated, something that sidesteps the culture battles and image wars and appear as an Obaman chimera of identity, descending from the ceiling as a glowing gold figure of unity between queer and flyover country.

Perhaps hea€™ll be wearing a tuxedo, or jeans and a plain white t-shirt (but still some nailpolish, maybe red, white and blue on each hand), silhouetting his queer image into just that voice, that voice which catapults through octaves with Auto-Tune-like precision (and everyone fucking loves Auto-Tune these days). Ia€™ve been talking this whole time of gayness as an image thing (because thata€™s what this show is about), but he doesna€™t need it. He shouldna€™t need it.

That voice, if you close your eyes and listen carefully, is queer. Ita€™s showy, bombastic, nearly predictable in its theatrics, but therea€™s an earthy motherly lesbian wailing too. Ita€™s Cher and Rob Halford of Judas Priest and k.d. lang. Ita€™s pumped full of queer rage in the strains for equality in Michael Jacksona€™s Black and White, the melancholy trills of queer isolation in Tears For Fearsa€™ Mad World and the overstated rebel in Born to Be Wild.

Oh, Ia€™m sorry straight America, am I hijacking your cultural artifacts and turning them into something gay? Of course. We stole the rainbow. And now wea€™re going to take your Top 40. Deal with it. Thata€™s what this whole season has been about. Thata€™s what all the Gokey fans, Ford marketers, and show producers have been petrified of for the past five months: the complexity and uncertainty of an American Idol who isna€™t painfully mediocre.

It all hangs on roughly 30 million voting Americans looking at the possibility of a Kris Allen win, comparing him to the pattern of safe snoozefests like David Cook, Taylor Hicks, or Carrie Underwood, and screaming together in world-ending Danny Gokey fashion: Dream on!

Rob Wolfsham hails from the glorious suburbs of Lubbock.

Get to know Rob (and Lubbock) better by reading his blog Lubbock Blows.

And then order up a copy of his Cleis Press debut: Boy Crazy: Coming Out Erotica.

© 2009, Rob Wolfsham. All rights reserved. Nightcharm.com

View the original article here

“Idol” Gossip: How To Sidestep Your Self-Made Scandal

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