During its fifth season, I managed to catch a collected twenty-odd minutes of "American Idol." And, unsurprisingly, I feel in need of a long shower and perhaps some creepy-albino-monk self-flagellation as penance. Fifteen of those minutes were during last night's season finale, a cavalcade of truly incomprehensible D-list cameos and unforgivably overwrought suspense-mongering on the part of the show's hosts. In the end, it appears more teenage girls with cell phones wished Taylor Hicks were their grandfather than wanted to be Katharine McPhee. The zillion people watching the events unfold live (as we were ceaselessly reminded by the elfin Ryan Seacrest, as if it mattered?) were treated to McPhee performing a duet with Meat Loaf, and to eventual Idol Hicks leading a well-preserved Dionne Warwick around the stage during a not-exactly-all-star rendition of "That's What Friends Are For." The girls and guys evicted from the beach house (different show?) during the past few months returned to show us their pop-medley skills, and 5-watt luminaries like Tori Spelling and a teary David Hasselhoff beamed from the audience during random, irrelevant cutaways from the musical irrelevance unfolding onstage.Oh, and apparently Prince showed up to cash in the last of the goodwill I was holding for him. I missed that part of the evening's festivities, but I've spoken with his people (all of them equally tiny and well-coiffed, like there's a factory somewhere) and we reached an agreement. I get to keep my copies of 1999 and Purple Rain for all purposes not karaoke, and he never shows up on any jukebox within 500 yards playing anything recorded after the Batman soundtrack. The "Diamonds and Pearls" video is still being contested.
And these were the highlights, mind you. The rest of the show consisted of getting in some final jabs at the most interesting (in the Chinese sense of the word) auditions from the season's first half. Seacrest awarded a handful of horribly misguided kids for publicly butchering the work of the world's most mediocre pop stylists. These segments were introduced with the revelation that "AI" has been overlooked at every TV awards show during its run (thank you, Emmy), even though more people voted during Tuesday night's final showdown than have voted for any American president, ever. Not coincidentally, the latter observation was also the hook for the recent film satire American Dreamz, which I didn't see (but kind of wanted to) because that introduction was simply too damned depressing.
To make a long story short, I just don't get it. Sure, every season is one prolonged exercise in test marketing and product packaging, and there's a long list of manufactured pop acts whose successes were just as calculated as any Idol's. But the irrepressible, stomach-turning earnestness with which these kids (and Hicks) belt out the tiredest, schlockiest, most meaningless pop drivel is enough to drive any conscious observer absolutely fucking batty. Most of the execrable tunes to which the show's assorted performers time their histrionics and vocal flourishes would be cause enough for any member of the target demographic to change the radio station. Even with that fact in mind, however, the kids evidently love hearing dutifully observed covers performed by nobodies backed by the obligatory pop orchestra and gospel choir. I mean, "(I've Had) The Time of My Life?" How anything so predictable and yet so utterly left-field and dated can make the teenyboppers scream is a mystery to me. If you've got an explanation, I invite you to leave a comment at the end of this post.I know we need our distractions in this frightening modern age, a moment defined by foreign wars predicated upon lies told by shadowy, duplicitous powers-that-be. It's not that I don't understand the popularity of contest programming, which is as old as television. And I get the appeal of witnessing talent plucked from obscurity, an undeniably American dream that drives countless youngsters to seek fame and fortune on the silver screen and the 45. But for my part, hearing Hicks shout a victorious "Soul Patrol!" after being crowned was puzzlingly embarrassing, and not only because I have no idea what the man was talking about. Based on what I saw, I'm not sure where to find the "soul" in his generic performances, and the fact that such a cheesy catchphrase could drive the proceedings filled me with cringing embarrassment, not entirely unwarranted, for everyone involved. Oh, and I'll have to boil my culture-snob eyeballs in bleach to rid them of the slo-mo footage of Hicks and Seacrest writhing on their backs like upended turtles during a gratuitous end-of-show montage. While conducting these necessary ablutions, I'll probably turn on some real pop idols singing their oddest works, like "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" and "Rocky Raccoon," just so I can remind myself that unpredictability and unfathomable, universal popularity can coexist. You can have your Idols, America. I'll stick with The Beatles.
