Tag Archives: American Idol

Like a Bad Case of Genital Herpes, American Idol is Back

american-idol-logo.jpgSteve Crescenzo is an angry man. Maybe as angry as Angry John Sellers. Sometimes, he’s angrier, like now. Crescenzo runs a blog called Corporate Hallucinations that is full of hilarious rants against…well…corporate culture, I guess. His latest gets to the core of what we all know deep down in our hearts but sometimes have a hard time articulating: Why American Idol is Bad For You.

Quite simply, it’s because Idol is warping our minds for what constitutes “good” music:

About three months ago, I was riding in the car with [son] Zach when “Rosalita” by Springsteen came on. I cranked the radio, and afterwards said to Zach: “That was Bruce Springsteen. Awesome, wasn’t it?”

And do you know what he said? DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE SAID? He said, “I don’t know, Dad. He has a funny voice.”

A funny voice? The Boss? Who would say that?

Then I realized who would say it: A child who is being raised on “American Idol,” that’s who. A child who thinks standing on a stage singing other peoples’ songs in perfect pitch is “music.” A child who thinks Paula Abdulla knows anything about rock and roll. That’s who would say it.

Of course, we’ve always had cultural barometers that seek to define what is popular in America—and by extension, what is “good.” I mean 100,000,000 Bon Jovi can’t be wrong, right? And we’ve always had media to monitor these barometers and report back what the masses have deemed good or bad. And…we’ve always had outliers and anomalies that buck the system. Conventional wisdom would suggest Bob Dylan‘s unique voice wouldn’t immediately place him as a top seller, and yet…

Crescenzo seems to think Idol has somehow rigged the system though and is now the de facto taste maker and arbiter of all things good. I don’t buy it—I have more immediate reasons for hating American Idol, like because the music is awful—but it’s a funny read.

Fords in the House

Ford American Idol House PartyThe conventional wisdom around Motown these days is that of the domestic vehicle manufacturers, Ford Motor Company—commonly referred to by some denizens of Detroit as “Fords” and it is not clear whether that is supposed to be possessive case (as in “the company owned by the Ford family,” plural (as in “we build a lot of them”) or simply a bizarre case where someone who works in Dearborn suddenly manifests an accent that is more commonly heard in Minneapolis—is in the best shape.

At least unlike Chrysler it is not having its assets and liabilities assessed by a judge, and unlike General Motors, it isn’t teetering on the brink of some ignominious abyss. But while FoMoCo may be in “better shape,” that’s not the same as saying “good shape.” That is, while a Big Mac may be better for the conditions of your arteries and waist line than a Double Whopper with Cheese, that is not to say that it is good for you.

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Kara DioGuardi writes worst song EVER

Unjustifiably smug Kara DioGuardiI’m a big fan of American Idol. I’ve watched it from the beginning…and I vote. I sincerely enjoy the show and every season I find myself unironically drawn to at least a few of the performers. That said, the undeniably worst part of the show is the music.

Wait wait wait, isn’t this show all about music? No, it is not. It’s about singers: their personalities, their drama, their interpretive abilities, and their voices. In that order. But the music generally blows. It always amazes me that they select the worst songs in any given theme week, and how on the rare occasional that they choose something good that they can manage to cheese it up.

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American Idol Season 6 Finale

Idol FeverThank goodness for Tivo. I don’t understand how anyone watches Idol without it. Tonight’s finale lasted over two hours, but it took me less than 45 minutes to watch it. Usually with the results shows I only watch the last five minutes, but tonight was the big old season finale so I felt obligated to at least attempt to watch the whole thing. I didn’t make it very far.

I got about three seconds into the first chorus of Gwen Stefani’s live via satellite guest spot before the first bloop. For those unfamiliar with Tivo, there’s a secret hack that you can program into your remote to allow you to instantly advance thirty seconds forward. I abuse this feature. Especially when watching Idol.

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Idling the Phone

SanjayamaniaOne of the thankless jobs that many of us have had—or continue to endure—is one wherein we are, at the very best, in a cubicle the likes of which make the one Dilbert inhabits look like a Byzantine palace. Or we may be sitting at a table with a multitude of other people, all of whom are thinking “Is this all there is?” while waiting for the shift to end and the angst to ebb. Meanwhile, the “supervisor” sits superciliously, ready to pounce on our least foible or major fuckup. Let’s face it: It is hard to get away from the latter, given what it is that we’re doing to earn the sort of money that even the denizens of McDonald’s would scoff at.

Yes, we’re talking about the telephone solicitor job. Read the script if you don’t get an immediate hang up. Handle objections by skipping to other passages. Hope like hell that you’re able to sign the suckers up for magazines or windows or whatever. Then dial it again. And again. And again. Yes, this is what you went to school for.

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American Idol covers Modest Mouse

This is perhaps the most succinct snapshot of mainstream American culture in 2007. The Top 12 finalists from American Idol, dressed as hippies and breakdancers, sing a snappy little version of Modest Mouse’s “Float On” in a commercial for—who else?—Ford Motor Co.

Absolutely perfect. This spot has it all. In just 44 seconds, they manage to co-opt and emasculate (at least) three generations of anti-Establishment counterculture: hippies, hip-hop, and indie rock. Welcome to the future! And you thought postmodernism was played out…

American Idol in Chicago

So I was waiting for the hostess at a certain Chinese chain restaurant on Wednesday night in Chicago, and when she finally walked up to greet me she looked a little bewildered. As she was seating us, I heard a server whisper something about American Idol, and I looked over in the corner and lo and behold but who did I see? The Velvet Teddy Bear himself!

That’s right! I was in the same room with our second American Idol, Ruben Studdard, the man who beat Clay Aiken!

Of course, I was very excited so I said, “Hey, that’s Ruben Studdard!”

“Is it really?” asked the hostess, unsure of my credibility.

“Yeah, that’s totally him,” I assured her.

“Oh, okay,” she replied. “So that’s why they asked for a secluded table. I was all like, ‘Um…why?'”

No respect! It seems like everybody in the world watches American Idol, and then a couple years later the winner walks into a restuarant to get some lettuce wraps and nobody even knows who he is? I mean, really. The guy won American Idol. It’s not like he was just in the Final 12. He fucking won it. And nobody recognizes him three years later? What’s up with that?

He obviously needs to hire a better publicity team. That, or maybe—just maybe—American Idol isn’t quite the force it’s made out to be… Could that be it? Nah…

Crash

The court jesters of today have no messageWe have become the society of the spectacle. The car wreck. The plane crash. People who aren’t sated unless we see another less fortunate. We watch Cops not merely to chuckle at what we deem as being low lifes (although one could make the argument that we are no higher—socioeconomic status notwithstanding—than they, and perhaps even lower on the scale: we’re watching; they’re doing) but because we want to see them get slammed around. Wrestling with authenticity and a badge. We want to see when animals attack because they are ripping something to shreds. Feel the viscera. We watch the makeover programs not because we’re interested in the ostensible attractive individual that appears at the end, but because of the unattractive person at the start who must undergo what are evidently painful procedures. We don’t want to know these people. We simply want to watch. Heretofore the master at doing this sort of thing on television was Chuck Barris, not only permitting us to see the object of derision in the form of the “contestants” on The Gong Show—what would you win beyond heightened humiliation?—but also the painful agony of those who appeared on The Newlywed Game when seemingly obvious answers weren’t proffered: It became clear that those who made the mistakes would have either a truncated marriage or a lifetime of underlying misery. Watch the Wheel of Fortune spin for the shitheels. Watch them slip and end up with a foot in their mouth. We’re protected.

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