2004-05-16
MO ROCCA WAS ON NPR THIS MORNING AND HE WAS TOTALLY UNFUNNY
I swore I wouldn't waste another minute watching, thinking about or discussing this season of Assmerican Assdol.
It's.
So.
Boring.
Against my better judgment, I have opinions about each of the finalists, but not because any of them are the least bit interesting. Sure, I thought LaToya was a decent singer with a classy presentation, but her personality was dullsville. Fantasia lacks humility, which does nothing to endear her to me. Diana's pageant princess background prevents her real character from surfacing. She's all appearances and no substance. Poor Jasmine's just stupid. I don't care that she's just a kid. These words were televised escaping her lips:
"Barry Manilow is, like, a genius when it comes to music and stuff."
I may not have the quote precisely, but it's close enough to make my point. That said, I want her to win. I want her to win because I want all the conspiracy theorists to have something to bitch and whine and complain about. I want to see what kind of illiterate acceptance speech she manages to utter. I want to see Randy shake his smug, hungry head with disgust and then go drown his sorrows in three large pizzas with extra cheese. I want to see Simon Fuller and the rest of his cronies break out in hives over the foolish decisions they made this year to shake up the show's formula. (Psychic readings? What the fuck?!) I want to see the hiss fit Fantasia will throw when she gets the boot. You just know she's going to march down the stage steps and bitch slap Paula. Fortunately, Paula will not feel a thing because I think she's on a boatload of Vicodin lately. I love when she gets her crying ass up to dance and practically topples over. But I digress...
The shark hath been jumped. I want to see the extreme demise of American Idol. It gives me pleasurable shivers. I'm so mean that way.
Ok, so here's the thing. Last week, when Clay Aiken performed on the results show, everything I'd been thinking about why this season sucks so badly slapped me in my self-righteous face. I know why a three-day marathon of "The English Patient" with my eyes held open Clockwork Orange-style is preferable to watching another second of American Idol Season Three. I've known it for over a year, but it took this season's Extreme Crappiness to solidify it for me.
No. One. Is. Original. This year, all the contestants sounded like "someone." Even John Stevens, hometown boy whom I loved, can be compared to other recording artists and performers. BOR. ING.
Seeing Clay traipse across the stage with his 13-and-a-halfs pointed at 10 and 2, breathing new life into Earth Wind and Fire's "Fantasy" reminded me why I refused to accept phone calls last year on Tuesdays between 8 and 9 pm. I've already pontificated enough about the Magic of Clay (*sprinkles fairy dust*), so I won't be redundant. The point is, Clay is unique, original and intriguing. In all those departments, this season's contestants fall short.
For me, the best thing about seeing Clay on American Idol again was the return of the geek. The geek factor is my magnet. Yes, he's a bit more polished, and yes, he's now a seasoned performer, but Dork!Clay! owned the stage. His hair was a mess, his clingy clothes revealed the effects of months on a tour bus and a freezer full of Hot Pockets. This was a welcome sight following the terrible Fedora and Beard phase he went through while touring. I don't like Trying!To!Be!Cool!Clay!. I don't want him to be a manufactured pop star. Clay Aiken doesn't fit the mold. He breaks it.
And so, I've decided I want Clay's career in music to tank. Before you get the wood and nails, let me explain.
What happens to artists who climb rapidly to the top of the charts, break all records for album sales and sell out enormous arenas? We see them on VH1's "Where Are They Now?" and the "E! True Hollywood Story." It's the pattern. The formula. The fate. It must not happen to Sir Clayton of Aiken.
Clay has the longevity factor. He can be a successful recording artist for the rest of his life if he so chooses. But it won't happen if he continues along the path he's on. (FYI - it just killed me to end my sentence with a preposition, but I'm giving myself license, considering the conversational tone of this entry.) I'd like to see him continue to record quality albums that showcase his range, vocal control and diverse style. I'd like to see him sell those records in vast quantities. I'd like to see him perform in houses of 2500 seats or less. Preferably less. I'd like to see a dedicated, loyal fan base of harmless stalkers keep Miss Raleigh Aiken living in the manner to which she has become accustomed - lapping fresh Evian water out of a handmade Mackenzie-Childs' bowl.
In ten years, when the names Kelly Clarkson and Ruben Studdard have faded from memory and Simon Cowell is no longer known for his sarcastic humor but for being the first man in history to have his breast reduction surgery televised, I hope a little girl, maybe 7 or 8 years old, on a visit to New York City, randomly passes Clay Aiken on the street, recognizes him and announces, "I know you! You're Clay Aiken! I love you! And so does my MOM!"
That, in the music industry, is how you measure a man.
joeparadox at 9:13 a.m.