There Were No Good Songs the Year You Were Born

Before I talk about this week’s performances and Chikezielimination, I’d like to implore you to watch ’TilDeath. I mean, I never have. But you should, if for no other reason than I don’t want to have to look at Brad-Garrett-as-product-placement anymore. He’s here tonight in the audience with what’s-her-erface and that other guy. All three of them are on the show. I think. Anyway, if only Amy Sherman-Palladino, Parker Posey, and Lauren Ambrose had consented to stand in the mosh pit and scream for Kristy Lee Cook, maybe their show would have been spared.

Also before I talk about this week’s performances and Chikezielimination, I want to talk about Blake Lewis. He was interviewed recently and was full of bold statements about David Archuleta being “boring” and David Cook stealing from other bands. I know, right? Isn’t it funny that someone wanted to interview Blake Lewis?

This week I'm watching the show at home on our non-HD TV so I don’t have to look at crispy, unpleasant makeup, skin, and perspiration details. Everything’s nice and soft. Simon’s smoker’s neck doesn’t bother me anymore. Paula’s outfit, on the other hand, remains excitingly odd, even in medium definition. Not only does it appear lopsided, like she somehow managed to pull her head through one of the sparkly armholes, but she’s got on these awesomely nutty fingerless, opera-length gloves that appear to be black latex. I vote yes to this. Only fools wouldn’t.

Seacrest introduces the top 10. Tonight’s theme is the year they were born. First up is Ramiele. And because tonight’s about their birth years, it’s baby picture time.

If brain-meltingly cute infancy was the equivalent of adult star quality, Ramiele would be the next Carrie Underwood. She was born in 1987, and as she wiggled around fresh from the womb, the men from A Flock of Seagulls -- with nothing better to do a few years after their handful of hits -- dropped by the maternity ward to style her hair. Her jet-black shock of standing-straight-upness, in her words, made her “look bomb… I looked cool.” I can’t argue with this. I don’t remember the last time I saw a better baby photo. Also? She was a biter. “I used to go up to kids, bite them, and then walk away,” she tells the camera, a deadpan lack of remorse on her face and in her voice. Is it possible for me to like this kid any more than I already do? No wonder Danny Noriega made her his number 1 gal pal. As for her cover of Heart’s “Alone,” I’m not interested. She’s got an old-school performance style (and screechy pitch issues, as least this week) that should get her work in some Broadway touring companies, if nothing else. My friend Sean, watching the show with me, says, “Wouldn’t it be great if a helicopter landed onstage right now?”

Jason Castro was born in 1987 too and was the recipient of a push-button kid guitar as a child. His brother got the much better keytar, but it seems not to have been a source of sibling envy. And that, besides his having had pretty baby eyes, is about all there is to say about him. My husband/partner/whatever thinks Castro should play Bob Marley’s wife in the planned biopic. Then he goes on to tell me that “Fragile,” the Sting song that Castro is performing tonight, is from the album The Dream of the Blue Turtles. “I was deflowered to that album,” he says. “It was a homemade cassette of that on one side and Squeeze’s 45s and Under on the other.” I think this is gross. That Sting was playing, I mean. Because Sting sucks. Also, the word “deflowering” is kinda funny. And because we’re life partners and whatnot, I tell him my own deflowering story. There was no music involved. But it was in a dugout with that guy who worked at the stereo store. It was kind of a letdown, if you must know.

So Jason sings that Sting song and busts out some Spanish in the middle of it. He manages not to wave his hands around or make goofy faces this week. It’s all pretty passive, with occasional flashes of self-satisfaction. Thankfully, the judges call him on it. His refreshingly stoned-acting-yet-most-likely-not response: “I could spend a little more time practicing.”

Wouldn’t it be great if Syesha never again did that creepy fake baby-like cry that she finds so comedic? I think so. She sings “If I Were Your Woman” from 1987. It’s good. She’s good. She’s at her best when she’s sing-crying, and so I hope she just keeps doing that. I enjoy her enough to listen. Not to buy a CD, but to listen if she happens to be belting out a “please baby please” power ballad like this one. As for the judges, Randy and Paula flip out and turn on the praise-shower. Simon is less enthusiastic, telling her that this is the limit to her vocals. Her response: shock and a stolen-from-Ramiele “oh lo.” (Again, I have no idea what this expression means or even how it’s spelled, and none of you Filipino and/or Floridian readers are being very forthcoming with an explanation. What gives?)