“Question!” teases Seacrest, opening Tuesday's
show and wearing a snappy hip-banker suit with a
skinny tie, a look that really elongates him and that
I approve of wholeheartedly. “Gwen Stefani fans here
with us tonight? [Do you] like Gwen Stefani?”
The audience goes
ape-shit--including one blond lady who looks like a
grown-up Six from Blossom--not realizing that
Seacrest is about to psych! them with the
information that G.S. isn't actually going to appear in
person tonight at all. But boy, do they EVER like Gwen
Stefani. If she hit the stage right now, someone would
no doubt (Get it? I said “no doubt”) climb
onto the stage and attempt to swallow her whole,
keeping her a tiny hostage in their O.C.-ska-loving
stomach. When you'd put your ear to that lucky
celebrity-cannibalizing person's torso, you'd hear
“Spiderwebs” 24/7.
Now, I'll be the
first person to be annoyed by the glad-handing presence
of a dude like Peter Noone on this show, and I've often
wondered what it would be like to have a non-oldster
come along to coach the kids, to have an actual pop
star from today show up and work with the contestants. But
what possessed Gwen Stefani to come on this show besides her
management begging her to do something to move
her new CD? I think we're all about to find out that
the true answer to that question resides in the fine
print of a contract somewhere. But whatever, my friend
Aaron, who works at Los Angeles's biggest record store,
Amoeba, says that since last week they've sold out of
Lulu completely. So that shit works.
Seacrest explains
tonight's theme, and it's a complicated, arbitrary one:
No Doubt songs and songs from the artists and bands who
inspired Gwen. In other words, Gwen songs and songs by
people Gwen's heard of. Then Seacrest introduces the
judges but doesn't bother giving out their names. You
know them by now. I just wish they'd close up on the black
ruffly puffy-sleeved blouse made of hammered licorice
Paula's got on. But instead we get a Gwen Montage.
Gwen in a knit cap, Gwen with No Doubt on a
checkerboard background, Gwen in a red dress, Gwen inside a
giant heart, Gwen jumping with that old mid-'90s
hair— you remember, the thing with the
curled-under bangs—Gwen wearing a T-shirt that reads
“Anaheim,” Gwen with a bindi. Seacrest
says, “Gwen's infectious energy, platinum hair,
and toned tummy have made her an icon.”
I love the idea
of a tummy being iconic. I should capitalize on that
myself. My tummy is somewhat different from Gwen's, as mine
has been honed to a Santa Claus–like-roundness
by regular play dates with cupcakes and beer, but it's
no less adorable, and I want to be celebrated for it.
My player-hating doctor is encouraging me to lose about 30
pounds, something about preventing heart disease and
diabetes, but what does he know? This is my signature
gut and it's going to make me famous. And meanwhile,
Gwen makes her entrance into the rehearsal space wearing a
sweater. It's a really cute sweater too, with trompe l'oeil
straps and buckles woven into it, but it's completely
swaddling her toned tummy, one I was promised just
moments ago. What gives? Stop cheating us all, Gwen
Stefani!
Gwen refuses to
cheat us on dispensing wisdom, though. She talks about
how having a great big voice isn't so important when you're
looking to apply for the position of pop star. And she
should know. Not that she's a bad singer or anything.
Her voice is just fine, but if anyone knows about
presentation-uber-alles, it's this woman. Why just sing when
you can create a perpetual-motion, hip-hop Cirque du
Soleil of dancing dollies, sword-swallowers,
unicyclists, cholas, and skate-rats to surround you at
all times, a distracting entourage that Nelly Furtado would
give her left lung for?
Gwen
faux-empathizes about how nerve-racked all the kids must be,
and I'm nervous just listening to her talk. She has a
sort of lockjaw thing going on, like someone's sewn
her teeth shut, and I think I'd like it, I'd consider
it an endearing bit of humanity, if I hadn't ever seen her
before. She continues with, “I feel very, kind of,
like, excited for them. I can't wait to see who's
gonna win.” As she says this she appears to be
struggling to not betray that she's completely bullshitting
straight into the camera, doing her best to trick all those
people out there who know a lot about the facial tics
of liars. Then she finishes up with, “It's kind
of excite—I'm really kind of—I've invested in
it now. I'm really [slight but mind-bendingly
insincere pause] into it.”
AWESOME! SHE
HATES BEING HERE!
LaKisha's up
first. What advice did Gwen give? It's good. So good.
“After LaKisha's performance I'm actually
finding myself sweaty. Like, it was like, really, she
really blew me away.”
As LaKiki
finishes her rehearsal, Gwen hugs her and smiles straight
into the camera. She must have watched Lulu really go
for it last week and then thought, Well, fuck all
that helping-them-sing shit and giving them actual
pointers by demonstrating how it's done. Diana
Ross took the easy road. So am I.
LaK comes out in
a hot red-and-black boob-presentation garment. Gwen's
just happy she didn't ask for a LAMB outfit “because,
like, uh…you know, we don't, like, MAKE those
sizes!” The outfit and her sleek straight wig
combined are pretty much all you need to fall in love with
her. And the DMV nails are bigger, whiter, and more
squared-off than ever. Now all she has to do is beat
the shit out of Donna Summer's “Last Dance,”
which I'm confident she'll do because even in the
opening slow bit she says “Cuz when I'm bad I'm
so so ba-a-ad” and pronounces that first "bad"
like it's “bade.” She's here to make this song
her bitch. It's also her “last
chance…for
rom-MAINCE…to-o-oni-i-i-high-high-hight.”
In the middle of
the song she waves her hand toward the camera, almost
begging it to come closer so she can give it a left hook,
stands at the edge of the stage like maybe you should
be a little scared, like don't make her come down
there and say again that you'd BETTER FUCKIN' DANCE
WITH HER RIGHT NOW OR SHIT'S GONNA GET UGLY. And as she
finishes it off, confident she's beaten it all to a
pulp, she whips her head around to show off how silky
and flowy that fake hair is. I'm in super-love with
her right now. She looks like she might launch right into
the 18-minute version of the “MacArthur Park
Suite.”
The judges are
happy. Randy is pleased she's chosen an “up-tempo
joint.” Paula praises her too. And we finally
get a good look at Paula's hair tonight, and it's a
masterpiece of confusion, moving in so many directions
at once that it's like someone's conducting it and giving it
contradictory directions. Simon says LaKisha's 30 years
younger this week. Which still makes her 20 years
older if you do the math from his last week's comment
about how she was 50 years older after singing
“Diamonds Are Forever,” dig? Cut to her old
work friends holding a sign that reads
“Provident Bank Is Banking on LaKisha to Win!”
Translation: “We seethe with envy that, even if
she loses, she's never coming back to make us feel
less miserable about remaining trapped here.”
Seacrest asks
Chris Sligh one of those viewer questions. “What do
you do in your downtime?” asks Someone From
Somewhere. Sligh delivers one of his usual
not-exactly-hilarious-but-still-cleverer-than-anyone-else-on-the-show
answers: knitting, crocheting, playing bongos in his boxers,
he tells Seacrest, whose job it is now to reflexively
recoil at the thought of—UGH—a
MAN—in UNDERWEAR! Because that shtick never gets old.
Gwen has zero
advice for Chris Sligh. She wants him to stay on tempo.
“Where's the drummer?” she asks, all jokey,
effectively insulting the piano player who's already
fed up with her ass. Thanks, Gwen, you make Diana Ross
look as effusive as Lulu now.
Sligh's hair is
sad tonight. Back when he started this show his curls
were big and sassy. Now they look damp and depressed. It's
like they sense his mood. He's grown progressively
more polite and safe as the season has progressed, and
his hair can tell that he's feeling constrained. You
just know someone gave him a stern talking-to after his
shout-out to Dave from VoteForTheWorst.com last week, so now
he's subdued and so is his hair. It's like a Jheri
curl on the mopiest member of Kool and the Gang.
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Dave White is the author of Exile in Guyville,
a memoir that is neither chalky nor cheesy. Find
him atwww.imdavewhite.com