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I’m learning a lot of important spiritual lessons from my continued reading of Chicken Soup for the American Idol Soul. Like how even being related to a semifamous person is its own reward. For example, Chris Richardson’s grandmother likes to tell people who her grandson is everywhere she goes:
“She was in the hospital last week and said to the nurse who was taking care of her, ‘Do you know whose leg your washing?’
And the nurse said, ‘No, I do not.’
Then Big Momma started in with ‘Do you watch American Idol?’” [p.76]
The story gets super-heartwarming after that. Trust me. And it’s not even just the healing, spirit-enriching stories of familial love that have got me fixated on this book. It’s the behind-the-scenes magic too. Like how the show’s stage manager -- I forget her name -- finally realized after Season One how big the show had become when the tour went to Las Vegas and there were fans there “dressed up like Kelly Clarkson.” [p.159]
Now, how does one dress like Kelly Clarkson? I have some ideas:
1. No makeup.
2. Floor-skimming fuck-you-I’m-having-a-full-order-of-Chili’s-baby-back-ribs dresses.
3. Resort wear made of neckties.
Now, the show. It seemed like everyone was really trying last week. Someone sat them all down and said, “There was this band called the Beatles and they were really, really famous once. People will despise you for even trying to sing their songs in public, so you have to try really hard not to suck the donkey dick too much out there.”
Not like there’s been very strict supervision over the years over who gets to sing this stuff. All you have to do is go to YouTube to check out Stars on 45 -- or the clip of Dusty Springfield, Juliet Prowse, and Mireille Mathieu doing a medley with Burt Bacharach -- to hear how ruined these songs can get. And that’s not even the worst of it. Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and Across the Universe are readily available on DVD. And at SuckMybBatles.com you can brutalize your ears with renditions of “For the Benefit of Mr. Kite” and “With a Little Help From My Friends” by Tony Randall, joined by Bernadette Peters, Anthony Newley, Diahann Carroll, Mel Tillis, and Paul Williams.
But anyway, this week there was no supervision. At all. The dead rose from their graves and blood rained down from the sky. Anguished howls of curdled agony from Heather Mills’s throat roared over the Atlantic Ocean, hitting their intended target, the power grid that heats the pool, cools the mansion, and spins the ferris wheel at Neverland Ranch. The explosion threw sparks half a mile into the air. Catalog royalties patched the damage. But a new revenue stream would have to be undammed to meet the need. Enter Amanda Overmyer.
Before Amanda, though, there are introductions to make, Paula Abdul-Randy Jackson collaborations to plug, creepy winks for Simon to deliver in Seacrest’s direction, a montage of Beatles-related clips to explain who the Beatles were -- Ed Sullivan, Shea Stadium, etc. Then a return to the studio where the band “delved deeper into their own souls,” says Seacrest. Then he uses the word “odyssey.”
This, of course, all equals drugs. Lots and lots and lots of drugs. Me, I’m kind of fixated on the various LSD beards flashing across my TV. John’s was the biggest, Ringo’s the dorkiest, Paul’s the cutest, George’s the most Manson-y.
OK, now Amanda.
She’s going to sing “Back in the U.S.S.R.” And I have a feeling that it’s because she has no choice. I read somewhere that the whole “Lennon-McCartney songbook” thing really amounted to about two dozen songs they all got to choose from. So when the judges tell the singers that they screwed up their song choice, you have to wonder just how much control these kids have in the first place. Not that that makes up for them blowing it when they finally get out on stage. But still.
Amanda’s a mess tonight. Overpowered by the band. Shouting, shouting, shouting. But that’s why I'm into her. So she can do that all night. My husband/partner/whatever, sitting next to me on the couch, yells out, for no apparent reason, “I FUCK IN A BARN!”
“Who does?” I ask.
“Uh… I dunno… she just made me want to say that.”
And the weird thing is that I get where he’s coming from.
After she sings the judges tell her that she was fine but is in danger of becoming a little boring. Maybe she should sing a ballad, offers Paula. Amanda’s response: “Ballads are boring!”
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