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IDOL REMAINS: THE SUCKIEST SUCKS THAT EVER SUCKED

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Wed: “Hollywood” group night
Thurs: “Hollywood” solo auditions
Misery index: Barrrrrffff
Tyler-o-meter: 87%

Wednesday on American Idol was group night, in which remaining contestants break off into groups of at least three to perform with live accompaniment. In Idol lore, the group week is a fiery tribulation for the singers that requires a measure of dependance on teammates and — gulp — on mastery of rudimentary dance. It proved to be too much for nearly all contestants. They sucked ass! Period.

But if group night was an ordeal for the singers, then it was torture for judges, for viewership, and, if their monitors were on, for the backing band. You know that movie, The Running Man? It’s comparable to group night with one small but vital tweak: Imagine that if Arnold defeats his unfairly advantaged predators to pass a stage, then the gladiator-style game show of death’s sadistic hosts and spectators don’t merely get mad, but get subjected to a taser to the junk (or its emotional equivalent). That is exactly what group day was like: Horror for all.

As it pertains to the singers, it’s by design. The groups must run a gamut, working late into the night over 24 hours to master choreography and challenging harmonies. Late to bed, early to rise. Their rehearsal space? A cavernous, cacophonous exhibition hall shared with the other groups. How are groups put together? Through peer begging, cajoling, and the new headstart-proof rule that groups must include members from days one and two of last week’s auditions. How can these no-singing sucks hope to nail four-part harmonies while shimmying around when they can hardly handle stationary solo singing? Answer: They fucking can’t. They fucking didn’t.

Truly, if Steven Tyler and crew had cut all the group performers who earned ruthless, immediate dismissal, then only a handful of singers would remain. These sucks sucked. Randy Jackson was irate. ‘Fer-Pez was distraught. Tyler expressed repeated heartbreak over the singers’ ass-reekage and over his uncomfortable duty to cut so many (and presumably to pass so many suckholes). To him, it’s criminal to waste an opportunity; his body language seemed to say “Fuck you for inflicting this pain upon me and then forcing me to make you cry.”

That doesn’t mean Tyler didn’t have chances to enjoy himself. In an unsuccessful ploy, one group pulled Tyler by his gold snakeskin shirt onstage for “Some Kind Of Wonderful,” which he punctuated with improvised “Yes I am!”s, sporting chair-dancing, and occasional eye-fucking of his serenaders. Later Tyler zings came in form of comparisons of dud singers to Seinfeld’s Elaine (Len Lesser RIP) and to racist-ass John Wayne onstage at the Apollo Theater. Hi-larious.

But it was proved that, also like The Running Man, Idol is unfair and dishonest. Example: When 15-year old butterball Jacee Badeaux was dismissed from his team in the eleventh hour, he scrambled to join (and founder among) a new group. The next day, judges passed Bordeaux‘s group and skewered his persecutors, feigning ignorance of the situation in order to set-up a phony dismissal scare for Clint Jun Gamboa, the honey-voiced chub’s chief critic. So now that we’ve all witnessed the judges disingenuousness, no viewer can generously suspend disbelief of Idol’s many instances of fake hustle and concocted drama. It’s not a lie if we all choose to believe it — in the name of being entertained — but it is no longer possible to do so. Nice going, dickbags.

But that is beside the point, and the point is this: Nearly every single auditioner should’ve been shot through the lung as punishment for even thinking of his or herself as a singer. Routinely flat and often predetermined to fail, the singers even affected host Ryan Seacrest, whose copywriters staged a virtual protest by scripting another dozen third-grade grammar and usage errors. (Late Thursday night, my battered ears contacted their lawyers to initiate sexual assault charges against Idol producers. Further suit should be brought against New Jersey’s Tiffany Rios, whose shit-talking earned her peer scorn and whose fucktarded croaking helped to disqualify her hot-ass partner, season ten’s bonerist contestant. Thanks a ton, starknockers.)

On Thursday, the 100 successful group day singers had their numbers slashed in half. Again, Tyler conveyed a genuine investment in the contestants’ success. He’s happy when they do well. But he’s also open to jerking around the emotionally frayed: After a hundred solo auditions — the first solo performances with live accompaniment — he toyed with a group of winners by stating that he “couldn’t say it” and let ‘Fer-‘Pez break the happy news to them. Dick move, man.

But by that point, Tyler and the judges were entitled to some revenge. For every singer who provided deft self-accompaniment (on piano, guitar, and stand-up bass), there was one mired in false starts and general cluelessness about band performance. And in terms of ear distress and melodicide, solo auditions crushed the ostensibly treacherous group performances. Know why? Because each singer must’ve been instructed to wield every weapon in their vocal arsenal and leave no note unshrieked, no eye unclenched, and no fist unflailed. Let me tell you, Idol Remains reader, that stroke-struck Grammys reporter has nothing to be embarrassed about next to these contorted spazbots. I wouldn’t be surprised if Thursday’s Idol hopefuls have now received emails from Steve Vai, Mary J. Blige, and Al Pacino that read: “Get a fucking grip on yourselves!” No restraint. Vocal spooge everywhere!

But I get it. This is a skills contest and contestants had better go full bonerz while they have the chance, even if the multitudinous gullet shots make Idol resemble a highlight reel for aspiring tonsil surgeons. I can only shudder and clutch my balls in anticipation of next week’s Beatles-themed performances in Las Vegas. See you then.

-ADF

MetalSucks’ Idol Remains returns next week to survey the wreckage wrought upon history’s greatest pop compositions when American Idol visits The Beatles catalogue. Great god, the stenche!

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