IDOL REMAINS: “SING DAMNIT!”
Wed: Las Vegas, The Beatles/The Final Judgement pt. 1
Thur: The Final Judgement pt. 2
Misery index: A billion trillion kazillion
Tyler-o-meter: Jennifer Lopez STMFU
This week, there’s no point to a detailed autopsy of season ten’s most recent 240 minutes of blood-curdling horror. Suffice it to say, it was gruesome to witness the marching band-style bludgeoning of The Beatles catalogue by these spastic wail-bots. It was disappointing that Idol’s fleet of Vegas-bound busses suffered no breakdowns nor attacks from flesh-hungry buzzards. It was mind-boggling that many an Idol hopeful freely admitted to total ignorance of The goddamn motherfucking Beatles. It was nice to have an extra voice of reason in visibly disgusted guest judge Jimmy Iovine and his gang of talent scouts/hat models. It was shocking, in these the final episodes before eliminations are determined by the voting public (shudder), to witness the Riefenstahl-esque theatrics and terminology employed by Idol: Contestants were “singing for their lives” immediately prior to “The Final Judgement.”
It was also disgusting to witness judge Steven Tyler’s overshadowing by Lady Crotchburn Jennifer Lopez and his further slide into Idol protocol of fake-outs and jerk-arounds; as the remaining 61 singers were reduced to 24, viewers were repeatedly treated to judges‘ use of the old “This is so hard to say … [frowns] … We had to make some hard decisions … [sighs] … I’m sorry, but … You’re in! Congratulations!” Good one, guys — especially the 24th time over three hours here in week six. It’s not just stupid, it’s bad TV, the equivalent of Fonzie perishing in flames and being miraculously resurrected on either side of every commercial break. Pretty lame, Milhouse.
So, we’ve entered the endgame where Idol contestants now number only 12 women and 12 men (20 of whom suck) and after six weeks of this brain-bending cack, we metal people have netted three imperatives of varying importance:
Know Thy Enemy
Remember that third-act scene in Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas, where the dope-addled Raoul Duke and his partner Dr. Gonzo shot into the center of the hornets’ nest to cover a police symposium on narcotics law enforcement? Well, here in 2011, there is no one threatening to curtail our drug intake — shit, I just bought three gross of Percocet on the internet — or bash our skulls from atop a police horse for our long hair; nay, our lifestyle battle comes via the irreparably crippled music industry and its foisting of middling talent on an public trained to seek little more than enjoyment of the act of purchasing. American Idol is a symptom of the core-deep rot, as image conquers skill, demographics surmount deserts, and phony, overcooked pseudo-drama accompanies each performer like stink trails Britney Spears. Metal people, take heed, observe your foes, and battle back.
Steven Tyler Matters
First of all, no matter how you feel about Aerosmith’s shrieking omnipresence and youth-mongering, regardless of your distaste for hyper-processed pop compositions from mercenaries Jim Vallance (lovvve you), Desmond Child (thanks a lot for Bon Jovi), and Holly Knight (do I also get credit for “Rag Doll”?), and despite your prudish rejection of his grody sexuality that respects neither age nor uh family ties, let’s just etch into stone right here and now that Steven. Tyler. Is. The. Best. American. Singer. In. Rock. History.
With that fact on the books, we can now assess Tyler’s role on Idol: Legitimacy. Tyler, presumably, has failed auditions, had boos and bottle hurled at his face, and earned the privilege to have his art distributed worldwide in the old school make-or-break music industry. He’s no Paula Abdul (a tone-deaf choreographer babe who danced right into a fleeting pop career), Simon Cowell (not a performer), or Randy Jackson (a sideman cum producer and exec). Nor is he a cuddly but unfunny comic (Ellen DeGeneres) or a … whatever (Kara DioGuardi). He is qualified like Cowell and Jackson, but moreso than them, as he has lived the performer’s struggle.
Jennifer Lopez Is A Cunty Slag
There I said it. In her tiny-mindedness, ‘Fer-‘Pez may choose to ignore this, but her self-protection measures ring false to the viewing public even if they’re sturdy enough for her own comfort. She can opt for blindness to her own bullshit, but few else could possibly ignore how every comment, every justification, every platitude serves to exonerate herself to rightfully cut contestants and further hoover up camera time like Charlie Sheen does eight balls. (Not to mention the head-slapping hypocrisy of her urging that contestants “find their own voice,” “sing from the soul,” and “be themselves.” Um what?)
Take the case of pitch-impaired nice guy Chris Medina, whose cut marked the climax of Wednesday’s Idol and whose fiancee’s life-changing injuries guaranteed him plenty of goopy Idol traction. His dismissal meant, in Idol vernacular, the end of his journey (GMAFB), and yet ‘Fer-‘Pez hijacked Medina’s own borrowed drama, listing starboard in a fit of wholly unconvincing and prolonged waterworks. It was quite a sight, friends: a woman festooned with diamonds sniveling right on into the credits. Y’know, cuz it harmed her so to deliver the bad news. Would she be able to muster the strength to continue cutting shitty singers from a meaningless talent competition, asked host Ryan Seacrest? My advice to ‘Fer-‘Pez: Pretend the singers are your personal staff and get them deported.
MetalSucks’ Idol Remains returns when a sure-to-be distraught Anso DF breaks down next week’s six freaking hours of American Idol carnage.