It's Baaaack... - 
by B-side
So there's this great little show on TV. I don't know if you've heard about it, but I'm hoping to really get the word out about it. Real simple premise: people from around the country sing for judges and try to be a pop superstar. It's called American Idol.
Okay, okay. No need to be all cutesy. Idol returned last night, and I'm sure all of America was tuned in to see this year's cattle call of talentless rejects and soulful Alicia Keys interpreters. I know I was. I mean, American Idol auditions have almost become a January tradition, up there with New Years hangovers and midseason cancellations (whattup, Emily's Reasons Why Not).
I must admit, I watched last night's big premiere outside of the TVgasm offices; so sadly, the details may not be as nitpicky as usual. Of course, I could go back and watch the whole premiere over again, but let's not be ridiculous. This is American Idol, not 24. [ed. note -- I went back and watched the whole premiere over again]
The season opened up with solitary image of Ryan Seacrest atop the Kodak Theater Stage. "This is American Idol," he announced, as if we had erroneously drifted over from Navy: NCIS. After some generic babble about dreams and Carrie Underwood and whatnot, we then dove straight into the self-congratulatory montage (something TVgasm is certainly not above) and watched as thousands and thousands of misguided souls wasted days in line, hoping for their one moment of fame. Of course, not everyone would 'fess up to wanting to grab the spotlight and never let go. Some people tried to act like there was some higher purpose to American Idol, with one dude going so far as to say that he wanted to touch people with his voice. Whatever. Get a blog.
We then saw the idealistic/starry-eyed/deluded kids who talked about wanting to audition since they were 12 or 14 or embryonic. It was all supposed to be inspiring and moving -- a warm embrace of the American Dream. Unfortunately, the American Dream must filter through the likes of Paula Abdul, Simon Cowell, and Randy Jackson -- a fate more depressing than any Willy Loman tragedy. Yes, for all of Idol's attempts to stir our patriotic heartstrings, the simple truth remains: on this show, the American Dream isn't about triumph of the spirit. It's more like flat notes and Goldilocks costumes. And hey, I'm not complaining.
Anyway, as this exciting opening montage continued, we then saw our favorite oddball trio of judges as Paula fake-sneered at Simon, "I hate you!" Ah, fun and games. So delightful. So amusing. So not the auditions we've been waiting to see. Let's get on with it!
We then saw snippets of auditions to come, and then finally, we found Ryan Seacrest straddling an umbrella and braving a rainy Chicago afternoon. And yes, this did lead to a "They don't call it the Windy City for nothing!" comment. Oh Ryan. Your fiery wit is indomitable! Nevertheless, Ryan marched into a stadium where thousands of aspiring singers were standing and asked who will be the next Kelly, Carrie, Reuben, or Fantasia. The teeming crowd of fame-seekers then charged forward, miraculously leaving The Seacrest unharmed in this stampede of joy. Would this mark the beginning of audition time? Not just yet. First we had to check in on all the latest poncho fashions of the hopefuls, and then at long last, we were ready to kick off this season in earnest.
First up was a guy named Derek. "America, listen to me. I am going to be the next American Idol," he promised, nay threatened. He then launched into a small monologue about how his confidence was so great, it was actually cutting off circulation to his extremities. Well, it's either that or the giant box of donuts you probably keep on your lap. Anyway, with pit stains rivaling the size of Lake Michigan, Derek ambled into the audition all sweaty and gross. Seriously, I think the inside of my TV screen was collecting condensation from his forehead.
Nevertheless, Derek promised us a surprise musical montage based in three keys: "Bass," "medium," and "medium-high." Or something like that. He then belted out a strange, atonal sound which was over no sooner than it had started. For a moment, I thought we were saved, but Derek had merely halted in order to dab the sweat off his head with a paper towel. He then returned to his "musical" medley, which seemed to be an eclectic tour through the world of crazy. "It's NIGEL! IT'S NIGEL!! IT'S NIGEL!!!!" he suddenly yelled at the climactic conclusion of his tune. And no, that was not a random bout of Tourette's.
Anyway, the judges all told him no, with Simon complaining, "Everything about this audition is terrible." But Derek refused to take no for an answer. Instead, he claimed that he was merely rattled by the audition, and that if he had one hour, he could pick a key to sing in and blow them away. No one really believed it, but Paula felt bad, and long story short, Derek headed out to gather himself and prove that his lasting mark on America would not be "It's NIGEL!!! IT'S NIGEL!!! IT'S NIGEL!!!" Don't worry, dude. It won't be. (Cough, pit stains, cough.) But even the sweet Paula couldn't resist an insult as she later said, "He looks like he's 43." Hey, not everyone has access to kegs of Botox.
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