EIGHT YOUNG MEN, EIGHT CHEESY SMILES
this...is American Idol.
again.
By popular demand, in the interests of equal time,
and just for the hell of it, here goes TWM’s second-ever live bloging
exercise. This time, it’s the
men...
8:15pm, PVR’d and slightly time-shifted for bath time and a Penguins power play, PowerBook open.
Ryan Seacrest emerges wearing a tie for the second consecutive night. This time, it’s actually tied. And it even reaches his belt. Which means he looks like a real-live TV host — unlike last night, when he looked like a ten-year-old who’d dressed himself for a school dance.
Gedeon McKinney goes first, but I miss the first few bars, because I’m still trying to figure out why he sounded like Frank Burns talking to the Korean natives on M*A*S*H* — you know...really...slow...ly...and...loud...ly, soooo...we...’ll...un...der...staaaand — as he explained his hideous, ham-fisted painting. Love the song. Love the shirt. Hate the smile and the performance. I know that, technically, it sounds pretty good. Soulful. Certainly in tune. But there’s something about him that just doesn’t compute for me. I laugh and agree with Simon when he says, You are quite odd, aren’t you? Yes, Simon, he is. And he’s freaking me out — especially when he God-blesses the judges.
After the commercial break, it’s Chris Daughtry, still looking and sounding the part, a better voice and stage presence than plenty of alterna-rock-metal frontmen I’ve seen and heard. He slows it down a bit this time — and Simon’s right; the song wasn’t great — still playing to his strengths but changing it up a little too. Smart. Maybe he’s pacing himself. Maybe he should. Because I still think he could be in trouble once they start throwing show tunes and disco records at him in the finals theme-weeks. But for now, he’s one of the three most compelling singers and people — along with Taylor and Mandisa — in the competition. One complaint: he has to stop patting his stomach during the performance; when he’s finished singing, I always want to give him his props and a couple of Tums.
Kevin Covais, getting more annoying by the second, beats his chest and uses the word gangsta in his video intro, then appears on stage to warble about a Starry starry night... in a voice that almost peels the paint off the walls. Don McLean, Vincent Van Gogh, and anyone else who has not cut off both ears prays for clouds to appear. Quickly. Randy and Paula continue to praise him as if he were their love child. Simon rightly (but gently) pans him, noting once more — it must be in their contracts — that he’s likable, which is the American Idol equivalent of being told your blind date has a good personality. Ryan Seacrest appears to defend Kevin, most likely because the kid’s the only remaining contestant shorter than he is.
Bucky Covington reveals he’s a twin, which is as interesting as it is frightening. It’s even more frightening once we see them side by side; when those Scottish scientists finished cloning Dolly the Sheep, they must have moved on to Bucky. But back to the performance... A little rasp, a little twang, a little drawl. A little bit country and a little bit rock and roll. And a performance that, while not exactly as strong or compelling as his Simple Man from week one, still sounds engagingly raw and authentic. It should be enough to earn him a spot in the finals, unless the grandma vote dials in force for Kevin and the 11-year-old vote text-messages in swoon for...
Will Makar, who still needs to cut and least comb his hair, speaks Japanese, sings James Taylor, and reminds us that every season, without fail, some harmless, inocuous, talentless contestant (hello, John Stevens) defies the odds and somehow lasts several weeks beyond all sense and reason. Randy and Simon hammer him for his resounding mediocrity, while Paula gushes and praises and adores him, thus proving that even when she does not appear to be drunk or high or both, she can still voice opinions that convince us she is.
After a break, the video intro performs a magic trick of pulls a Hicks out of a rabbit. Taylor rocks and rolls and gyrates and damn near explodes to Takin’ it to the Streets. It’s a great choice; he has both the hair — or is that the hare? -- and the voice to pull off Michael McDonald. You gotta give the guy credit: he’s a hell of a talent, and he follows both his muse and his music wherever it takes him — even into epileptic fits and soulful seizures. For that alone, I understand why some people hate him. But I also understand, and wholeheartedly agree with, all the people who absolutely love him.
Elliot Yamin, whose voice is as far from raspiness as Kellie Pickler’s brain is from intelligence, inexplicably turns to a Bryan Adams ballad. It's not quite Heaven-ly, but it’s good enough, at least, to keep it from sounding like Hell. Randy and Paula think it’s a good choice, but they’re almost certainly speaking from their hearts and not from their ears. As usual, Simon gets it right: For the first time...a disconnect between you and the song...completely and utterly the wrong song...not your best for me. He'll make it to the finals without a problem, and he should. But it was still a major misstep.
Ace Young pulls out his hammer in the video and his beanie in the performance. The women of America hope he'll pull out even more. I could have done without both. But I'd take either over his lip-snarling, ear-splitting, high-end falsetto. Sure, he could do it. And, yeah, he stayed mostly in tune. But it felt — and certainly sounded — like an odd choice, especially for a guy whose mid-range, along with his mega-watt smile, is his true strength. One last oddity: he, too, does the Chris-Daughtry stomach-pat thing. Nerves? Bad food at the Fox commissary? Or just the realization that, until they advance to the final four, they will not have longer odds of suriving to sing another week?
If there's sense and reason in the world and on the phones, it is, like last week, a pretty easy call. Going home tomorrow: Kevin Covais (who looked and sounded exponentially worse in the video recap, placed, as he was, in the context of real people with real talent) and Will Makar (who couldn’t possibly look or sound any worse than we remembered him, unless they showed a clip of David Radford instead). And it shouldn’t even be close.
8:15pm, PVR’d and slightly time-shifted for bath time and a Penguins power play, PowerBook open.
Ryan Seacrest emerges wearing a tie for the second consecutive night. This time, it’s actually tied. And it even reaches his belt. Which means he looks like a real-live TV host — unlike last night, when he looked like a ten-year-old who’d dressed himself for a school dance.
Gedeon McKinney goes first, but I miss the first few bars, because I’m still trying to figure out why he sounded like Frank Burns talking to the Korean natives on M*A*S*H* — you know...really...slow...ly...and...loud...ly, soooo...we...’ll...un...der...staaaand — as he explained his hideous, ham-fisted painting. Love the song. Love the shirt. Hate the smile and the performance. I know that, technically, it sounds pretty good. Soulful. Certainly in tune. But there’s something about him that just doesn’t compute for me. I laugh and agree with Simon when he says, You are quite odd, aren’t you? Yes, Simon, he is. And he’s freaking me out — especially when he God-blesses the judges.
After the commercial break, it’s Chris Daughtry, still looking and sounding the part, a better voice and stage presence than plenty of alterna-rock-metal frontmen I’ve seen and heard. He slows it down a bit this time — and Simon’s right; the song wasn’t great — still playing to his strengths but changing it up a little too. Smart. Maybe he’s pacing himself. Maybe he should. Because I still think he could be in trouble once they start throwing show tunes and disco records at him in the finals theme-weeks. But for now, he’s one of the three most compelling singers and people — along with Taylor and Mandisa — in the competition. One complaint: he has to stop patting his stomach during the performance; when he’s finished singing, I always want to give him his props and a couple of Tums.
Kevin Covais, getting more annoying by the second, beats his chest and uses the word gangsta in his video intro, then appears on stage to warble about a Starry starry night... in a voice that almost peels the paint off the walls. Don McLean, Vincent Van Gogh, and anyone else who has not cut off both ears prays for clouds to appear. Quickly. Randy and Paula continue to praise him as if he were their love child. Simon rightly (but gently) pans him, noting once more — it must be in their contracts — that he’s likable, which is the American Idol equivalent of being told your blind date has a good personality. Ryan Seacrest appears to defend Kevin, most likely because the kid’s the only remaining contestant shorter than he is.
Bucky Covington reveals he’s a twin, which is as interesting as it is frightening. It’s even more frightening once we see them side by side; when those Scottish scientists finished cloning Dolly the Sheep, they must have moved on to Bucky. But back to the performance... A little rasp, a little twang, a little drawl. A little bit country and a little bit rock and roll. And a performance that, while not exactly as strong or compelling as his Simple Man from week one, still sounds engagingly raw and authentic. It should be enough to earn him a spot in the finals, unless the grandma vote dials in force for Kevin and the 11-year-old vote text-messages in swoon for...
Will Makar, who still needs to cut and least comb his hair, speaks Japanese, sings James Taylor, and reminds us that every season, without fail, some harmless, inocuous, talentless contestant (hello, John Stevens) defies the odds and somehow lasts several weeks beyond all sense and reason. Randy and Simon hammer him for his resounding mediocrity, while Paula gushes and praises and adores him, thus proving that even when she does not appear to be drunk or high or both, she can still voice opinions that convince us she is.
After a break, the video intro performs a magic trick of pulls a Hicks out of a rabbit. Taylor rocks and rolls and gyrates and damn near explodes to Takin’ it to the Streets. It’s a great choice; he has both the hair — or is that the hare? -- and the voice to pull off Michael McDonald. You gotta give the guy credit: he’s a hell of a talent, and he follows both his muse and his music wherever it takes him — even into epileptic fits and soulful seizures. For that alone, I understand why some people hate him. But I also understand, and wholeheartedly agree with, all the people who absolutely love him.
Elliot Yamin, whose voice is as far from raspiness as Kellie Pickler’s brain is from intelligence, inexplicably turns to a Bryan Adams ballad. It's not quite Heaven-ly, but it’s good enough, at least, to keep it from sounding like Hell. Randy and Paula think it’s a good choice, but they’re almost certainly speaking from their hearts and not from their ears. As usual, Simon gets it right: For the first time...a disconnect between you and the song...completely and utterly the wrong song...not your best for me. He'll make it to the finals without a problem, and he should. But it was still a major misstep.
Ace Young pulls out his hammer in the video and his beanie in the performance. The women of America hope he'll pull out even more. I could have done without both. But I'd take either over his lip-snarling, ear-splitting, high-end falsetto. Sure, he could do it. And, yeah, he stayed mostly in tune. But it felt — and certainly sounded — like an odd choice, especially for a guy whose mid-range, along with his mega-watt smile, is his true strength. One last oddity: he, too, does the Chris-Daughtry stomach-pat thing. Nerves? Bad food at the Fox commissary? Or just the realization that, until they advance to the final four, they will not have longer odds of suriving to sing another week?
If there's sense and reason in the world and on the phones, it is, like last week, a pretty easy call. Going home tomorrow: Kevin Covais (who looked and sounded exponentially worse in the video recap, placed, as he was, in the context of real people with real talent) and Will Makar (who couldn’t possibly look or sound any worse than we remembered him, unless they showed a clip of David Radford instead). And it shouldn’t even be close.
Posted: Wed - March 8, 2006 at 09:21 PM
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Published On: Jan 16, 2009 04:50 PM
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