An Idol Mind

American Idol Season 7: My Final Grade

Congratulations to David Cook on a well-deserved victory! This was actually probably the strongest American Idol finale we've had in quite awhile, and not to be cliche, but both guys did a fantastic job. Each David has a great career awaiting him - even though I think that Cook is going to eventually surpass Archuleta by far. That's not to say that I think Archie isn't gifted - his talent is undeniable. But I think our beloved Cookie is going to have Carrie Underwood-esque levels of success. And deservedly so - he has proven he has the mind and voice of a true recording artist. Plus, to top it all off, he seems like a truly nice guy and his family appears wonderfully supportive. Good for him. I only started watching American Idol for serious about two seasons ago, so I have never had months of investment pay off in the form of an awesome winner. So wow - what I'm feeling right now as a viewer, it's great.

I'm trying to think of the proper way to go about writing my last post of the season, and the only thing that comes to mind is that I should format it and grade it the way I formatted and graded individual contestant performances during the whole run. You know, with the larger bold font and the contestant's name followed by the name of the song and who wrote it. Of course, now that I have just thoroughly explained the plan to you, every ounce of cleverness in it is gone. But nonetheless, I will address the totality of this season as though it were a singular Tuesday night performance; and, accordingly, I will spare no barbs in judging the hell out of it.

Oh, how it pains me to get this terminal entry underway. I think I need to get some tissues before I dive in. ...I'm liable to pull a Brooke along the way.

Chikezie Ezie, Ramiele Malubay, Michael Johns, Kristy Lee Cook, Carly Smithson, Brooke White, Jason Castro, Syesha Mercado, David Archuleta and David Cook - "American Idol Season 7" by Simon Fuller and Nigel Lythgoe feat. Simon Cowell, Paula Abdul and Randy Jackson

Although I was satisfied by the ending glory note (which demonstrated wise restraint of [17-year-old, Mormon] melisma), many things about this effort felt so stuffy and contrived that for the first time ever, I did not feel pangs of guilt when I didn't bother watching parts of it (or when I flipped the channel and watched the NBA playoffs instead.) The beginning of this performance held a great deal of promise. I mean, there were rumors of drug abuse, gay stripper pizza bistros and prior record deals, and the feisty specter of Sanjaya loomed mightily in the form of one Danny Noriega - but I still anticipated the sort of greatness that I had been treated to in the past. Hey, I could deal with the terrible clothes and sassy backtalk. Singers were still struggling to find their niche. Fake rockers like Robbie Carrico and two-note balladeers like Amanda Overmyer made things worth watching for the sheer so-bad-it's-good-ness. Enterprising young talents like Asia'h Epperson intrigued me, and pasty young-Peter Frampton lookalikes such as Garrett Haley amused me, even though it was all too clear that neither of these people nor their associated Idol acts were much more than canon fodder. Things were proceeding smoothly and normally for the most part, and everything seemed to be building to a crescendo of epic proportions (which they ultimately did, thanks to incessant David-David promotion.) But in the middle section of this performance, which I can retrospectively say was quite misguided, things got weird. And by "got weird," I mean, "started spiraling downward in a hurry."

And by "in a hurry," I mean, "Oh look, I blinked, and Kristy is still here."

Please, don't get me wrong - this altogether lackluster outing did have its shining moments. Although she struggled to find an emotional connection with the viewership and lost her way on such pieces as Queen's "The Show Must Go On," Carly was the consummate professional. She proved her vocal prowess early on with Heart's very tricky "Crazy On You" and much later during both Beatles Weeks with "Come Together" and "Blackbird." Her premature ouster caused some of us - no need to say whom - to bawl our eyes out, swear swift, merciless vengeance and make depressed iMovie videos, but Carly herself seemed so confident in her abilities that I'm sure her sophomore album is well on its way to store shelves at this point. Another beam of light through all the trite ballad darkness was, of course, David Cook, who upon abandoning his emo combover and rocker smugness overcame problems with his lower register and put a well-sung, creatively arranged twist on more classics than I can remember. (His interpretation of Mariah Carey's "Always Be My Baby," which combined guitar amp grunge with the cleanliness of a classical orchestra, showed him at his very best. It remains the only American Idol song I have ever downloaded from iTunes, as well as the only Idol song that has made me shed a tear or two.) Not nearly as confident as David, but in my opinion even more charming, was the effervescent Brooke White, the babbling G-rated nanny. Although Brooke ultimately exited with all the swagger of a wounded calf, she did find impressive stride in three consecutive weeks with Carly Simon's "You're So Vain," Pat Benatar's "Love Is a Battlefield" and The Beatles' "Let It Be." For awhile, she was a surprising contender. And showing his own glimpses of artistry was (the obviously doomed but still root-forable) Chikezie, who took a Beatles' classic in "She's a Woman" and countrified it magnificently. Because he was probably the singular most genuine and down-to-earth contestant on the show this season, I will excuse the fact that he evidently doesn't have enough common sense to not experiment on national T.V. with an instrument he's never picked up before in his life. Oh, Chikezie.

Anyway, not to haul off and burst your bubble or anything, but this is where my list of "season 7 people who were breaths of fresh air" officially ends. From here on out, it's more or less all "pained hacks of inadvertently swallowed smog." Idol credibility endangerers like Jason, Kristy and Ramiele were distracting nuisances. How long can someone's thin falsetto warble, continuous lyrical flubs and obvious indifference to Idol's proceedings hide behind barely decent guitar playing? Oh, only six weeks or so. Just ask Mr. Castro. Next year I'll try out for Idol, too. I don't play guitar too much worse than Jason, and just by being a girl I have more vocal range. So who knows, maybe I'll make it to the Top 8 or something. As for Kristy - Christian God bless her patriotic soul - she also savored the joys of Idol life far longer than she should have. Her butchering of The Beatles' "Eight Days a Week" entered Guinness last month as the only televised song to cause two musical legends to spin over in their graves at the same time. Go her! Sure, the little cowgirl who could(n't) had grown on me by the end; but my spirited chants of "One More Week!" were always and only for effort, never for execution. Honestly, the worst part about Kristy's momentary invincibility was that it proved just how easy it is to inflict mind control upon the American people. All a girl has to do is pepper her speech with the words "flag," "country," and "God," and babble on and on about her horses and her ranch and her family in order to meet with any sort of success. Oh, and right - it also wouldn't hurt anything if the girl was skinny and blonde, and was known for being way too fond of singing "Amazing Grace."

Joining the ranks of Jason and Kristy is Ramiele, the diminutive belter of the (occasionally) huge voice. While not as dubiously talented as Jason or Kristy, Ramiele had several issues of her own: she could never stop with the waterworks, she simply loved pouting like a brat, and she was extraordinarily bad at song selection. Essentially, she was the female version of David Archuleta (which just won't do): cute as a teddy bear, probably barely heavier than one, but also inexplicably attracted to cheesy, old-timed stuff that anyone under 40 has a hard time getting into. (Not to mention that she was guilty of such played-out stage theatrics as starting out on the stairs before awkwardly traipsing to center stage. She did that like three times. Ugh.) Still, Ramiele's most egregious sin was her complete inability to sing songs that had yet to be covered on American Idol. Her Week 1 rendition of Dusty Springfield's "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" had already been done by season 4's Nadia Turner and season 6's Stephanie Edwards. Her shrill Week 3 take on Phil Collins' "Against All Odds (Take a Look at Me Now)" had been performed by a whopping five contestants before her, ranging from season 5's runner-up Katharine McPhee to season 2's Corey Clark (you know, the guy who was disqualified after he claimed to have slept with Paula). And her Week 6 choice of Heart's "Alone" had already received the treatment from season 4's winner Carrie Underwood as well as season 6's dentist-rocker Gina Glocksen. Who knows, maybe creativity in song choice is directly correlated to vertical reach? I go to a rich school, hopefully I can get funding for research on this matter.

Anyway, somewhere between being a breath of fresh air and being a pained hack of inadvertently swallowed smog were people like Michael Johns, Syesha Mercado and David Archuleta. And, damn it all, two of these three people were in the Top Three. (Not that I'm complaining about that, both Syesha and David earned the right to be there.) My complaint here is simply that these contestants, while talented, worked against season 7's overall success by painting far too often inside lines they drew for themselves. They boxed themselves in - Syesha with anything divalicious, Michael with bluesy arena rock, and Archie with anything lower than 60 BPM that made mention of kids or world-saving. Not to mention that, for the three of them, the nose of the likeability meter really only ever bounced between "Gee golly gosh, you like me? *excited Death Wheeze*" to "Why should I have a personality? I'm hot, for God's sake!" Kristy may have appealed to rednecks and Jason may have been largely non-lucid, but at least both of them verged on being charming. Michael, save a heartfelt rendition of Dolly Parton's "It's All Wrong But It's All Right," always gave off the vibe he was more concerned with looking cool than he was with performing impeccably. (Also, he forgot one of the Rules of Life that I had assumed most people were taught as children: never trust a foreign man in a neckerchief.) Archie, despite having a technically outstanding instrument, blushed and nervously giggled his way out of many voters' hearts and onto their dart boards when it became obvious he only ever did well with ballads for which he could do his "extend a hand and catch a rainbow" dance. And as for Syesha, the competition's (eagerly self-proclaimed) triple threat... well, here is my note to Ms. Mercado:

Hey, girl. It's me, Britt. I know you accomplished much more than anyone ever imagined you would by outlasting people far more popular than you this season. I know you feel like the hot sh!t right now - and justifiably so, since most of the time these past 13 weeks, you were looking like a bombshell. But I have to clarify something for you - just because you're black, and a woman, and you're going through a liminal phase in your life, you are not entitled to bring up the civil rights movement in a self-comparative manner. Do you understand? You were a contestant on a T.V. show. If you think you are the next Christina Aguilera, fine. That, albeit delusional, I do not mind. But to equate yourself with people who were willing to die and did die for causes rooted in the pain of centuries, is outlandish. Frankly, I don't understand why Randy didn't smack you upside the head backstage after the first time you said it. Please do yourself a favor and never make such a ridiculous statement again. If you do, I will have no choice but to buy three hundred Whitney Houston CDs and come to your house and break each and every one of them before your very eyes. Deal? OK, good.

...As you can tell, my feelings for this season are quite varied.

There were moments during these past few weeks when I experienced the familiar, almost euphoric warmth of all the things I have come to adore about American Idol: when David Archuleta first sang John Lennon's "Imagine," chills ran down my spine; when we got our first glimpse of Jason Castro, who the cameras had entirely ignored during the audition and Hollywood weeks, his calm, crisp delivery of The Lovin' Spoonful's "Daydream" became the first video of the season I bothered YouTubing to watch over and over; when Michael Johns put his smoldering stamp on Simple Minds' "Don't You (Forget About Me)," I was catapulted into a term of downloading and rediscovering the joy of 80s movies (including "Fast Times at Ridgemont High," "St. Elmo's Fire" and, naturally, everything Ringwaldian. ...No, I'm not kidding!) Meanwhile, at the show's lowest points, I felt my once unshakable patience with all Idol's superficiality evaporate with every awkward ensemble sing-along, every crap Ford music video, every ridiculous Paula mistake and every pointless iTunes/Coca-Cola/AT&T mini-contest. Granted, for once American Idol came down to the two best contestants. (If Jordin Sparks went platinum, both Cookie and Archie certainly will.) But did everything about this season have to feel so scripted, so forced? So tedious and mechanic? You probably had a hard time telling over the course of the many sharp-tongued entries these past two months, but I love this show - I love it for its earnestness, playfulness and madcap joy, ...qualities it's been losing exponentially with each new season. Next year I'd very much like to see Idol find a way to right its ship. If only so I can stop telling myself, "That's it, I'm not watching this stupid show anymore!" at the manifestation of something outrageous and/or irritating and/or mind-boggling every five seconds.

Anyway, my dear, dear readers, now is where we must part ways - at least for the next 200+ days until those zany auditions start up again late fall. You know the old saying - all passably entertaining blogs must come to an end. But trust, I had an awesome time watching American Idol this season. It was amazing to know that I could discuss the show with not only the people around me, but also with fans from many different parts of the country that I hadn't even known when the season started. Every comment that was sent my way was read - some made me laugh, some made me think; a handful insulted me and two handfuls gave me a compliment. But this was my first blog and I thank everybody who read it. As a final question, I'll ask you if you're happy with which David was crowned champion. (As you can see in the above CNN.com poll, most people are gratified by the way things turned out.) As a final and wholly uncalled for "I told you so," I will remind you that I called the winner being Cookie and I called the evening being much, much closer than it was originally deemed, as was later admitted by Simon just before the results were announced. And as a final release of my letter-grading tension (and to keep with the performance format in which this entry began [and subsequently ran horribly afoul of]), I will give you my be-all-end-all score of American Idol season 7.

Grade: B-/B

Agree? Disagree? Make sure you tell me. See you next season!