Saturday, February 24, 2007

American Idol: Weapon of Mass Consumption
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There comes a time when we just have to admit some things in life are completely beyond your control. For instance, if we should ever actually see a mushroom cloud hovering over the horizon ala Jericho or Day 6 of 24, we'd shrug our collective shoulders and mutter something along the lines of, "so much for that debate."
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American Idol is like that. At one end of the spectrum are its rabid fans, who are somehow privy not only to the innermost feelings and fears of the contestants, but also have divined the coronation of the next Messiah of the Music Universe. At the other end are the equally rabid denouncers of the series who decry it as nothing less than one of the last two or three trumpet calls heralding the End of Civilization As We Know It. Then there are those of us seeking sanity in the madness, writing it off as a harmless talent show, and reassuring the radicals on both fringes that planet Earth will preservere regardless of the outcome, despite the ominous signs that it foretells the course of Western Civilization henceforth.
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I'm one of those who precariously straddles the Idol fence, depending on how foul my mood is. My "intellectual" side screams that the future of pop music should be stentorian, something that snakes its way into our consciousness imperceptibly, slowly gaining momentum and energy as it shapes itself into a trend, and eventually, a genre. It's not something that should be decided by a spur of the moment popular votes sponsored by Cingular/AT&T.
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Invariably, my "emotional" side rears its ugly head at this point, and wastes not an instant in whispering its bias into my brain. "If the populace at large doesn't decide the direction of pop music, can it truly be popular music?" it reasons. At that point, the two demons on my shoulders morph into Simon Cowell and Paula Abdul, and I'm left as a bewildered Randy Jackson, shuddering at the implications of it all.
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In the end, it doesn't matter one whit how you, I or anybody else on the face of the planet weigh in on the phenomenon that is American Idol. It's gone beyond that. It's a sentient being, born full-blown replete with gnashing fangs that viciously destroy anything that dares to face it in the ratings field of battle. Other networks shrink in horror at its mere mention, redeploying its schedule to evade its onslaught, and tossing newborn pilots and barely breathing reruns to the monster in a vain attempt to feed its hunger. They dare not send out a champion to righteously oppose it, and we, the viewers, give them no reason to strive more valiantly against the beast.
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In principle, I've never been a huge fan of American Idol. Sure, it puts relative unknowns on a national stage and gives them a once in a lifetime chance to become a recording star, and even more importantly, tabloid fodder. (Kelly Clarkson's beach photos come to mind.) And on very rare occasions, it even succeeds in finding a person worthy of being a star. Carrie Underwood deservedly is a country star. We all knew that from the moment she first stepped on stage. And I do sometimes admire the judges, particularly Simon Cowell, who doesn't mince words about the nature of the music business, and what it take to succeed in it. Randy Jackson has been around long enough to know what it takes to be a star, or more specifically what it takes to make a star, and he often serves as a counterpoint to Simon. In the end, though, both men are to be respected by mere virtue of the fact that they are seasoned music business professionals.
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That leaves Paula Abduhl. For the life of me, I cannot understand what qualifies her to judge what makes up an "American Idol." Her personal track record certainly doesn't. Beyond two MTV videos, one featuring Arsenio Hall, and the other featuring a stereotypically hip, dancing cartoon cat, her subsequent music career has been anything but inspiring. As near as I can tell, she serves as the everyman voice who wants everybody to have a chance. Unfortunately, she more often than not comes across as comedy relief, the drunk chick in the bar who insists it's all good.
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Together, Simon, Randy and Paula are a triumvirate who occasionally offer the viewer a glimpse into the working of the music industry's machinations. Simon, particularly, is unflinching in his criticisms. And that is why he is most hated among the judges. He takes that contestant's dream and neatly folds it into reality. Paula counters with a "you made it your own," and Randy plants it firmly in the middle, with a "yo, dog, I liked it, but. . ." Between the three of them, they act as the fuel for a pop culture weapon of mass consumption.
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They're only the fuel, though. We're the triggering device. It's we who manufacture the next perfect pop star in our own image. And in the world we've created, our fickle tastes have less to do with music than they do with our own peculiar self-images.
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So talk all you want about the minute virtues of American Idol. And don't hesitate to chat about it, pro and con, all through the week. After all, this is what we wanted, isn't it? At least until next season, anyway. . .
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