American Idols are the Devil's Playthings

American Idol: Runners & Riders

It's that time of year again, when we get our first look at America's next hero, the person who'll appear on the five dollar bill from 2008-2010. On the other hand, there is some good news: the auditions stage is finally over. I've always loved the freaks-and-geeks stage of these reality shows in the past, but this year it went on too long and was just too excruciating. I assumed they were hiding all the talent so they could focus on this year's especially spine-gratingly awful weirdoes, but then we got to see who they were putting through to the live shows, and it turns out there just wasn't much talent this year. They used it all up the last few years.

Anyway, here's your cheat's guide to this year's contestants. Apologies to American readers, who already lived through all this a few days ago. We get all the shows in one dose on a Friday, which means five hours of Idol tonight. Pray for me. (By the way, even though we have five hours of show to suffer through, ITV still pads it out with lots of utterly pointless asides starring British presenter Cat Deeley. America, you are very lucky not to have to suffer through these bits. Though Cat is actually a lot better than Ryan Seacrest, who gets more odious, obsequious and self-loathingly homophobic every year.)

we start with the 12 boys:

Rudy Bagpacker: Smooth-skinned Italian-American boy singing... well, I have no idea. He sings like he's in cardiac arrest. Simon apparently has never liked him, and Rudy doesn't know why. Might I venture to suggest, Rudy, that it's because you're an atonal cacophanous disaster? Rudy is really very bad indeed. There's simply no good reason for him to be in this show. If he tried to join the Sharks in West Side Story they'd shiv him for wrecking their chorus line.

Brandon Backingsinger: I've quite liked Brandon in the past, because he had a quite appealing simmer to his style, and a nicely soulful voice. I don't know what happened to him tonight, but it was distinctly lacklustre. He's singing Rock With You, which is a good choice - if you're singing at your friend's wedding reception. Which is where you may see him soon.

Sunshine Head Welcomes Careful Drivers: There's a cliff near my home town that's famous for its suicides. It's called Beachy Head. Every time I see Sunshine Head and his monumental girth, I'm reminded of that notorious cliff. And every time I hear him sing, I'm reminded why it's notorious, because I find I want to kill myself. Sunshine horrendously caterwauls a Meat Loaf number. Actually, it probably isn't a Meat Loaf number at all, he just sings it like it's a Meat Loaf number. Or maybe he's just very fat, and it's confusing me.

Paul Token Asian: I may be forgetting a whole slew of people here, but I feel like Asian-Americans rarely get this far in Idol. Even thus guy may just be here to throw an entire demographic a bone, because he's utterly awful, and he's always been awful. I've never seen him be less than wallpaper-paste boring. Weirdly, he reminds me of Martin Sheen. Startlingly, this does not endear him to me at all.

Kevin Federline: I'm as surprised as you are to see him here, but you have to admit, it's a bold move. Your music career was stillborn. Your ex-wife is a crazy bald chick. No-one credits your claim to be Anna Nicole's babydaddy. What else can you do but try to regain the public's love with a stint on Idol? So here's Kevin Federline, sticking his head above the parapet of the witless protection programme, trying to recover the warm glow of the spotlight. People are erroneously claiming that he resembles Justin Timberlake, but that's only because they've forgotten who Kevin Federline is. For those who remember, the bad news is that he still can't sing. He has a weak, watery voice, he sounds like a stage school brat trying to sound urban, and he jiggers around like a paralysed man on a live rail. Terrible. Five guys in and we haven't heard a singer yet.

Boston Nick: He's singing Uptown Girl. No, I lie, he just looks like he should be singing Uptown Girl. Well, not singing; whistling it while he tunes up the engine on a beaten-up Ford Pinto. All right, let's be honest, I have no idea what he would be whistling. Obviously I'd never be seen dead in the sort of neighbourhood he must live in. But I don't have to go there, because he's right here on my TV, huskily whispering his way through Now and Forever, the Richard Marx song that's secretly Eric Clapton's Wonderful Tonight. He's not terribly good, but he shows more potential than anyone else we've seen, and he looks a bit like Robert Downey Jr, and we like that.

Beatbox Blake: I quite like Blake, which is strange, because he has the sort of terrible hair you'd expect to see on a hairdresser, and he beatboxes! Beatboxing is surely the lowest form of art. But he's very good at it, and sort of charming. Thankfully he's not relying entirely on the beatboxing, and he actually has quite a nice tone to his voice. His range is rather strained - by a Keane song, of all things - but he's decent. Possibly the best of the night so far, though he's bound to irritate me later. Do they even have Keane in the US, by the way? If so, I'm sorry about that.

Sanjaya Tattva Tattva Acintya Bheda Tattva: Looks like a cross between Michael Jackson and a toothbrush. And if the last couple of acts had you thinking that things were looking up, you're going to be disappointed. Sanjaya puts in a deeply tedious performance of a Stevie Wonder song. It's not that he can't sing, because I he very clearly can, it's just, why would you bother putting the effort in with a song like this? The only surprise here is that I didn't realise Stevie Wonder wrote any songs as boring as that. Or maybe it's a good song, and Sanjaya is just a charisma vacuum.

Chris Jackosbourneobviously: The early favourite, at least in my house, because he's genuinely quite funny and he seems to have an effortlessly good voice. He's like all of Barenaked Ladies squeezed into one pair of XXXL trousers. Unfortunately the live show doesn't see him at his best. Fortunately, a mediocre performance from him is all he needs to set him apart from this crowd of abysmal losers. Oh, but unfortunately he's just done a very stupid thing. He's tried to mock Simon Cowell with the tired old line about Simon making novelty records. Yes, Chris; that's why he's phenomenally rich and judging your sad sorry fat arse, kid. The thing to remember about Simon is that he's almost always right. This doesn't cease to be true just because he's criticising you, you witless goat.

Jared Squarejaw: I like Jared, because he's a rather handsome and strapping lad with good chunky eyebrows. I don't want him to disappoint me. Unfortunately he immediately does exactly that by singing a nasty syrupy R'n'B ballad, the Bryan McKnight one with all the stupid counting in it. He also doesn't sing it well, and the lighting seems designed to make him look like an orc. What happened to my strapping broad-shouldered singing superhero? Jared, if I'm losing interest, you're in trouble.

AJ in Your Pocket: A camp, oversexed Latino dwarf who got turned down for Idol the last four times. I think they let him through this time in the hope that, when the public send him home, he'll finally take the hint and give up. There can be no other rational explanation. Mind you, compared to most of the other contestants, he's does an admirable job of fighting his way through the song - in this case the easy party favourite Never Too Much by Luther Vandross.

Chris Fishface: I loathe Chris. I don't like his voice, I don't like his odious 'I'm a daddy' sympathy-baiting crap, and his skinny Uncle Fester look gives me the creeps. He's a sailor, so he should be hot, yet he makes me want to gargle cyanide. That's not right. He also looks like a member of the Scott-Lee family, which Americans (and many Britons) won't understand, but it's not a good thing. He sings a nasty skin-creeping ballad. I think the lyrics are 'As you sleep my cold and clammy hands will scurry up your shivering thigh and my wet finger will intrude into your musky sanctum'. I may be wrong. I hate him.

That's the boys, and even the kindest charity would probably suggest putting them all in a sack with a large brick and tossing them in a fast-moving river. Between all 12 of them they have a sum total of three passable voices and two personalities. I'm praying the girls are better. Let's find out together!

Stephanie Torchsinger: I like Stephanie, because she sang God Bless The Child at the audition and she didn't embarrass herself doing it. She isn't embarrassing herself here either. She has the attitude, tone and easy range to be a real, engaging performer. Raises the bar immediately. Great stuff.

Amy Plainjane: She's what we call 'fresh faced', which means she's funny looking and doesn't wear much make-up. She sings that she can't make me love her, which is true enough. I might will myself into tolerating her at best, if bribed. She's actually a serviceable singer with a pleasant enough voice, but she's completely unmemorable. I think Amy is here because they knew there had to be 12 girls, and there was a vacancy to fill.

Scary Leslie: Another one who freaks me out; a flame-haired girl with eyes like shining coals from the pits of hell. She's Ghost Rider. Imagine my surprise, then, when I find myself quite liking her rendition of Natural Woman. It's a bit New York jazz lounge, but I actually quite like that in a female singer - she's got brass. Terrible boots, and a dress like a potato sack, but she's forced me to change my mind about her, and that doesn't happen easily.

Sabrina Streisand-Keyes: A funny looking creature, very... Broadway. But a very good singer, if a little, yes, Broadway. Perhaps over-reliant on the warbling, but talented all the same. The women are evidently much, much better than the men by quite some margin. It makes it very tough to say scathing, bitchy things about them. I have to resort to catty remarks about their hair. This girl looks like she crimped hers in a George Foreman grill.

Antonella Bitchface: We're reminded in the show that the choice for the 12th girl was between Antonella and a girl who was much, much better than her, which seemed odd at the time, and it seems even odder that they'd remind us of it now. Perhaps they want to encourage the voters to send her home? They needn't have bothered, her tired, flat voice will accomplish that soon enough. She sings like I'd imagine Michelle Rodriguez might while she's drunkenly speeding her car into pedestrians along the cliffside roads of Hawaii.

Jordin Maneater: Well, she looks like she could manage half of one, anyway. I blame the blood-red lipstick smeared on with a trowel. She was too sweet in the auditions stage, Simon said. She's making up for it now with a big, hectoring blast of noise, and being on the receiving end of it is a little like how it must feel to see a bus bearing down on you. Jordin could probably use a little finesse, but I'm interested to see what else she can do, and I've found I've not thought that much in this competition.

Nicole Newjersey: I don't know if she's from New Jersey, but it must at least be her spiritual home. There's just something astonishly brash and classless about her. She can hit the notes, but her voice is deeply unattractive (as are the faces she pulls as she belts), and the performance feels like an intrusion. Suddenly I feel all three hours of the show so far pressing on my poor struggling brain, and I wonder how I'll cope with two more hours, especially when that includes the tedious recap/results show. I need more wine.

Haley Newjersey: The trashy New Jersey look with burnt hair and lipgloss all over the face is really in right now, apparently. She's singing a song that either was a Coke ad or should have been, but she's strictly Coke Zero. I'd call her pitchy, but I have no idea what that means any more, as Randy applies the word entirely inconsistently from week to week.

Melinda Cathedral: I love this girl. She seems much bigger than she is (she's tiny), she has a face that's huge and bright as the full moon, and her voice is just fabulously massive. She's a joy to listen to, and her performance is a delight to watch. She claims a lack of confidence is her big problem, but you absolutely wouldn't know it to look at her on stage. Gorgeous, fabulous and incredibly likeable. I hope she goes a long way in this competition.

Alaina Prettything: Another girl I like, because she seems sweet-natured and relatively smart. Unfortunately her sweetly husky voice isn't up to Brass in Pocket. She'd score very badly on Singstar with a performance like this. It's a shame, because I think she's capable of much better than this. Actually, I think even Sunshine Head is probably capable of much better than this, but I doubt it'll ever be proven.

Gina the High School Bruiser: Gina looks like the sort of girl who knows her way around a monkey wrench, and spent much of her schooldays smoking in the toilets. She's a very atypical Idol girl - she's neither a dainty little creature, nor is she black and loud. There have been girls like her in the competition before, but they've lasted all of about a week and been quickly forgotten, so I don't hold out much hope for Gina. It's a shame, as she has a good voice, and she can do a lot more with it than most of the other girls. You'd better vote for her, or she'll take your pocket money. I like her.

LaKisha Izzadelicious: Say it with me now; it's time for the obligatory big black girl who learned how to sing in church. Sometimes these girls are genuinely extraordinary, and sometimes people just assume they're extraordinary because they're big black girls who learned how to sing in church. LaKisha sings that song from Dreamgirls. You know, the only halfway decent one. Not the one Beyonce released as a single; the one that may win Jennifer Hudson an Oscar. The good news is, she's genuinely extraordinary. I don't think she's quite up to the level of Jennifer Hudson, but Hudson's had a lot of chance to polish. Unfortunately there was something unruly and unpleasant about LaKisha's stage performance, but the vocals were impressive.

That's the show. Ryan asks Randy how many boys would he put through if he could choose the final 12 without restrictions. He says four. That's generous. I'd only want to put two through - Blake and Chris. The only problem then would be finding ten girls to join them. I can count seven that I rate. Stephanie and LaKisha are stand-out singers, but Melinda is my favourite.

To get the results, I had to sit through a ghastly school play rendition of Seeds of Love from the 'top 24', but you dear reader are considerably more fortunate, as I'm giving you the results right here, without asking for a slice of your soul.

The boys sent home are Paul the boring Asian kid and Rudy the incomprehensible Italian-American, both deserving losers, though with this bunch the voters would have been hard pushed to get it wrong. The girls sent home are bland and boring Amy and intrusive, unappealing Nicole, and that's a solid
result too. We now have several more weeks of winnowing to endure, but lord knows what we'll end up with at the end of it. The show just doesn't have a lot of plausible contenders this year.

Mash Is Not A Sausage

EMI released a licensed mash-up album yesterday, 'Mashed', proving either that mash-ups have now broken through to the mainstream, or that they're now utterly passé. Or maybe that's the same thing. (Heavens, look at how boldly counter-cultural I am! It's almost gauche.) You can see who gets mashed here, or you can listen to four tracks on their MySpace page.

I know some people don't like mash-ups because they're basically novelty records. The novelty in this case is one that I like - in theory - as mash-ups let you listen afresh to familiar music. In practice, though, too many of them are raucously overly-busy. The DJ types responsible rarely trim off enough fat, so we end up with a track that's stuffed to bursting with too much song, like two sausages rammed into a single skin.

The EMI collection's haphazard Take Me Out/Buffalo Gals blend is a typical example of this - it's rough, hectic and tedious. More successful is the combination of Rapture by Blondie with Riders on the Storm by The Doors, which brings new clarity to Jim Morrison's vocals - though Debbie Harry's rap hasn't magically become any better. The real success of the album, though, sees Peggy Lee's Fever vocals overlaid onto Passengers by Iggy Pop, perfectly matching Peggy's wily femininity to Iggy's driving muscularity.

I suspect Mashed is an attempt to bring mash-ups to the safely middle class bourgeouis music buyer - dragging it out of that swarthy underground of safely middle class bourgeouis internet users - which is how Liberty X, Madonna and Kylie's New Order mash-up found their way on there. It's Now That's What I Call Mash-Ups for cocaine sloanes who think they're underground because they DJ in wine bars. I doubt it'll be worth investing in - even good mash-ups usually get tiresome after the third listen - but Passenger Fever is a bit of a gem.

Playdate with Death

I have long had a fondness for Anna Nicole Smith. She was a cartoon character living a great American life, a life that one might describe as diamante gothic.

It comes as no surprise to learn that her story has ended in a Miami hotel room at the age of 39. The cause of death has yet to be established, but I'm sure speculation will be rife. An accidental drug overdose would of course be the most satisfyingly salacious ending, while suicide would make for the most operatic final act. Yet her partner says she had a fever the night before she died - perhaps she lived with a bang and died with a whimper?

This is the Anna Nicole Smith story. She was poor white Texas trash by the name of Vickie Lynn Hogan, raised by her mother, married at 17, a mother at 18 and separated at 19. She was a waitress in a fried chicken restaurant turned stripper turned tragic cliché. Her great ambition in life was to be Marilyn Monroe, which is as noble an ambition as any I've heard.

That was never going to happen, of course, but she did follow Marilyn in one all-important regard. 40 years after the great blonde bombshell appeared as a Playboy centrefold, Vickie Lynn Hogan became Playboy's Playmate of the Year 1993. Except she wasn't Vickie Lynn Hogan anymore, of course. Vickie Lynn was consumed and suffocated in the great grand bosom of a new rapacious gilded she-beast, a Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon that called itself Anna Nicole Smith.

And she was beautiful. She was. It was a male fantasy, broad-stroke caricature of beauty, of course - healthy curves, platinum curls and bright red man-eater lips like Ursula the Sea Witch - and perhaps none of it was real when you peeled off the slap, but nonetheless, the thing she became was brilliant, blinding and, yes, beautiful.

Being Playmate of the Year isn't the reason most of us came to know about Anna Nicole, of course. We heard about her because of her second marriage - to an 89-year-old oil tycoon who died fourteen months later. She went to court to claim half his fortune, and that's what made her a legend; she was the voluptuous undressed siren who went digging for gold and lured an unsuspecting billionaire to his death. It was the very definition of scandalous, and we were tabloid-bound to disapprove.

Except I couldn't, really. I mean, who deserves to inherit oil money? Who merits that kind of karma? Offspring should inherit something, of course, and every good parent wants their kids to be comfortable, but a $1.6 billion estate buys more comfort than any heir needs. Anna Nicole helped a randy old man to decline into happy oblivion - she probably did more to earn her chunk of change than any of his children. It's worth remembering that J Howard Marshall did not inherit his money; he made it. It was surely up to him how he spent it. I can well believe Anna Nicole's claim that he promised half of it to her, because we all say stupid things when we're horny.

In the event, Anna Nicole never got her hands on her late husband's money. Judges have ruled every which way in the case between Smith and her stepson, and to date the case remains unresolved. Anna Nicole and the son are now both dead, but the battle between their estates will surely lurch and lumber on like a travelling zombie circus.

Still, the scandal made Smith famous, and she was happy to expand to fill the spotlight like the magnificent airbrushed grotesque that she was. She was almost an actress and briefly a reality star, but she was chiefly known as one of those widely hated headline-hogging creatures that just suckle viscous glitter from the fat vinegary tit of celebrity. She came from nothing to become a bigger nothing - a big, fabulous, noisy nothing; a goddess among the hollow.

In what turns out to have been the final act in this great American life, she had her second child in 2006 - a daughter, Dannielynn, whose paternity is still in dispute - then lost her first child three days later, when her son from her teen marriage died of a drug overdose. His death was the second most searched news story of 2006, second to Steve Irwin, but beating the Iraq war.

Barely two weeks after his death, Anna Nicole and her attorney held a committment ceremony as a gesture of their love. They had fried chicken at the reception.

That was a little over four months ago, and one might have thought that, with a new relationship and new child, Anna Nicole was about to embark on a new chapter. Instead, her deeply strange life has come to a very sudden end.

I suspect Anna Nicole will mainly be remembered as a joke or a disgrace. She was Miss Piggy made flesh. I'll choose to reflect on her more fondly, as a glamorous icon of unabashed carnal indulgence - a rare and gratifying example of a person coloured in all the way to the edges. She represented our very worst, but in the very best possible way. I have always loved that there are people like her in the world, and I'm a little sad that she's now out of it.

She never achieved her great ambition, of course. She was no Marilyn Monroe. Yet perhaps she was a Marilyn Monroe for our more grasping, tawdry, voyeuristic age. And in one sense she had Marilyn beat. She outlived her by three years.

Billy Zane Is Not My Lover

There are a hundred blogs on the internet for every seven pictures of a kitten, according to a report from the National Office of Bogus Statistics. The report does not specify which kitten.

This is my blog, a place to put my odiously self-important blatherings about things trivial, glittery or salacious. I'm not setting out a clear agenda, so it's difficult to say what shape this blog will take, but given my preoccupations you can probably expect a lot about low culture, celebrity and current affairs, with occasional blasts of wet liberalism. What I won't be writing about is my food diary or how depressed I am, and you won't have to risk running into any memes or poems or the lyrics to a song that really say a lot about where I am in life right now. I'd like to update daily, but I can tell you right now that that's not going to happen. Let's see if I can manage three times a week.

As to the title; Billy Zane is not my lover. This is a simple fact.

Thanks for passing by. I hope you enjoy the blog. If you don't, I'll have to resort to posting pictures of a kitten.