Just because you like The Thermals doesn’t mean you can’t get giddy over Jordin. And so what if you totally dig the new Menomena record? It doesn’t mean you can’t have a well-thought-out opinion on precisely what it is that makes Phil Stacey so darn creepy. Indie kids of America, you don’t have to choose between Idol-worship and indie cred.
Season six of American Idol brought us the most diverse Top 10 yet—and some of the music world’s most discerning tastemakers took notice, or at least realized that taking part in a national obsession is kind of a hoot. The music blogosphere jumped on board, posting lovingly fashioned analyses of Blake Lewis’ “You Give Love a Bad Name” shocker alongside the latest YACHT remix. Idolator, Gawker’s delightfully droll music blog, ran a weekly rundown, where they earnestly dissected the good, the bad and the Sanjaya. The Village Voice’s Tom Breihan, whose blog “Status Ain’t Hood” focuses mostly on hip-hop, started writing about Idol in the spring, offering his opinions on everything from LaKisha’s performance of “Jesus Take the Wheel” (underrated) to the Idol Gives Back Spectacular (long). And our very own Nashville Cream kept the city’s snark patrol in the know about local girl-made-good Melinda Doolittle—who was robbed by the way.
So what is it about American Idol—essentially a glorified karaoke competition—that sets folks who have a tendency to fetishize originality, and even opaqueness, atwitter? Season 6 finalist Chris Sligh has a theory: “It’s a lot like crack. You know that you really shouldn’t do it, but then, once you do it, you feel like you kind of have to do it again.”
Compelling, but I’d wager that the popularity of Idol among members of the notoriously finicky indie cred police has more to do with the suspension of the muddy, capricious rat race that is trying to make it in the music business. In lieu of relying on bloggers and labels and “buzz,” these kids just get to come out and sing. In the Idol universe, talent—of a certain, quite square variety—eventually triumphs (with your obvious exceptions: Antonella, Sanjaya and my all-time fave love-to-hate-er Kevin Covais). At the end of the show, you get to cast judgment by simply pressing a button—no flowery justifications, no obscure comparisons, no painstaking analysis of their onion of irony.
Sure, a good portion of the young, Pitchfork-readin’ Idol fans may watch only to be tickled, to poke fun at the cheesy affectations, overwrought montages and lite FM arrangements or to “Vote for the Worst.” But even if they won’t admit it, many are also tuning in to be moved, to watch people essay with an almost uncomfortable sincerity, to take a vacation from the relentless—and marvelous—subtleties and warbles of their small subculture.
Of course, the whole manufactured pop-star circus wouldn’t be same without your ponyhawks and your Simon-Seacrest “You’re Gay,” “No, you’re gay” repartees, but in the end, the reason American Idol is such a phenomenon, across the board, is that its about watching people realize their dreams. It’s also one of the easiest ways to feel part of this grand, silly land we call America. And that’s something that even the occasional Deerhoof fan can appreciate.
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