Saturday, April 16, 2005
Adieu Nadia
In the Nature vs. Nurture controversy, proponents of either side are both wrong. The tension between opposing poles fuels the engine behind evolution. I learned this watching The Flying Karamazov Brothers juggling. The beauty of juggling is not in the juggler or in the his clubs, but in the arc they make together.
This is why I like American Idol so much. Two opposing positions juggle inside my skull, producing something akin to enjoyment. One hand tosses "the show is just another capitalist assault on our culture," while another hand catches the "maybe there's one more chance for something magical to happen." Thus every year I'm glued to the idiot box long after my champion, who is always eliminated way too soon, has been ignominiously sent off to oblivion with naught but a cheesy video scrapbook.
This week I have to dit adieu to Nadia Turner-- the finest singer to grace American Idol ever. I am sure going to miss the way she twists her mouth around the orphaned little Pop songs she adopts. Nevermore will I get through the week inspired by her courage and confidence. I am so sad to see ya go gal!
When she first crooned McCartney's "My Love," I knew American Idol had stumbled across something new: a non-conformist chanteuse. Here was a young black girl unwilling to slop from the trough of expectations, yet better able to express her blackness than the Dark Barbies competing against her. Sure she failed a couple of times in her song choices, but never in her heart and throat did she falter once, and not once did I fail to enjoy her.
For the first time, American Idol had a true artist in their alumni. The only difference between an artist and a scientist is that the artist has the luxury of faith. She experiments with unusual compounds: a mohawk instead of a halo, a flapper dress on her skinny frame, Crystal Gayle f'r God's sake! She makes hypotheses: i.e., America is ready to abandon the cultural stereotypes that a monopolistic entertainment industry tosses on our backs in order to keep accurate demographic data. Alright, maybe I'm extrapolating a little on the last part-- but only because she is still so young and has yet to write her thesis. Nevertheless, she fills me with the faith.
American Pop needs an artist so damn bad! American Idol needs Nadia much more than Nadia needs American Idol. Kelly Clarkson was not such a bad start-- she's certainly come a long way in the past three years. Her sophomore album is a nicely polished piece of Pop with a few solid hits-- but I would hardly call her an artist yet. Obversely, I really pity Ruben and Fantasia: they have been turned into a pair of Step'n Fetchits, hawking themselves all over the Fox Network as if Rupert Murdoch hired them as his personal domestic staff!
At the 2002 International Idol finals, the Norwegian Idol accused the syndicate of putting a hammerlock in the music industry so that a young aspiring singer had nowhere else to go. That is certainly the case here in Amerika-- I've never seen our Pop culture so emaciated in my 40 years of listening. Last year even American Idol itself was so destitute that Fantasia really was the best they had to offer. Nadia could've changed all that; now there's little hope left.
If only Anwar's courage matched his skill. He's old enough to know better too: when the producers tell him his inly chance is to belt out slides like Whitney Houston, he does, and his fear shows through. Man, he mangled that Dionne Warwick song last week, and the judges praised him for it. I love Ms. Warwick's honey voice because she causes me to actively listen, to take part in the musical experience. I love your voice too, but I never get to hear it past the hokey yodeling. And please, PLEASE! Anwar, don't sing any Roberta Flack.
It doesn't matter if Bo Bice or Constantine Morales, the two favorites, make it or not. Like Nadia, they each don't need American Idol. Unlike her, though, American Idol don't need them either. Neither of them are going to bring any integrity to American Pop. I've got to admit that Bo could pull together a supergroup, and Constantine belongs in Vegas, but they are such whores-- doing anything that Ryan Seacrest tells them to do. Sit up and beg Bo, good boy.
But guess what boys and girls: neither of them are going to make it anyway. At least, neither of them will if my hunch is correct: the show is fixed. Coca-Cola loves Carrie Underwood. She's not too pretty, so no one (who matters) will be suspicous; she's not too smart, so she'll do what she's told. However, the tipping point ain't what she's not, it's what she is: she's a Red-Stater, a good ol' down home cuntry gal. Watch.
My yoga teacher told me it's easy to gain enlightenment on a mountain top. The trick is keeping it when you come down. Oh, what's the use? Wait, there's still Scott... God, the tension is killing me.
This is why I like American Idol so much. Two opposing positions juggle inside my skull, producing something akin to enjoyment. One hand tosses "the show is just another capitalist assault on our culture," while another hand catches the "maybe there's one more chance for something magical to happen." Thus every year I'm glued to the idiot box long after my champion, who is always eliminated way too soon, has been ignominiously sent off to oblivion with naught but a cheesy video scrapbook.
This week I have to dit adieu to Nadia Turner-- the finest singer to grace American Idol ever. I am sure going to miss the way she twists her mouth around the orphaned little Pop songs she adopts. Nevermore will I get through the week inspired by her courage and confidence. I am so sad to see ya go gal!
When she first crooned McCartney's "My Love," I knew American Idol had stumbled across something new: a non-conformist chanteuse. Here was a young black girl unwilling to slop from the trough of expectations, yet better able to express her blackness than the Dark Barbies competing against her. Sure she failed a couple of times in her song choices, but never in her heart and throat did she falter once, and not once did I fail to enjoy her.
For the first time, American Idol had a true artist in their alumni. The only difference between an artist and a scientist is that the artist has the luxury of faith. She experiments with unusual compounds: a mohawk instead of a halo, a flapper dress on her skinny frame, Crystal Gayle f'r God's sake! She makes hypotheses: i.e., America is ready to abandon the cultural stereotypes that a monopolistic entertainment industry tosses on our backs in order to keep accurate demographic data. Alright, maybe I'm extrapolating a little on the last part-- but only because she is still so young and has yet to write her thesis. Nevertheless, she fills me with the faith.
American Pop needs an artist so damn bad! American Idol needs Nadia much more than Nadia needs American Idol. Kelly Clarkson was not such a bad start-- she's certainly come a long way in the past three years. Her sophomore album is a nicely polished piece of Pop with a few solid hits-- but I would hardly call her an artist yet. Obversely, I really pity Ruben and Fantasia: they have been turned into a pair of Step'n Fetchits, hawking themselves all over the Fox Network as if Rupert Murdoch hired them as his personal domestic staff!
At the 2002 International Idol finals, the Norwegian Idol accused the syndicate of putting a hammerlock in the music industry so that a young aspiring singer had nowhere else to go. That is certainly the case here in Amerika-- I've never seen our Pop culture so emaciated in my 40 years of listening. Last year even American Idol itself was so destitute that Fantasia really was the best they had to offer. Nadia could've changed all that; now there's little hope left.
If only Anwar's courage matched his skill. He's old enough to know better too: when the producers tell him his inly chance is to belt out slides like Whitney Houston, he does, and his fear shows through. Man, he mangled that Dionne Warwick song last week, and the judges praised him for it. I love Ms. Warwick's honey voice because she causes me to actively listen, to take part in the musical experience. I love your voice too, but I never get to hear it past the hokey yodeling. And please, PLEASE! Anwar, don't sing any Roberta Flack.
It doesn't matter if Bo Bice or Constantine Morales, the two favorites, make it or not. Like Nadia, they each don't need American Idol. Unlike her, though, American Idol don't need them either. Neither of them are going to bring any integrity to American Pop. I've got to admit that Bo could pull together a supergroup, and Constantine belongs in Vegas, but they are such whores-- doing anything that Ryan Seacrest tells them to do. Sit up and beg Bo, good boy.
But guess what boys and girls: neither of them are going to make it anyway. At least, neither of them will if my hunch is correct: the show is fixed. Coca-Cola loves Carrie Underwood. She's not too pretty, so no one (who matters) will be suspicous; she's not too smart, so she'll do what she's told. However, the tipping point ain't what she's not, it's what she is: she's a Red-Stater, a good ol' down home cuntry gal. Watch.
My yoga teacher told me it's easy to gain enlightenment on a mountain top. The trick is keeping it when you come down. Oh, what's the use? Wait, there's still Scott... God, the tension is killing me.
