‘American Idle’

I have, of family necessity, just been watching a programme that appears to be called ‘American Eyelid’ or something like that.

The show compromises a set of judges who are there to keep or cast out contestants who claim to be able to sing. At present, to my certain knowledge, there is only one who has achieved that particular status.

Only one who can, actually, sing. It is, they tell me, a singing contest but there would also be a large element of fashion and performance capabilities involved or else I am missing something. There must be some intangible je ne sais quoi that these judges see that us mere mortals cannot perceive.

What is it that made these individuals believe that not only could they sing adequately but also sing well enough to be regarded as some sort of superstar?

What is it that makes these judges feel that they are analytical and knowledgeable enough to determine the future of those who are contesting for the rank of ‘American Eyeball’?

The second question can be easily answered by the notion that somebody in the producer’s chair decided that these people are available at the right price and that this was a price that was acceptable to those ‘selected’ for this (dubious?) honour.

Part of the answer to the second question is also the idea that the person occupying the judge’s chair needs to be reasonably eloquent; something lacking in, at least, one of those chairs.

The first question is easily tackled by asking oneself if ‘Mum’ had anything to do with it.

How many of the contestants were told by their Mum that they could sing; that they could easily be the next ‘American iPod’? I use the term ‘Mum’ here advisedly because it might be some other misdirected relative or beloved person.

In earlier editions of this show there were tearful admonitions to the Judges about how mistaken they were to discard their talents when it was clear, to them, that they were otherwise certain to progress to the very finals at least. This in spite of the fact that they sounded like an asthmatic crow with laryngitis—and I mean no disrespect to asthmatics, crows or people with laryngitis (something that, in my profession, I dread!).

Disappointment writ large on their faces because Mum was right and the Judges, musically talented though they might (might—just might) be, were wrong. These contestants were the only ones out of step in this particular march towards fame and riches.

Clamour more than ‘march’, really. Pseudo-friendships in the contestant’s ranks shining on their faces and faux-camaraderie when a colleague crashes out to be replaced with the smug grin of someone who has succeeded.

Someone who has succeeded in heading towards their own devastating crash into obscurity at a later date.

But wait.

How many winners do you really remember? How many non-winners, the failures and cast-offs, do you remember?

Jennifer Hudson has an ‘Oscar’ for failing in this competition.

One of the all-time greats never made it and I refer to one Crystal Bowersox whose rendition of Roger Miller’s “Me and Bobby McGee” and Shania Twain’s “No One Needs to Know” was flawless.

They were singers. Real, actual, singers rather than performers.

Nobody could accuse either of these two girls of being glamorous—well, Hudson is now but not then.

One wonders how many of those that fell by the wayside in these later stages have made a good career from singing—or, perhaps, should have made a career out of it?

The idea that persists is that thousands and thousands of people think they can sing.

These thousands flock to auditions in the hope that they will succeed; they will become the next ‘American Icon’.

Why? Why do they do it?

Is it only because they are told by their Mum that they can sing? Is it some inner sense that tells them, some overweening confidence that compels them to make the attempt?

Are they really so distraught when they fall out at the first hurdle? Perhaps it is just embarrassment in front of the cameras and their peers, self-consciousness that crumbles their morale into dust.

So you think you can write.

Who told you? Mum, was it?