Don’t radio stations play old songs any more? Oh, sorry, I should qualify that. By “old” I mean songs from a trifle further back than would be expected by the average entrant in Idols, whose sense of history seems to go all the way back to last Wednesday.
Unless the song is by Whitney Frighten or Mariah Cringe, they’re unlikely to have heard it. You’d think they’d pick up some of the old stuff in passing while riding in elevators or when passing the homes of old people (30-plus) playing their old LPs (big, flat, round vinyl discs, child).
But somehow certain songs by old farts seem to have slipped through to this generation, and in earlier rounds you had umpteen female songtrons with masochistic tendencies eliminating themselves by squeaking their way through The Greatest Love of All (which they believe Whitney wrote) or I Will Always Love You (don’t tell them it’s a Dolly Parton song, they’ll just laugh), when a decent stab at a Spice Girls songette or maybe something really challenging by Britney Spears would probably have got them through to the top 50 (this being the combined age of all 6 000-odd entrants).
Meanwhile, the guys were boyfully trying to croak their way through When You Say Nothing at All by that venerable old crooner Dronin’ Keating, when in many cases giving credence to the song’s title would have shown off their voices better. Not one of them has come within 100km of any of the singers they’ve tried to emulate, just as barely a fractional percentage has shown an iota of originality, even though some blithely talk about “my interpretation” and “making the song mine”, as if there were some mysterious resonance to their performance that only they can see.
And oh, don’t they hate Pan-All Abrahams, the one judge worth his pay cheque, with presenters Must-You Stewardson (now axed, but for the wrong reasons) and Can-Do Litchfield aiding and abetting the powers-that-shouldn’t-be in their opaque efforts to create a Simon Calumny of the South in order to up the ratings?
Triple Randall’s pay cheque, I say, and send the other three packing — Marcus Brouhaha with his embarrassing goose-flesh problem, Penny Leb-Ja-Nee with her perennial wide-eyed amazement at yet another so-so performance, and the impossibly deadpan Grave Thompson, who could be described as a radio face were his voice not as funereal as his countenance.
Oh look, you mustn’t think I have anything against Idols. I’m an avid fan. I watch it recklessly, I mean regularly, despite its multitude of flaws. Just when you think it can’t get any worse, it plummets to a new high.
The most amazing thing about the South African Idols until last week was that the one presenter worth everyone else’s pay cheque, Sammy Sabiti, was relegated to the DStv Idols sideshow, when it was so patently clear that he should have had the mainstream presenter’s slot from day one. Now circumstance has given him the job he deserves, upsetting the carefully colour-coded racial and gender make-up of the presentational team.
This pre-ordainment is an attitude that has pervaded the entire show. When judging time comes around, it is quite clear from the judges’ comments that everyone has to have one of a range of certain pre-selected “sounds” and that deviance will not be tolerated. And everyone has to have what they call “the look”. There is only one and if you don’t have it, you’d better get one of the on-hand stylists to give it to you fast if you want to give Marcus goose bumps (a so-so voice would also achieve this) and make Penny’s eyes pop out altogether.
The most impressive turn to date was that wonderful fainting spell by a boy entrant some rounds ago, but sadly none of the other entrants has managed to come up with anything remotely as arresting.
If an original talent emerges from all this, I will be the first to applaud and to hope that Will Young is ready to step aside. But don’t hold your breath.