Daily Linz 10 - Idol Musings
by Lindsay Perigo
New Zealand Idol, I’m told, is modelled on American Idol. Wannabe pop stars strut their stuff on national television, endure the slings and arrows of outrageous judges, and are voted in or out by the viewing public. Last night I watched New Zealand Idol for the first time. It was the penultimate programme in this, the second series. Last year’s winner, someone called Ben, or Dan, or Ken, has, to my knowledge (which may not be reliable) disappeared without trace. For whichever of last night’s two Kiwi finalists wins when the votes are counted tonight, I confidently predict the same fate.
The final took place against a backdrop of delicious irony. Former pop star and enduring legend Sir Howard Morrison had criticised the female finalist, Rosita, for being too fat (not unreasonably—next to Rosita, Mama Cass would look like Karen Carpenter). Sir Howard, a Maori, once had a hit, “My Old Man’s An All Black,” containing the words, “Fee, fie, fo, fum, there’s no Hories [Maoris] in that scrum.” With the advent of Political Correctness, he gave himself a make-over. He got a government pseudo-job raising awareness about correct Maori (“Mordi”) pronunciation. He gave cricketing star Adam Parore a public dressing-down for pronouncing his own name “ParorEE” instead of “PadordEH.” But he evidently forgot that in the world of Political Correctness, fatties are victims as well as Maoris, and one is not supposed to comment on their excessive dimensions. Comment Sir Howard did—the day before the final! The PC Police went into overdrive. Television reporters hit the streets to do vox pops. The six o’clock news bulletins bristled with outrage. The voice of the people was unanimous in its indignation. Poor Rosita! Foul! Size doesn’t matter! Sir Howard should be boiled in oil (and probably will be). Come the show itself, and the judges were primed. Slings and arrows? No way! After Rosita’s opening number, they were all gush. “You look gorgeous tonight.” “You look absolutely stunning,” and similar, palpably insincere inanities.
Still, the furore did have one merciful effect—it deflected attention from the performances.
I made notes of the lyrics of Rosita’s opening number, a shapeless ditty apparently made famous by someone famous. Alas, my note-taking must have been affected by my distress, because all I can make out right now is “Sometahms ah feels lahk ah jes’ wanna dah.” (Honey, ah knows da feelin’!)
Her rival, Nick, had clearly sussed out that humility is where it’s at. He and Rosita and all the other contestants were not in a competition, he insisted; they were all in it together, and there to help each other. Winning didn’t matter, it was the shared experience of participating. Yuk, I barfed, as I pictured the text-voters going crazy with Comprachico-trained approval.
Nick, at least, is easy on the eye, if not on the ear. A slim, good-looking lad who knows how to stick a microphone into his gob and strangle his voice like the worst of them, he broke into a falsetto several times in a way that had the female judge, by her own admission, moistening her drawers. (One of the male judges is gay, but omitted to report a similar effect, if indeed he experienced it). Nick probably has the thing sewn up, so to speak, if only on the grounds of sex appeal. Rosita has the superior instrument in the voice department, but gyrating whale is just not a good look.
The loser in all of this is music. Yes, I know, Idol is not a competition for opera singers, but time was when televised talent quests of this ilk actually brought forth youngsters who could sing, tunes that were worth singing, and winners who went on to have solid, if not spectacular careers. Pop performers of that era knew something about their craft, and were intelligent enough to learn from its practitioners in more serious genres. Sir Howard, for instance, immersed himself in the recordings of Beniamino Gigli, Tito Schipa and Mario Lanza (he was sometimes called “Maori Lanza”)—stellar vocalisers who still have pride of place in his music library. The knowledge and technique he gleaned are manifest in the fact that he can still carry a tune splendidly, blazing high notes and all, at the age of seventy, and operatic icons such as Dame Kiri Te Kanawa and Dame Malvina Major have no qualms about partnering him in concert.
Many younger readers will no doubt dismiss this lament as the embittered meanderings of an old fogey. Truly, however, they don’t know what they’re missing.
In The Romantic Manifesto, Ayn Rand wrote:
“As a child, I saw a glimpse of the pre-World War One world, the last afterglow of the most radiant cultural atmosphere in human history … If one has glimpsed that kind of art—and wider: the possibility of that kind of culture—one is unable to be satisfied with anything less. I must emphasise that I am not speaking of concretes, nor of politics, nor of journalistic trivia, but of that period's 'sense of life.' Its art projected an overwhelming sense of intellectual freedom, of depth, i.e., concern with fundamental problems, of demanding standards, of inexhaustible originality, of unlimited possibilities and, above all, of profound respect for man. The existential atmosphere (which was then being destroyed by Europe's philosophical trends and political systems) still held a benevolence that would be incredible to the men of today, i.e., a smiling, confident good will of man to man, and of man to life. … It is impossible for the young people of today to grasp the reality of man's higher potential and what scale of achievement it had reached in a rational (or semi-rational) culture. But I have seen it. I know that it was real, that it existed, that it is possible. It is that knowledge that I want to hold up to the sight of men—over the brief span of less than a century—before the barbarian curtain descends altogether (if it does) and the last memory of man's greatness vanishes in another Dark Ages.”
With Idol, the curtain has just about hit the floor.
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