Wednesday, May 21, 2008

The Davids

In a matter of minutes, the next AI will be crowned. There is no single doubt that the show’s influence has seeped into pop culture so easily that we now call this generation the Idol generation. What just unfolded is season 7, the first time that I actually watched the show. So I don’t really have an inkling as to the progression of the previous seasons which already spawned Grammy-award winning artists Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood.

But, besides them, who has actually gone to the level of musical superstardom that Idol promises. It is important to look at the facets of Idol and I believe that this season, culminating with the 2 Davids, provides the perfect two-pronged analysis of this pop culture phenomenon.

One is consistency which can also be translated to predictability and stringent adherence to Idol norms – song choice, arrangement, even the icky pitch – and of course extreme likability which basically prompts the people to twiddle with their fingers to text or phone in. The other one is artistry, a certain level of craftsmanship and sincerity to the music that renders originality and flexibility, which roughly, could mean that it poses a level of unpredictability that excites another parcel of the voting populace. Taking into account the winners of previous seasons, the former still prevails.

Archuleta has an annoyingly good voice and has chosen smart songs. Clearly, he’s in it for the win. Cook, on the other hand, is the most sincere, most creative, and daring enough to shake the ground of predictability.


But whatever right? Staying in the scene is what matters. And Defying the Convention is always given a premium. Go Cookey! ‘Nuff said.

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Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting