Go For Broke (Talkin’ ‘Bout That River)

“Wasn’t expecting... that.”

Neither was I, Paula.  I had never watched American Idol until last year, for a couple reasons:  (1)  Conventional Wisdom held the show, its processes and goals, were all rubbish and (2) I was completely without television reception for its first three seasons.

Last year, having moved into broadcast range, I sampled it and shrugged.  It was more or less what I expected; why watch a bunch of shrill song-curdlers try to be the next Mariah Carey when I didn’t much care for the first one?  The early rounds were watchable for the well-Hung types proud to display both their lack of talent and clue, and for the way the judges winnowed out talents that fell outside their cookie-cutter vision.  I remember a Gothish lounge singer with an odd, intriguing voice and an exaggerated sense of drama.  He wasn’t told “No;” he was told “Not here.”

Last year Idol mixed in some Rock n’ Roll, and did so in a carefully-controlled way that ensured Idol would come out on top.  Its take on that category was the same as its take on anything else:  Hollow, bombastic.  I’m sure their two “rockers” got what they wanted out of the contest (well, at least Constantine Maroulis did...), but there are Bo Bices and Constantines in every second-rate dive in every town; I don’t want a barstool pundit as my president, and I didn’t want these guys representing my Rock.  There was no one for me to root for.

Like I’d root, ever.  I like me an underdog.  I like someone who has no chance in hell of winning.  Winners are boring.  Losers are where it’s at.  I like me a loser.

I like Taylor Hicks.

Hicks is a prematurely-graying 29-year-old from Birmingham, Alabama.  When waiting in line for his Las Vegas audition, surrounded by hip-huggers and peach fuzz, he looked more a chaperone than a contestant.  The way he was shot, going into his session, he was doomed to be another off-key wacko, another sonic nightmare.  His drawl melts into a  mumble, his idealism – “I want my voice heard,” he said, “Because I think I got one” – is unbecoming of a man his age.  He’s a natural born slob, he’s got a doltish square head, he’s got a shortbus bowlcut.  Every time he takes a step his body seems to scream for 3-in-1 oil.

But then:  He said, “I’m going to sing Sam Cooke’s ‘A Change is Gonna Come,’” and he did, and it did.  It was far from perfect – he wandered off-key a bit – but the tone was serious, and the soul was there.  Week in week out thousands of ninnies dream of going on some TV show to become the next goddamned American Idol; their dreams involve being processed and packaged, of becoming prime time merchandise with a built-in expiration date.  No matter how real the talent featured on AI might be – and they can’t help but stumble over some, no? – because the show is a show it inevitably feels phony, contrived.   What came out of Hicks’ mouth seemed genuine.  I don’t watch-watch the show; I leave it running, glance up from time to time.  But I stopped eating my dinner, went over to the couch, and nodded along when Paula Abdul said, “Wasn’t... expecting... that.”

(Her expression was priceless.  Like someone had just turned over one of those little cans with the holes in it.  Where did that “Moo” come from?)

Abdul did a really smart thing and asked him for twenty seconds of something else, and it was what happened next – before Hicks launched into a little bit of Ray Charles’ “Swannee River Rock” – that was really remarkable.

He glowed.  He beamed.  Because he would get to sing some more.

I can promise you he ain’t gonna be no “American Idol.”  He’s image-unfriendly, and Simon Cowell – who, I believe, inherits the winner as a client – took an immediate dislike to him (When Hicks made “the final 24,” Cowell dismissively said, “Whoopee.”).  His face isn’t going to launch a million albums... and his voice won’t, either.  Taylor Hicks is not a great singer, and if you want to hear just how great he isn’t, just listen to some songs from his CD, Under the Radar (which you can buy here):

• Taylor Hicks – Soul Thing (mp3)


• Taylor Hicks – Heart and Soul (mp3)


• Taylor Hicks – Hell of a Day (mp3)

He’s certainly not unlistenable, and the production doesn’t help anything – those aggressive fills are painful – but his tone errs all over the place.  Even if that’s a problem a better production team might help erase, there still doesn’t seem to be anything here that demands attention, that distinguishes this low-level blue-eyed soul brother from all the others.

Do we need another blue-eyed soul singer?  It’s a joke of a genre, and that’s why Michael McDonald made for such a great punchline in 40 Year-Old Virgin...and it could be argued it’s the most virulent strain of African-American musical mimicry.  Towards that end, Hicks employs a whole series of questionable ticks and affectations:  When he sings, he claps his hands and slaps the sides of his legs and sways.  Just like his idol, Ray Charles.  Is this an impersonation?  Is this just an act?

I’m buying it.  Hicks comes off as a compulsive misfit, one who’s missing something – I keep waiting for him to turn to the camera and ask us to tell him about the rabbits – and has learned to fill that void with music.  Someone for whom music is a necessary thing.  Yes, all these Idolers give lip service to loving the art, but look what Taylor Hicks did when he was told he made the cut:

He made music.  He has to make music, whether it’s by a dirty street corner or in a subway station or on (ugh) FOX.  The AI site has a brief interview; he describes his profession as “broke performer;” if he loses the competition, he plans on going back to being a broke performer.

And he will lose.  I may be fooling myself about a lot of things – I wouldn’t be surprised if, on the day he gets voted off, he straightens his spine, slicks back his hair and starts speaking with a refined British accent – but I don’t think Taylor Hicks is an American Idol.  In a way, though, he’s mine:  One of the “not here” people slipped through.  I want to see him contort his way through “Tryin’ to Get that Feelin’ Again” on “Manilow Night;” I want to see him writhe along with some spare New Wave bleepblorp during “‘80’s Week.”  I want to see him infect the contest with his boxy head and his awkward mannerisms and his outside-the-tube passion for the art form this damned program purportedly celebrates.

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The men’s edition of American Idol airs Wednesdays at 8pm EST on FOX; there are currently twelve male contestants and – I think this is how it works – six will perform tonight, six next week.  I have no idea which week Hicks will be appearing.  CORRECTION:  It's a two-hour show.  Gack.  Bring a book.

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Speaking of underdogs and misfits:  Josh Horowitz at Better Than Fudge is reporting that, according to a cast member, Arrested Development has been given a 12-episode order by Showtime.  How reliable that is, I don’t know.  He also has an excellent candid conversation with Whit Stillman; I’m not a big fan of Stillman’s work, but it’s an interesting discussion with a man who’s managed to be less prolific than Terence Malick.  (via)

tags: showtime  arrested development  american idol  taylor hicks  

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