Idol chatter

I was watching American Idol last night and must confess that even though I normally do not like reality shows, and hate the hype associated with them, in particular, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I have seen it before and find my opinions more or less spot on with the entirely obnoxious but very percipient and funny Simon Cowell. While I like Randy Jackson and his enthusiasm, Paul Abdul’s wishy-washy, always-Miss-Sunshine remarks are hardly constructive, albeit encouraging to the contestants who will, a few seconds later, likely be squashed flatter than the proverbial pancake by Cowell. And the music is always fun, be it the totally besur yowling of those who are normally eliminated or the finesse of the final ten…or six…or three.

Yesterday was Latin night. The ‘mentor’ was the diva herself, Jennifer Lopez, who was surprisingly normal, even though her voice was much weaker and tinnier than her recordings or music videos show. But she had a vitality and warmth that transcended that possible flaw, her smile lighting up the screen and her hands expressing more than her words did. And when she finally performed, the pyrotechnics and backup dancers notwithstanding, she was spectacular, that famous curve of bottom and sexiness of every move adding magic to the fairly mediocre.

But more than that, what was amazing was the lack of spark and spunk from the singers who were vying for the title. With songs from Santana and Gloria Estefan and Miami Sound Machine dominating, it was a blah evening, all the passion and fire that Latino music has completely lacking. Where Gloria would have set the stage and the audience smoking with her vocals and her moves, none of the contestants managed that, no matter that they were all, for the most part, not bad at all. Why? Perhaps they were self conscious. Perhaps they were awed at the 15 minutes they got with La Lopez. Or maybe they were just tired of acting something they were not, and hoped that the music would do the trick instead.

But fortune has a way of smiling on the brave, or at least on bravado. Sanjaya Malakar, considered the worst singer but perhaps the most charismatic, managed to pull off a performance that was his best and one of the better ones of the evening. All without a kinky hairdo, even though he did throw in a few shy smiles and seductive sideways sneak-peeks while he sat on a stool and crooned his love song. It worked. He was still in, while a more sexy, lively, bouncy number did little for the girl who sang it, getting her booted out of the contest, as a matter of fact.

There has been a great deal of debate about Sanjaya and his continued presence on the show. People have threatened to fast until death and Cowell has said that he would quit if the boy won. And for some reason he keeps sliding through to the last few. Is it the minority vote, as many believe? Is it the persuasive power of Howard Stern? Is it his ever-changing coiffeur? Or is just sheer luck of the draw, when other people have been so much worse than the half-Indian youngster with the HAIR?

Whatever the case, Sanjaya is making it big, laying the basis of a future in showbiz even if he does not win the contest. If he does, more power to his notes – there better be, since he could do with some strength to his rather reedy voice – and to his ilk. And, of course, it will give India a new chance to claim another son, never mind that he hardly qualifies as being one!