Your my idol, baby...

Ah, like some kind of lovelorn teen, I have finally been re-united with the only true source of passion in my life! Yes, it's true... American Idol is back on TV, and I'm crazy in love again. I'm such a sucker for its evil charms, its ability to totally numb the senses (especially hearing) and the way it makes one feel unnaturally euphoric. Holy smoke, I think I must be an Idol addict.

I can't help myself, I really can't. And no, before you have me off to rehab quicker than Amy Winehouse on a trip to 24-hr Asda's to stock up marker pens, cheap cider and Uhu glue, I can categorically deny that it's not Simon's unfathomably high waistband that does it for me, no no no. Nor is it his hair that resembles the bastard offspring of a neatly trimmed toilet brush and an explosion in an 80's shoulder pad factory. It's not Paula's bizarre combination of delusional self-belief that she is somehow still hip and relevant with the youth of today, and her quasi-prophetic allegories ('You sang like a comfy pair of old jeans'; 'You can dance like a magnificent peacock' - really what does that mean?). It's not even Randy's insistence, despite all evidence to the contrary, that the contestants are dogs (well, with some notable exceptions). Nope. No sireee. Neither is it that other girl (the vaguely attractive one) and her rather anodyne, almost terminally coma-inducing bland observations that amount to someone saying 'you sing OK' to every single contestant.

I mean, blimey, you can really tell if someone is utterly crap, because she actually strays from the being zed-inducingly dull zone, and might say something like 'you could do better', which is like the reality TV equivalent of a teacher saying 'I'm very disappointed in your behaviour', after you've deliberately blown up the chemistry lab, and letting you off with a five minute detention. Lets face it peeps, you know that what you really really want her to say, on prime-time US TV is: "You fucking moron. Seriously. You come on this fucking ace A-list TV show, with INTERNATIONAL coverage. That's INTER-FUCKING-NATIONAL, you dick! And you completely and utterly fuck it up by being so shit even Celine Dion would suggest you took singing lessons. That's Celine Dion, for Christs' sake! She can't even order a McFlurry without warbling unintelligably into the speaker-phone. Are you fucking kidding me? You sang (let me borrow Paula's allegories here, please), like a stinking, shit-soaked pair of Levi 501's on a tramp's arse, and you danced like a peacock getting its cock sliced off with a meat cleaver. You've brought shame on yourself, your family, and this fine country of the US-of-A. You should be locked away, in a soundproof cell, for life. And I mean LIFE. Now go away, and never let me see you're fucking hideous face ever again, or I swear I'll cut out your vocal chords with a rusty spoon and eat them, fricaseed with garlic, in front your whole bastard family. Who spawned you? Satan's music teacher? You're a sorry motherfucker, you really are. Go now, and hang yourself before you bring more shame on your family. GO! BEGONE!"

Sadly, the only real commentary that even reaches this level of vitriol is from bog-brush headed Simon, and even Simon isn't rich enough, or arrogant enough to actually brave the potential lawsuits from that kind of outburst. Shame.

Anyway, no. The reason I so wholeheartedly love the glorious American Idol is that, for some unfathomable reason, the calibre of the American is not only cheesier, more musically adept, and more glitzy, but also the advisors and themes and guests are just so much more, well, A-list. Last week was Motown week, and Stevie Wonder played... I mean, who would we get? Lulu? That's not even Motown.

Even the contestants are infinitely better (again, with notable exceptions), and come across as almost professional before they've even started. They get Jennifer Hudson (who didn't even WIN... how?) and we got Gareth Gates (who's only really famous now for shagging Jordan when she was 6 months pregnant with some footballing scumbags child). And for all you American's in the audience that's Jordan the unnaturally large-chested glamour model, not the sweet, innocent squeaky-voiced Jordin Sparks.

Then again, just about every winner since the year dot has churned out a succession of bland, lazy, pop/r'n'b efforts that make Avril Lavigne's lyric-writing almost Shakespearean in quality. Is this the price of fame in the USA? To sound like James Blunt? Is it any wonder that no-one British (and half-decent) ever cracks the American market? And don't you dare tell me about the terminally popular Leona Lewis. She's so very not a shining example of all that is great about UK music. She's a Beyonce clone, who sounds suspiciously like every other pop princess does once the high-waisted one gets his evil pop-claws into them... and she positively murdered a magnificent pop-rock anthem when she started warbling 'Run'. Good God woman! That was NOT a song to be quiveringly warbled in a ballgown in an atmospheric forest - THAT was a stadium anthem to be sung euphorically at festivals, like Glastonbury, where people actually wear wellies and get covered in glorious mud, and have a fucking blast. You RUINED that song. Ruined.

But still, the USA winners still get to make a phenomenal amount of money, get ridiculous amounts of exposure and churns out some bizarrely (Or not so bizarrely, if you consider that the UK X-Factor/Pop Idol route has produced such alumni as Steve 'Psycho killer' Brookstein, Michelle 'McMuffin' McManus, Leon 'Babyface' Jackson and others so memorable I can barely remember them) some pretty big names, such as the stunning Jennifer Hudson and the omni-present Kelly Clarkson. And where did our winners go, huh? Woolworths isn't even around anymore, so they can't end up in its bargain bin... Oh wait... that creepy little Ray Quinn just won Dancing on Ice... but that's only because he promised to NEVER sing another 50's ratpack swing hit ever again. Thank God.

And so here is my addiction paradox: I passionately hate the come down; that post-final-show realisation that whatever the winner produces will inevitably make my ears bleed (Just for the hell of it. Its just something for my ears to do with the tedious time period between the winner releasing their first album and waking up one day and realising they are leading an ultimately futile and pointless musical existance and eventually descending into a drug-fuelled mental breakdown and the subsequent reality TV show charting their pathetic demise.). On the other hand, I love the shownmanship, the 'themes', the glamour, the transition of nerdy music geeks into pop-cultural swans, the fake smile on Paula's face as they hit bad notes, Simon's utter disdain at each and every one of them for even attempting to sing in tune, the TV-show vocabulary ("Thank you for your support; for letting me take this wonderful journey." Did you go anywhere nice? No. You had Simon Cowell glowering/leering at you. That's not a journey. Thats a form of torture. They use that in Gitmo.), and most of all Ryan Seacrest and the never ending super-grin. I mean - he's awful... but strangely, I can't hate him. He's so utterly cheesy (and puzzling... is he gay?...is he straight?...does he even care?) and yet he almost relishes the role. Especially when he pisses off Simon Cowell. And in my books that makes him a hero, dammit.

So until the next episode... I'm off to watch re-runs and savour those Motown hits. Keep 'em coming.