"It’s more than magnificent. It’s mediocre."
                                                                        – Samuel Goldwyn

With Scott Savol’s exit from American Idol last week, fans are left to the mercy of the banal, the branded and the boring. Things are so bad that Anthony Fedorov now stands out — though not in a good way. With one of the most brazenly schmaltzy, Euro-pop voices to ever reach the top-five Idol slots, Fedorov never fails to deal me a freakishly uncomfortable aural experience. When I hear Anthony go off in song I envision a troupe of moon-eyed Keane urchins straggling across the field of my inner eye. It’s truly soul killing.

Take a look at them now: Four competent but rudderless stage-props trapped in their middle-of-the-road niches, doomed to manufacture the tired ticks and poses that define their designated genres. This is the sort of fare that America cottons to right now. The familiar, the bland, the Clear Channel-ization of pop music that comforts the masses by making all the word one in its mediocrity. "See honey, anyone can become an American Idol."

This is the exact tactic that Scott’s parents employed when they tried to paint their son as the Everyman of America. The parents knew they had to overcompensate for their son’s weight problem by reminding everyone that — hey, this is what America looks like. What they should have been touting was their son’s gorgeous voice, reminding people that what’s beautiful on the inside doesn’t always match outer appearances.

Yes, Carrie Underwood has "a voice" but so did Chatty Kathy. Underwood’s the beauty who is The Beast — of Banality. Of them all, Miss 666 disturbs me the most. Even Simon Cowell, who pegged her as the show’s easy winner over a month ago, can’t find any euphemisms to confront the chilly distance she keeps from the songs she performs. There’s no there there, just robotic, flat-eyed interpretations.

My most horrifying Underwood moment occurred while watching the show’s thematic Disco Night. Just seconds after she took the stage my memory began to overlay, frame by frame, Court TV footage of JonBenet Ramsey in steely pageant poses. Someone indeed left the cake out in the rain when Carrie powered up MacArthur Park while her gigantic rodeo-queen hair and sparkle-glitter outfit brought little JonBenet back to life, clomping across the stage in her Tiny Tot high heels. Was Carrie Underwood the person whom JenBent would have become? I got crazy. I went cock-eyed. I fell over and I couldn’t get up.

I’ll now vote for Bo Bice, but only because he was arrested for cocaine and marijuana abuse. He is a rock belter who, if I wanted to save on airfare and hotel costs, I could drive and see perform at just about any college pub in Seattle. God bless the boy, but he’s never worn his pants tight enough to get me through his growly straight-boy performances. I’ve nothing against Bo — he’s the only one left to watch. And I’ve nothing against Vonzell either. It’s just that neither one moves me. The more I watch the standing Idols, the more I miss the fallen Scott.

Ho hum. A lackluster finish to what I thought was gonna be a humdinger of a year. Forget the Curse of the Bambino — this is the Curse of the Mario. If only that little fucker hadn’t jumped ship in Week Two. Maybe he knew something.

Will I be able to watch the rest of this season? I don’t know. It’s just that…I don’t think that I can make it, ’cause it took so long to bake it.

And we’ll never have that recipe again.

© 2005, David K.. All rights reserved. Nightcharm.com