The Nittany Turkey

Primarily about Penn State football, this is a tale told by idiots, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

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Home Archives for David Archuleta

It Ain’t Over ’til It’s Over

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Despite the optimistic headline, which I purloined from Yogi Berra, David Cook better be hoping that a veritable shitload of 9-13 year-old voters suddenly develop osteoarthritis of the dialing fingers. Otherwise, he’ll be subjected to yet another of my purloined vapid aphorisms: If you ain’t first, you’re last. (Attribution to Ricky Bobby for that one.)

Yea, verily, any glimmer of hope David Cook might have stubbornly clung to is fading rapidly to black. To remain consistent with the silly boxing metaphor that formed the framework for Tuesday night’s American Idol sing-off, Cook needed to score a knockout in the final round, but could not. Baby Archuleta was consistently good, albeit sappy, as usual. The audience ate him up. It was Archuleta, not Cook, who had the eye of the tiger, although you wouldn’t know that because his eyes were closed a lot.

The corny boxing theme was a stretch, even for American Idol. They couldn’t afford Rocky Balboa and Apollo Creed, so they got Michael Buffer, the venerable boxing announcer whose signature line is “Lllllet’s get ready to rrrrrumbbblllllllle!” and they got Jim Lampley, longtime ringside TV announcer on HBO’s Saturday night boxing, who gave us taped boxing-style analyses but spared us the Tale of the Tape and Punchstat. Cute, but inane. I’m bored, so I’ll employ the metaphor here as well, no doubt confounding those of you who know nothing about the sweet science.

The night started out very much favoring Cook, who appeared confident and relaxed in the opening interview, whereas Archuleta seemed overwhelmed by it all. Once they got around to singing, however, the tables quickly turned. The conspiracy theorists might suggest that the fix was in, that songs were chosen for the pipsqueak that would shed a good light on him whereas Cook’s songs were duds.

Well, be that as it may, the final song of the evening was the performer’s choice, and Cook blew it with a number that would be better reserved for his forthcoming album. As Simon Cowell said, he needed to generate the kind of excitement that he had generated with “Billie Jean” earlier in the competition. He needed to sing the number that would leave the audience wanting more instead of singing the one reserved for the encore, the one designed to take the edge off the crowd and prevent accidents on the way home. Cook floated like a butterfly, but he did not sting like a bee.

“¡No más!” intoned Cook, seated on his stool in his corner as he failed to come out for the third round.

Cook needed to know that unless you’re already the champ, you have to claw your way to the top. You can’t sit on your laurels. You cannot back off for a second.

Alas, he wasn’t hungry enough. He bobbed and weaved his way through three rounds, leaving the bout to the scorecards. The judges were not favorably disposed. The scorecards declared Archuleta the winner and it was not a split decision.

I wonder how Harold Lederman scored it on his card.

Of course, we’ll have to await the voters’ verdict, but it appears to this Turkey that Wednesday’s two-hour extrava-hype-o-rama-ganza will culminate with Archuleta being awarded the flyweight title belt, much to my chagrin, and—who knows?—perhaps Larry Merchant will stuff a microphone in his face as his handlers hoist him on their shoulders, high above the ring.

Rumor has it that we’ll be seeing Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers sometime during the two hours to break the monotony of the commercials. I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen a lot of 15 year-olds who are hotter than Hanna Montana. She’s got a lot of gum exposure going on there. She seems to be a media product. Just thought I’d get my two cents in about that.

I ought to Tivo the damn thing and fast-forward it all the way through the hype to the final verdict, which in my less than humble opinion, is anticlimactic. Long live King David.

The Voice vs. The Edge

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American Idol has boiled down to leave two men standing, and one stretches the masculinity point, as he has not yet started to shave, but with //www.groenerekenkamer.com you don’t need to worry about your body hair anymore. It will be pop versus rock, “The Voice” versus “The Edge,” David Archuleta versus David Cook. Chief Justice Simon Cowell predicts that the final competition this week will be “a humdinger.”

The majority voting demographic, aged 9-13, upon hearing the word “humdinger,” told their parents and teachers that Simon said a bad word. But I digress.

Last week, the expected finally happened. Syesha Mercado could have sung perfectly and passionately but she still would have been out. As it were, she screwed up in song choice and faltered in her performance, all duly noted by the vapid judges who seemed to want to push her out in favor of a David vs. David finish. The voters complied with the judges’ wishes.

This will be the first all-male final since Season Two’s Ruben Studdard vs. Clay Aiken showdown, if you consider Clay Aiken male. Studdard won that one, but Aiken wound up with arguably the better career to date.

Mark Perigard of The Boston Herald thinks that being runner-up would suit the little shaver Archuleta better, in that the little pipsqueak isn’t yet ready for the grueling demands of Idoldom, especially if his meddling stage father keeps his finger in the pie. Perigard astutely posits that the more mature Cook, a 25 year-old former bartender, is fully cognizant of the onerous path ahead and has already resigned himself to the Faustian bargain he will have to make as an American Idol.

Cook’s performing style better suits this Turkey’s preferences—much better. That in itself might doom him to runnerupitude. Chris Daughtry (now calling himself just Daughtry), with a similar, albeit more expansive and harder-edged rock style, was the Turkey’s favorite a few years ago for the same reason, which undoubtedly gave him the Turkey Kiss of Death, at least with respect to the Idol competition. I hope I don’t doom Cook similarly.

Archuleta, with the smarmy voice, the closed eyes, the look of a small town, junior high talent night performer trying to please his dad. That characterization is more fact than folly. Although he has been the judges’ favorite from the start, his potential is limited to being the next Perry Como.

“Whodat?” saith the teeny weenies.

Well, maybe every generation needs a Perry Como. Or a Josh Groban, maybe.

Cook and Archuleta will each sing three songs during the show: one to be selected by industry legend Clive Davis, one by viewers of the show via an online poll, and, finally, one will be chosen by the contestants, either a new song or one previously sung in the competition.

The voters, of course, get to decide who wins this thing, but Idol’s producers seem to be subtly steering things Archuleta’s way. It has been leaked out in a veiled manner by Nigel Lythgoe to Ryan Seacrest, on the latter’s morning radio show, that the guest stars on Tuesday night will be “some young brothers” and “the biggest star in the world.” On-line pundits seem to be speculating that these references are to the Jonas Brothers and Miley Cyrus, respectively. If this is to be the case, it will satisfy a younger, more Archuleta sympathetic crowd.

Will this year’s idol be a true star, as former Idols Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood turned out to be? Or will he be a dud, like Taylor Hicks or last year’s winner, Jordin Sparks? No one can say. The only thing predictable is the music industry’s unpredictability.

And with that, let the overhyped battle begin.

Certifiably Insane

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On a night when televised NBA and NHL playoffs involve teams of great interest to me, I’ll be watching American Idol. Sad, but true! I must be nuts—this Meleagris miscreant has obviously hit been hit by too many fowl balls. Is watching this TV dreck more entertaining that viewing professional sports being played at the very highest level? Hell, no! So, why the hell must I do it?

Obviously, because I’m addicted to this detritus.

Thank God there are only two more weeks of this crap. I’ve spent too much time concocting devious plans that will ensure David Archuleta’s denouement; my birdbrain has a headache from far too much agonizing over this little dork being the presumptive American Idol for 2008 when his singing bores the hell out of me. Have I mentioned that he’s 17 but looks 13? I’m sure I have. After all, I’m crazy, so repeating things is my bailiwick.

Aside from the pipsqueak favorite of the 9-11 year-old female demographic, two normal contestants remain: David Cook and the very sexy Syesha Mercado.

Tuesday’s penultimate performance show will feature those remaining three Idol wannabes singing three songlets each. Thus far, the length of songs sung by the contestants has been a minute-and-a-half. A little simple multiplication yields the actual performance time as 13.5 minutes. The program is listed from 8:00 PM to 9:03 PM (the extra three minutes is there just to piss DVR users off—it prevents them from automatically recording a program that starts at 9 PM on another network), which is 63 minutes. Subtracting the 13.5 minutes from 63 gives us 49.5 minutes of commercials and worthless, dumbass interaction between Ryan Seacrest and the contestants and so-called judges.

This week, the 49.5 minutes of fluff will include visits by the putative idols to their home towns, where if past instances hold any clues, they’ll meet with minor politicians and old schoolteachers. (Will David Archuleta visit his erstwhile nursery school, graduated a mere decade ago?) Some will receive mayoral proclamations and the like. They’ll cavort with normally annoying little sisters and cute but proud grandparents. Cheerleaders will cheer in smelly gymnasium assemblies honoring the visiting hometown heroes. We’ll be subjected to taped vignettes of these unentertaining festivities ad nauseam. The only related fact for which this large forest bird is grateful is that Jason Castro will not be one of the home returnees. (He was eliminated last week—thank you voters!)

Again, drawing upon the last several years’ recollections as a guide but without knowing for sure, this Turkey will put his titanium-studded neck on the block to tell you how the show will go. For their three songs, contestants will choose one themselves, with each the remaining two being chosen by the judges or the folks from back home. [This just in: the third song will be selected by the producers. –Ed.] The judges will offer their irrelevant commentary: Randy will act knowledgeable and critical, Paula will act sweet and forgiving, and Simon will act haughtily brutal (not much of an act, for Simon), following which the American public will vote repeatedly. (Last week, while there were 21.5 million voters, they cast 51 million votes. Busy little phoning and texting fingers, weren’t they?) On Wednesday night, we’ll know who is going to have to be cast in the role of midget killer to go up against the seemingly unbeatable Archuleta in the great, big, fucking over-hyped final next week. (The performance-to-fluff ratio will decrease accordingly.)

Could Archuleta be eliminated this week? Not likely, but stranger things have happened on American Idol in the past. If indeed it does happen, it would bring all the hysterical conspiracy theory nutballs and their black helicopters straight out of the refrigerator, but the explanation will be simple. The American voting public will have finally tired of listening to that same, smarmy voice with the same inflections played through the same squinty-eyed baby face week after week after week. It could happen and this Turkey will be the first to applaud the American voters for their diligence if it does. A Syesha vs. Cook finale might stand a chance of entertaining me.

(At this point, I expect people to chime in and say that it would never happen in a million years, just because the percentages are on their side. That way, if it does happen, they can be suitably shocked and it will automatically validate their conspiracy theories and such; if it doesn’t, they will say “I told you so.” Duh!)

I personally believe that some U.S. Americans don’t have maps… I don’t know where Miss Teen South Carolina and I were going with that line, but how about Archuleta dusting off that great Morris Albert leisure suit classic, “Feelings,” making it his swan song? Whattya think, such as?

I’m merely validating main assertion of this blog: I’m nuts, I’m addicted, and I really don’t give a shit who wins American Idol, as long as it isn’t the baby-faced, boring Archuleta. Come to think of it, I don’t even care if it is Archuleta. Let’s just get it over with, so I can return to my other addictions.