The Devil Went Down To Georgia… and So Did 'American Idol.'

American Idol headed down to the ATL last night, home of Ryan Seacrest, Coca-Cola, and America’s burgeoning Independence Party industry. While this trip down to Hotlanta lacked any weave-pulling brawls or bombastic helicopter entrances, I’m happy to report that it was just as entertaining as any given episode of last season’s Real Housewives of Atlanta. That’s probably thanks to the looney applicants who submitted themselves to the altar of Simon, Randy, Kara, and in this case, Mary J. Blige — who capably filled in for Paula for this episode. I wouldn’t say that MJB was as much a source of comic disdain as perhaps Posh Spice was the night before, nor would I say that she was particularly vocal, but at least she seemed like a legitimate musical authority, and it was downright hilarious watching her try to keep her composure through most of the auditions. Spoiler alert: she failed.

As entertaining as it was to watch Mary J. keep it together, it was far more enjoyable to see her let loose. Case in point: the crazy dude who absolutely refused to hear that he was bad. When the judging panel tried to tell him that he just needed more time and practice, the guy pulled my favorite move: singing over the criticism — as if somehow this might convince them that he is indeed worthy of a final reprieve. Of course, it only comes off as sad and desperate, and this man’s many attempts to sway the panel were no exception. Eventually, the judges became annoyed at what they rightly perceived as an inability to listen, and no one seemed to get more steamed than Mary J. Blige, who dropped the “Oprah loves me” sweetness and got all sorts of stern on his ass. It didn’t matter though. He just kept singing over her, eventually earning himself an escort out of the room (by some of the least-imposing security guards of all time, I’d like to add). This of course was followed by the perfunctory curse-laden rant, culminating in a beautiful coda of strange bellowing and crooning — a scene impressive enough to warrant a small round of applause from a passing vehicle on the street outside. Kind of awesome.
In general though, I wouldn’t say we had too many memorable faces last night. I liked the girl with the neon green jeans and the crazy hair (although, a makeover would be highly recommended), and I loved the girl with the braces, if only because she had braces and reminded me of Parker Posey in any variety of strange Christopher Guest roles. Seriously, we need some braces on Idol.
Speaking of teeth issues, I’m hoping some kind orthodontist will do some charity work on poor Vanessa Wolfe — a sweet girl from rural Tennessee whose biggest passion is hurling herself off bridges. Her voice wasn’t amazing, and I can’t say I’m a huge fan of the warbly country sound, but Vanessa’s humble innocence was totally endearing, much in the way that little cowboy kid who sang to turkeys was a few seasons back. Ultimately, she earned a ticket to Hollywood, but I can only imagine how she’ll fare there. I fear the rigorous machine with chew her up and spit her out, thus leaving her with the poignant legacy of being “The Girl Down By The Bridge Who Once Went To Hollywood.”
There was also a strange creature who’ll probably be known primarily as The Guitar Girl, mostly thanks to her decision to come to the audition dressed like a guitar (replete with guitar sunglasses). Simon nailed it when he noted that she appeared more like an insect than anything else, but hey, the girl owned her stupid gimmick; so more power to her. And more power to her for actually having a good country voice. Again, not my cup of tea, but assuming that the girl drops this outfit and any other sartorial expressions of stringed instruments, she might be somewhat tolerable. Somewhat.
For the most part though, most of the girls who auditioned on last night’s show were cut from a generic mold — much like Mallorie Haley of South Dakota (she of the goofy smile) and Mariam Lemnouni of wherever (she of the goofy name). Like many, these girls had decent voices, but nothing especially wonderful about them. They’re exactly the type that might sneak into the semifinals and then stink up the stage every week until America wises up and puts them out of their misery.
And let’s not even talk about the guys. I can hardly remember any. Well, there was the old, possibly homeless man (but actually a civil rights leader, go figure) at the end who sang a spastic tune about picking up your pants or putting your pants down or something like that. I thought it was strange and patronizing, but the producers seemed to enjoy it, and I feared they were attempting to forge a William Hung 2.0 out of him by the way they featured the dumb ditty over the final montage (I think it’s safe to say that the man did not receive any royalties for that). I know everyone’s already talking about this “Pants on the Ground” song, but don’t count me as one of the fans.
I expected similarly disastrous results from another singer, a curious man who called himself Skii Bo Ski (pronounced “Sk’bowski,” which to me sounds like some ornery police chief in Chicago, but that’s just me). I won’t lie: with his bizarre, self-made hair patterns, eclectic outfit, and jittery movements, the guy looked like a pimp in a bowling league. Imagine my surprise (and probably everyone else’s) when it turned out he could sing! He really could! My favorite? No. But the guy certainly had talent, and as such, he earned a golden ticket to Hollywood. Something tells me this guy will be wreaking havoc on Group Day, yes? Can’t. Wait.
As for the other guys — I don’t remember them too well. There was a big, alabaster police officer with hair like a baby’s. He was serviceable, but very generic — clearly of the blue collar, Michael Sarver ilk. I fear that he will make it far in the competition. Too far. I hate him.
But not all the men were blah. Take, for instance, Jermaine. Ahhh Jermaine. Angels flutter their wings wherever Jermaine goes. At least, that’s the theory that my viewing buddy Michelle and I concluded. The moment that Jermaine walked on screen, we knew we loved him. We also knew he’d be great thanks to twinkly music and a mother with spina bifida. By the time he announced he’d be singing “What If God Was One Of Us,” Michelle and I were practically embracing for no real reason. Truth be told, it was a welcome song choice; a nice change from the standard audition fare (see my rant yesterday about Alicia Keys and Stevie Wonder).
Well, sweet sweet Jermaine opened his mouth, and I swear butterflies and starlight came out. The kid performed a lovely rendition of the Joan Osborne song, and quite honestly, Michelle and I both thought it was the best audition of the season so far. Randy agreed. No surprise here: the kid earned a ticket to Hollywood where I’m sure he’ll breeze through, thanks to his previous TV talent show experience. Jermaine can do no wrong by us (except, perhaps, the squealing in the elevator thing).
What did you think about the Atlanta auditions? Did anyone stand out to you? Happy with the decisions?