Unhinged Melody

I got spies. Two friends wound up at the show tonight, sitting in the audience. They’ve promised to report back on any weird stuff that losers like me—and you too—don’t get to see because we’re not holders of the hot ticket. So for the duration of this recap I’m going to let them speak in their own words. When you see brackets with the names [Aaron the Spy] or [Tony the Spy] then you’ll know it’s one of them. Aaron’s a weirdo Gay who likes Norwegian black metal and Tony’s a muscles and sleeveless T-shirt Gay. They’re very different and yet they both adore me. I’m universal that way.

[Aaron the Spy: Before the show starts the back-up singers sing this 10-minute “funk lite” jam where they go, “Say Paula…Abdul…Paula…Abdul,” and the crowd is supposed to chant their names. Then they go, “The Dawg’s coming out!” and you’re supposed to do the Dawg Pound woof woof woof and the backup singers go, “Randy… Jackson… Randy…Jackson…” Then they eject the judges out from the side door and Paula runs around like a crazy woman hugging people and stuff. The crowd is like 10% celebrities—I saw Tori Spelling and Miss Jay from America’s Next Top Model—15% media assholes, and then 75% rich junior high school girls having their birthday.]

Seacrest looks good tonight I like his shiny, skinny blue tie. It’s very Huey Lewis in 1982. He introduces the judges. Now, can anyone explain why does Randy does the faux-booing of Simon every week? It’s so lame, this weird show of fakey misanthropy. And it’s a word that just sounds wrong coming from Randy’s mouth. Like he can’t even do it right and is actually mispronouncing it. And, finally, who on earth really still believes that Simon is “mean?” Knock it off, Randy.

Andrea Bocelli is the guest star tonight. He’s that Italian guy who sings the songs that women my mom’s age like to hear while they take vanilla candle–scented bubble baths. I remember once there was a whole bit about Carmela on The Sopranos digging Andrea Bocelli. He’s also the guy who got all male diva on Oprah when she had him on her show once. It was a great episode. Oprah goes, “And now Andrea Bocelli is going to sing “‘The Greatest Love of All!’” (or maybe it was one of those other famous opera songs, I don’t remember) and Bocelli flat-out refused to do it on live television. You could see the hate-fumes coming off Oprah that day. They were purple.

They say tonight’s theme is the World’s Greatest Love Songs. But it’s really King Romantico Bocelli Sits in a Chair and Does a Lot of Not Much While Songwriter-Producer David Foster Busts the Kids’ Balls Night. Foster has Poseidon-capsizing tsunami waves of negative don’t-waste-my-time-which-by-the-way-is-worth-one-thousand-dollars-per-minute energy cascading off of him. They’ve brought in a representative Music Industry Asshole. Good. It’ll toughen these kids up. Something has to prepare them for meeting people like Clive Davis and David Geffen. Cut to Céline Dion cooing, “If God could have a singing voice, he must sound a lot like Andrea Bocelli.” Personally, I always thought that if God sang, he’d sound like Phil Harris as Baloo in The Jungle Book, but let Céline have her little opinions. Then comes the clip reel of “Isn’t Andrea Bocelli the Greatest Singer in the History of Human Life as We Know It?” Cut to Sarah Brightman cuddling up all moony-eyed to Bocelli, fondling him as he sings some vaguely opera-ish adult contemporary bit of humpty-hump. Then cut to producer-songwriter David Foster—who wrote “I Have Nothing” for Whitney Houston—and Bocelli saying “David is the greatest producer in the world.” Cut to the clip from last week—the most awesome one of all—of the guy on fire jumping off the bridge as Bocelli lays it down Rigoletto-style.