There are certain things in life that to some are a consuming passion yet to me are puzzling in the extreme as to why they form such a compelling interest. College basketball. Quilting. Collecting Hot Wheels.
American Idol.
Exactly why so many obsess over the participants in said show, who should advance and who should forever be banished from public view, escapes me. Seriously. How many of the participants would be given the time of day by those who follow them in minutia were they just another singer with a new release in the racks at Target or Wal-Mart? Yet put them on television and people go batcrap crazy over the whole thing. Whatever.
Perhaps it’s the illusion of involvement in picking the winner. Seriously. Like people get it right every time? How many winners of American Idol have done anything other than a quick disappearing act? As many people who didn’t make the final cut have gone on to have successful careers as winners. Jennifer Holliday and Daughtery aren’t in the “where are they now” file. Seen Ruben Studdard or Taylor Hicks on the pop charts lately?
But what of the “oh look, we’re giving someone who otherwise would never get a chance a shot at the stardom they deserve” aspect of the whole thing, some might protest. Get serious, will ya? The purpose of American Idol isn’t advancing the artistic quality of popular music. Nor is it giving some deserving individuals the opportunity to be heard. It’s to make Simon Cowell and cohorts money. Period.
That all said, the most irksome aspect of American Idol is how it rewards generic Cheez-Wiz music and performance. Close your eyes here, make this gesture there, dribble emotion on the microphone, and you’re in. Great fan fodder. Guaranteed sales. However, it neglects one minor detail.
As Moby pointed out, music is God’s language.
And this stuff ain’t.
Before someone starts in with the “yeah, you’re an old fart, what do you know” shtick, allow me to clarify. I don’t care if someone is eighteen or eighty. I don’t care what kind of music someone makes. I like certain genres more than others, but everyone does. That’s beside the point. The point is music that does not communicate heart, mind and soul but rather a veneer of sincerity with its actual passion being the cash register isn’t music. It’s mass market product designed to sell. People who consume this are depriving themselves of the alternative. Namely, genuine music.
Granted, most people are fine with mass market product. They are ofttimes unaware there is an alternative consisting of the genuine. It’s not their fault. They consume what they’re provided. They’re victims of a situation they don’t know exists. They are spoonfed garbage and told it’s garden salad. Here, try this; it’s good for you. Actually it’s not. But how would they know?
Genuine music, regardless of genre, comes from an expression of that which means something to the artist. It’s not a performance. It’s not a calculated appeal to the broadest possible denominator. Genuine music moves because it moves the ones who make it. It’s their heart. It’s their soul. It’s their life. You can’t process and package that.
Genuine artists — an Eric Clapton, a Steve Winwood, a Rory Gallagher — not only express their music with consummate skill. It’s their life. Listen to any Gallagher album, especially Irish Tour. It’s not the work of a guitar god flashing his skills even though Gallagher was one of if not the best electric blues player that has ever walked the face of the earth. It’s who he was said better than most anyone else. Listen to Clapton and Winwood on their new live album. It’s not a nostalgia trip for aging baby boomers still cherishing their Cream and Traffic and Blind Faith albums. It’s shimmering vibrancy, two exquisitely talented artists inspiring each other to give even greater voice to their music. Listen to the Listening — no, that’s not a redundancy — and their gift for punchy yet contemplative readings expressing both the majesty of God and the distressed state of man.
It’s genuine music. It’s God’s language.
And these days, we need to be listening to Him.
As opposed to the sound of Cheez-Wiz.
