© Pierre Maré,
2004 - 2007
Offbeat 76
About this time last year, I took a swipe at Idols in this column, or whatever it was that was on television at the time. It is on again and, as usual, I have watched one or two of the shows to see what all the fuss is about. I had plenty to think about as I was watching, and have decided to take another swipe at it.
The most interesting thing about these ‘vote for your favourite warbler’ shows is not so much the results as what the show does not produce. In order to qualify this, I am going to have to explain what the show does produce. Basically it produces musicians who by pleasing the judges and pleasing the audience, earn a recording contract and, hopefully, stardom.
The result, at least judging by the shows, is musicians who valiantly strive to in some way or other to produce a depth of emotion and proficiency in their singing that is pleasing to all. As usual, a bunch of newer hits and a huge number of old standards emerge from the woodwork. All the songs are tunes that revisit familiar territory. The singers who best achieve this are, according to the show, qualified to be ‘idols’.
History on the other hand, at least the history of modern pop culture shows a different sort of person emerging to become an idol.
The first and most obvious quality of a non-voted idol is some form of substance abuse. Epic amounts of alcohol, cocaine, heroin and funny, white, lemon-scented powder they find in cleaning cupboards in their mansions springs to mind. In fact, it is interesting to note the number of idols who only reached the pinnacle of their fame after shocking, fatal overdoses, definitely gives pause for thought. Can anyone imagine Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison or Janis Joplin in their late fifties or early sixties? The fact that John Cale survived still stretches my imagination a bit too far.
The next quality is a sociopathic streak about a mile wide and as sharp as one of those rusty blades that look blunt until you accidentally run your finger over the blade. Stardom is usually associated with the wreckage of hotel rooms and other symptoms of psychotic behaviour. Can anyone imagine sitting down to tea with a well-mannered, well-rounded Sid Vicious?
A third quality worth mentioning is deep and troubling emotional issues, to the point where the idol might provide a comfortable living for a psychologist and a couple of therapists. Attempted suicide seems to be one way of getting noticed, plus when the singer sings about sadness and pain, we are inclined to believe. Ian Curtis of Joy Division and Curt Cobain of Nirvana spring to mind. As in the cases of Jimi, Jim and Janis, they took their problems to the sort of conclusions that leave everyone wondering what really was going through their minds, and if there was a way to save them.
A fourth and final quality would probably be the sexual profligacy of a hyperactive rabbit or at least one of those embarrassing male dogs that greets you with the embarassing sort of attention that makes old maiden aunts say, “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s just a bit frustrated.”
An idol without a hundred rumours and at least three or four paternity suites from waitresses in towns we have never heard of is just not an idol at all. Hands up, anyone who can imagine a celibate Rod Stewart or Mick Jagger.
Yet here we are, once again, confronted with a bunch of choices who could probably quite easily and comfortably navigate Sunday afternoon tea with those painfully correct relatives that you wish had skeletons in the closet, but got rid of theirs because it didn’t leave room for the pile of motivational tracts and self-help books that they have actually read.
If I had the choice, my vote would probably go to the drug addicted, psychotic, suicidal nymphomaniac, but I don’t. On the other hand, these idols won’t change the way we look at things or make us count our blessings. Obviously the current crop is far better for you. It’s just that, like decaffeinated coffee or alcohol-free beer, they aren’t as exciting.
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