Amidst the turbulence in the world of pop culture comes good news from, of all places, Afghanistan. At the start of the new documentary Afghan Star, we see a line of men, with numbered tags on them. My reaction was predictably knee-jerk — what the hell kind of lockstep-fundamentalism thing were these guys up to? As it turned out, they were auditioning for the wildly popular TV show from which the film takes its name. In other words, putting themselves through the same sort of fame-seeking ordeal that thousands of people the world over subject themselves to on the road toward Idol-atry, complete with judges who roll their eyes and clap their hands over their disbelieving ears.
“Afghan Star” is broadcast by Tolo TV, the country’s first commercial station, which started in the wake of the collapse of the Taliban government in 2001. The show’s first season, in 2005, was a success. The documentary (which begins its New York run today, then rolls out nationwide) follows its third season, which began in October 2007. By then the show was as much an institution as American Idol — but it was also a headache for Muslim clerics, who were offended by its pop premise. And it was about to get worse. (more…)
Welcome to the third installment of a continuing series exploring some of the best – and some of the most egregiously wronged – hits of the rock era. A whole lot of hits that only reached pop’s runner-up slot have been largely forgotten; for example, oldies radio seems to have little use for the Poppy Family’s “Which Way You Goin’ Billy?” or BT Express’ “Do It Til You’re Satisfied.” But at least, as I looked back at the 1950s and ’60s, it seemed a healthy proportion of the #2 hits were terrific, or truly important songs that were justifiably blocked by other great singles … or at least got the shaft from idiotic trifles whose momentary appeal was understandable.
But then there was the ’70s – when, as it turned out, most of the hits that broke down during the 199th lap were just as silly and insubstantial as the ones that took the checkered flag. (See how the euphemisms keep on comin’? It remains to be seen whether I can maintain this level of cleverness straight through the Oughts, or whether I’ll pull up lame in the final stretch. See – another one!) Anyway, here we go with 10 good ones from the Me Decade. As always, I’ll list some more #2s at the end, and we can debate their merits in the comments.
10. “YMCA,” the Village People. Be honest: Who would you rather have coming after your children – the innocuous, mustachioed and very gay Village People, or “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy”-era Rod Stewart? Well, if you answered Rod, you got your wish in the winter of ’79, as he pulled a Kris Allen on everyone’s favorite bunch of costumed Adam Lamberts and bogarted #1 for four weeks. As for the other 99.9 percent of us, we can take delight in the fact that the last time we heard “Do Ya Think,” we were able to fast-forward through it on the TiVo during the American Idol finale – while you get to dance along to “YMCA” (though not this remix) during every single professional baseball game ever. So there.
9. “Live and Let Die,” Wings. Why did Paul McCartney’s Bond theme fail to reach the pinnacle? Maybe because it’s mostly an instrumental? Nah… (Edgar Winter’s “Frankenstein” had topped the chart just a couple months earlier.) Perhaps because nobody cared much about its host film? As if! (Live and Let Die topped the box office through much of June and July 1973, and was the 10th-biggest film of the year.) Perchance were there simply better songs out at the time? Well, the three (three!) songs that leaped over Roger Moore’s speedboat were Maureen McGovern’s “The Morning After,” fresh off its Poseidon Adventure Oscar victory; Diana Ross’ diva anthem “Touch Me in the Morning”; and Stories’ cover of Hot Chocolate’s “Brother Louie.” So I’d argue, no, that wasn’t it either. (Here’s the original version of the last song, which far less obviously references the Kingsmen.) Personally, I’d like to think that radio still had Macca in the penalty box for turning out so much crap over the past two years, up to and including his previous single “My Love” – one of the Worst #1 Songs of the ’70s. (more…)
Jon & Kate Plus … Date?: Can’t help but start with the worst first. If there’s one thing that’s certain in the world of entertainment, it’s the love of a good old-fashioned scandal. Only this time, really not that surprising or scandalous — it’s just too bad. Pure as baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and Chevrolet, the reality TV version of Eight Is Enough, the Gosselins from TLC’s Jon & Kate Plus 8, are now embroiled in a “cheating” hullabaloo of sorts.
For those not yet in the loop on this one, husband Jon was apparently caught partying late with a woman who wasn’t his wife and (shock!) that’s set off a firestorm of public opinion. It was a bad judgment call that’s awakened all the perfect parents out in TV land, all of whom now feel free to psychoanalyze the real human beings in this delicate situation. The Gosselins’ site doesn’t say much, but the blog Gosselins Without Pity (ouch!) is hot to trot (natch) about this story.
The bottom line? Look, having eight kids so close together in age, and all in a goldfish bowl to boot, has got to be traumatic. Both these parents are “stress cases” who, once upon a time, thought a reality TV show was a good idea. They’ve made their money, scored their book deals and traded up in the lifestyle category (and then some). But if you look at them closely these last couple of seasons, they’re pretty miserable (watch the body language). Jon and Kate are a lost couple, working their way around each other (despite the cameras) and it’s obvious.
They don’t need a television show or the money, they need counseling and their kids. (more…)
In Bull Durham, Kevin Costner’s character Crash Davis chides Nuke LaLoosh (Tim Robbins) for his laziness and lack of focus on the game of baseball. “You got a gift,” he says. “When you were a baby, the gods reached down and turned your right arm into a thunderbolt. You got a Hall-of-Fame arm, but you’re pissing it away.”
Likewise, when Michael Bolotin (later, Bolton) was born, the gods reached down and gave him lungs of reech Coreenthian leather—a multi-octave range, filtered through a gruff, almost sandpaper-like delivery. But saying Bolton can sing is like saying George Bush can speak English: big deal, what’s he done with it? The issue is context. His early solo work in the 70s was crap—miscast as a Joe Cocker wannabe, he tried his hand crooning stuff like “These Eyes” and “Time is on My Side,” with no particular distinction. His two-album stint as the lead singer of Blackjack was similarly underwhelming—muddy production and faceless instrumentation (by Bruce Kulick, Sandy Gennaro, and Jimmy Haslip, all of whom would go on to more distinctive work elsewhere) left the listener feeling damaged in some significant way.
No, it was shortly after Blackjack, 1983 and ‘84 to be exact, when Bolton found a niche that worked—that of the arena rock god. On both his self-titled ‘83 album and Everybody’s Crazy, which followed the next year, he was backed by flashy, hairsprayed sidemen, who provided the echoed drums and WEE-diddly-diddly gee-tar that helped put Bolton on the road, opening for Ozzy, Loverboy, and their corporate rawk brethren. In arena rock, he found a musical backdrop where his tendency toward histrionics fit, where it was even encouraged. Had he stayed with that style, who knows what might have become of him? He could be co-headlining with Poison this summer, or releasing a Journey-like comeback record through Wal-Mart. (more…)
A friend of mine told me I needed a severe attitude adjustment. At first, I didn’t know what she was talking about: “What’s wrong with my attitude?”
“You’re the only person in this room not having fun,” she said. She was right. We were in the midst of a typical Friday night crowd at the local watering hole. I don’t drink, but I don’t think that had any bearing on my state of mind and, if anything, if I was a drinker my negative view of the situation probably would have been worse, not better. On the stage, which seemed to be the size of a backyard pool’s diving board, was a cover band. Not just any cover band, mind you, but an ’80s hair metal band, complete with poofy, sprayed-up manes held together with gypsy-print bandannas and the whole “we are gonna Rock YUH” schtick — I think the lead singer even did Axl’s snake shake a couple of times.
And the audience ate it up. No question that the booze was indeed flowing, so there was a degree of liquid indoctrination happening, but their momentary adoration was not completely fueled by firewater. And here’s the thing: in spite of the inherent cheesiness of trotting out Europe’s “The Final Countdown” like it was something worth trotting, the band could play. The singer could sing. It wasn’t like they were incapable, so why were they leaning on the crutches of Winger, Poison and Slaughter?
Weeks before, I mentioned to someone that the only time karaoke is really fun is when the participants are drunk. Look, there’s a little truth to that, isn’t there? I barely can handle listening to the real Mariah Carey sing, so why would I get any pleasure out of listening to an amateur imitating her competently? Stumbling for words and attempting to reach those hellspawned high notes until her poor little head nearly burst like a festering zit…well, that might be more entertaining. Still, that was a snipe there, and in retrospect I realize that maybe I do need an attitudinal chiropractor to wrench my crap back into alignment and help me not be such an old, opinionated crank.
I’ve met people in cover bands over the years, and even though many have been of the “Du-ude!” variety, they had a clear notion of where they were on the entertainment totem pole, and where they weren’t, meaning that few harbored illusions of becoming stars in their own right. One once said to me, “I’m not here to be a rock star, I’m here to channel a rock star. People don’t come here to see me if they come at all for the music. They come to see through me to whoever and whatever I’m singing tonight.” It was a very honest statement, a knowing statement. This guy worked at a mortgage firm at the time, before the term ‘mortgage firm’ had the same effect as ‘baby killer.’ Deskside number-crunching was what paid the bills, and he knew it. Saturday night at the beachfront joint with the tiki lounge was for fun, it was escape, and it was a brief moment for this guy to think about the might-have-beens. (more…)
So here we are at the end of another cycle of Fox’s juggernaut, American Idol.For seven seasons, the televised talent show has been the thorn in the side of every network and the scorn of “real” music fans.I’ll admit it, I watch the show.I enjoy hearing these contestants trying to make it big, and it is one of the few programs my family can watch together.Even “family” shows, these days deal with issues that are a little to mature for a six- and nine-year-old.This year, the show that gave us the likes of Kelly Clarkson, Carrie Underwood and Chris Daughtry (and cursed us with Taylor Hicks and Clay Aiken) has seen its ratings suffer a blow.Was it fallout from the recent writers’ strike that also ate away at the ratings for so many other primetime series?Or was it something else?Although American Idol will finish the year the number one-rated show, giving Fox another season win in the ratings war, I believe viewers got a stale taste in their mouths.
The show suffered from several setbacks early on, starting with the weeks of audition episodes that seemed to drag on like they would never end.We get it, hundreds of thousands of people auditioned and the poor, overpaid judges had to suffer through innumerable bad auditions.Boo hoo. Here’s something I don’t get.If only the most talented singers are supposed to get through the door to meet Randy, Paula and Simon, how come we end up seeing so many shitty vocalists?Sure, one or two might be good for a laugh, but it gets old really fast.A smart thing to do would be to pare down these audition episodes to a two-hour special and then get on with it.Another problem the show had was its bloated Wednesday night episodes that are supposed to serve notice to the person going home that week. Instead of announcing the loser in one half hour segment, we were subjected to live question-and-answer portions via the Internet.People don’t care whether Simon and Paula really hate each other, or if one of the contestants is single.We just want to hear them sing.(more…)
Back in February 2007, I was putting together a piece for Bullz-Eye called “The Best Albums You’ve Never, Ever Heard (Well, Probably Not, Anyway),” and on my personal short list on possible inductees was Carly Hennessy’s Ultimate High, released by MCA Records in 2001. As it happens, however, the album never ended up making it into the final piece, mostly because Carly never got around to filling out the short Q&A that everyone else had done, and it would’ve looked lopsided without it. I followed up about a week after my initial request, and she responded, “I will do it tonight. Sorry, I had family in town, and I have been so busy with them that I didn’t have time.” Fair enough, but as the deadline for the piece approached, I still hadn’t gotten her responses, and since I didn’t want to be a nag, I saw no need to follow up a second time.
In retrospect, perhaps I should have. Now, Carly Hennessy is known as Carly Smithson, and she’s one of the final 12 contestants on the current season of “American Idol.”
There’s something ironic about the fact that I was first inspired to purchase my copy of Ultimate High because of an article which originally appeared in The Wall Street Journal (but appears here via a posting on Matt Goyer’s blog) which spoke of how few copies of the album had been bought. It’s a painful yet fascinating read, but certain facts really leap out at you, including…
* MCA paid for her living expenses for two years.
* They also gave her a blue convertible Volkswagen Golf to drive around in.
* They sent a surprise limo to take Carly and her friends to a Blink-182 rock concert to celebrate her 18th birthday.
…but what it really boils down to is this: the label spent $2.2 million to make and market the album – including $250,000 on a video that showed her dancing in a disco and jumping around with her pals in their sleepwear – but, after three months, it had sold precisely 378 copies.
Jon & Kate Plus … Date?: Can’t help but start with the worst first. If there’s one thing that’s certain in the world of entertainment, it’s the love of a good old-fashioned scandal. Only this time, really not that surprising or scandalous — it’s just too bad. Pure as baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and Chevrolet, the reality TV version of Eight Is Enough, the Gosselins from TLC’s Jon & Kate Plus 8, are now embroiled in a 
In 
A friend of mine told me I needed a severe attitude adjustment. At first, I didn’t know what she was talking about: “What’s wrong with my attitude?”
So here we are at the end of another cycle of Fox’s juggernaut, American Idol.
