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*It was a couple of TV seasons back that I finally realized "American Idol" had morphed into a certifiable pop culture Godzilla, and not simply because "Idol" judge Randy Jackson practically stopped traffic inside a San Fernando Valley Daily Grill when we met there for lunch.
Rather, I knew the show had unapologetically launched itself into another dimension by the sheer fact that I was actually anxious over pasta with Jackson, a musician and recording executive I've known for years, as we seriously discussed the notion of Jackson--who had no previous experience in film or TV production whatsoever--turning my book, "Fool In Love," into a TV series or a big screen movie.
Without a trace of self-importance, Jackson related to me that he had offers of TV and film deals "all over town." Apparently the Hollywood Suits were eager to spoon in bed with anyone remotely associated with one of the biggest shows in television history.
And there I was, not a molecule of shame in my game, trying to slide my narrow ass between those suddenly satin sheets, too.
Alas, Jackson never got around to walking "Fool" into a conference room of TV and film execs. At least he didn't declare me "pitchy."
But I like Randy. And I love "American Idol."
I used to be ashamed to admit inhaling the show like a crackhead sucks on a pipe. Even now, in affirming my affection, I am also compelled to make known my appetite for everything from jazz to roots bluegrass and plenty in between. You know--serious music.
However, I confess to being a sucker for the classic pop star. I came up in an era when immortality was built on the memorable three minute ditty delivered by distinctive voices like Johnny Mathis, Aretha, the Supremes, Dionne Warwick, the Temptations and vintage Michael Jackson.
Granted, the difference between "Idol" and such legendary star-making machinery as Motown and the Brill Building is that "Idol" stars are incubated fast-food style, right before the eyes and ears of the people, for the people and by the people--more than 30 million viewers every week, to be exact.
Shoot me for relishing "Idol"'s behind the scenes drama, the sexy girl singers, the proud, tearful relatives in the audience, the omnipresent Ryan Seacrest's work ethic, Simon's cutting (but usually on the money) remarks and the scandalous sex-driven sidebar that every season seems inevitable.
Nevertheless, my biggest reason for digging "Idol" is that, season after season, it beats the shit out of the conventional pop music business at its own game. As a concept, "Idol" is a "reality" show, but the reality is that most "Idol" stars who have gone on to success would never have made it past the front desk at a major label.
Ruben Studdard and Jennifer Hudson would have been considered by record executives to be "fat;" Kelly Clarkson would have been deemed ordinary; the nerdy Clay Aiken wouldn't translate to chicks. Carrie Underwood would have been persuaded to sing anything but country. Taylor Hicks would have to lose the gray hair.
And Fantasia--well, according to the handbook of major-label rhetoric, a young singer who resembles the inner-city single parent you'd find with her kid in tow at Walmart on weekends--in other words, someone who looks like the people who buy the music--couldn't possibly sell CDs. Or, for that matter, tickets on Broadway. She looks too...REAL. Talent be damned.
This kind of genius is the reason most of the "singers" in today's Top 40 would not have made it past "Idol"'s local auditions. Most of them were signed because of how they can look in a music video.
To the sure, generally speaking the majors continue to present great, talented artists. But those successes simply make the other bullshit they hawk all the more intolerable.
Not that Justin Timberlake doesn't possess talent; he's just not the soul man his publicists would have you believe. However, Timberlake is Otis Redding compared to the uneventful John Legend, a young man with the charisma of a Lazy Boy recliner who lost me once and for all when his song, "Save Room," blatantly lifted a melody from "Stormy," the 1968 hit by pop band, the Classics IV. Unfortunately for Legend, some of us are old enough to remember.
Of course, "Idol" isn't all things to all popular music genres. No way. This show is about the full-service pop singer, whose current model remains Whitney Houston.
However, even Superman is weakened by Kryptonite, and "American Idol"'s version of Kryptonite is young people who can't carry a tune. In the desperate words of a weakened Man of Steel, "Most...of...current (cough)...Idol...contestents...(gasp) suck." They could just award the recording contracts to Melinda Dolittle and Lakisha Jones, the only real singers in the bunch, and call it a day.
Then again, if they did that, I'd miss the downright sadistic way in which Seacrest sends home the losers, and the surreal, cryptic critique of the always incomparable Paula Abdul. I know I could be doing something else with my time, but to me, this is entertainment.
Steven Ivory's book, FOOL IN LOVE (Touchstone/Simon & Schuster) is in stores now or at Amazon.com (www.Amazon.com) Respond to him via STEVRIVORY@AOL.COM or MYfeedback@eurweb.com