Uncle Sam Doesn't Want You. AI Re-cap 2/13/07

Finally, the day has arrived. We are in the thick of Hollywood Week on Idol. Now someone correct me if I’m wrong, but are the producers skimping this year on this particular phase of the show? One hour for the Hollywood rounds, then one hour to choose the Top 24 seems like very little time, especially when you consider we had eight, count ‘em, EIGHT audition shows that netted us next to nothing in televised talent. Maybe next season we can spend a little more time watching this endlessly more fascinating phase of the competition than watching some rotund, fifty year old black broad in a chicken costume show off her ample belly fat.

So McPhee’s album dropped this past week. She debuted at #2 with sales of 119,000, about 35% of what Taylor Hicks moved in his first week and we all know what happened to that CD. Can you feel my pleasure from where you’re sitting, because I want you to.

Five days of Hollywood week are condensed down to two hours as we meet some of the 172 hopefuls chosen to proceed to the second round. God help them if they waste precious footage showing us the slutty bumpkin whose daddy shot her stepmomma frolicking on the beach or being arrested for bad taste on Holywood Boulevard. No one wants to see the Idols sightsee. I’m putting that out there right now. Stop the sightseeing.

This season, they are splitting the initial audition phase into male vs. female. The first day it’s the girls singing. On the bus to the Orpheum Theatre, some snotty girl with big hoop earrings is deriding any peace and love vibe her fellow contestants might be trying to spread. Egging her on is seat-mate Gina Glocksen, who, being a two-time loser already, has no room to talk and ought to be thanking everyone in sight and handing out gifts for the fact that they even let her through again. I’m gonna take extra pleasure when she gets cut.

This year, there are almost twice as many girls as there are boys, so the competition among the femmes is fierce. This is where I would come in handy. I could think of a couple dozen that ought to go home right now. For the first round, there will be groups of six, each singing 30 seconds of a song. First up is Jory Steinberg, who I recently found out was a teen pop star in Canada for five minutes who never got a chance to break over here. I know that’s a technicality, but I feel like it ought to disqualify her, however, she’s one of the few girls I can stand, so I’ll let it slide. She’s singing “I’m Outta Love,” by Anastacia. Good job. I wish I could say the same for her five group mates, but we’re only given three second glimpses of them singing their songs. I did like a girl named Jeromisha. I think. Also, there’s some girl in a really tacky leopard print dress with enormous fake tits. She had the worst voice of the six, but perhaps her rack will float her. No, Simon cut the entire line. I’m shocked about Jory. She has a really nice voice and I wouldn’t have sacrificed her just to set a precedent and strike fear in the hearts of the viewers, I mean contestants. If daddy shooter gets through, I’m really gonna be pissed.

We’re back and getting stuck watching footage of Perla. You remember her from the first night of auditions. She was the latin spitfire with a thimbleful of talent who was forced to sing a Shakira song, but was then put through because of it. Now she’s being filmed exiting the plane to Hollywood (probably for the fourth time, it looks so fake.) Perla seems to think she’s this season’s Brenna Gethers, someone we never need a clone of. Perla sings the same Shakira song, and if possible, does an even worse job with it. Plus, I can’t understand a word she says. Next up is Rachel the army reservist who milked her and her husband’s military status to cover a middling talent. Also four others whose names and performances we’re not privy to. Rachel gets cut, but Perla is through, even though Simon chastises her for being personality over talent. Perla swears she is ready to work, and to prove her point, she immediately goes backstage and frys up a hamburger with the grease from her forehead. Hey, it’ll be good practice for her. Out in the lobby, Rachel is still flashing her husband’s army photo as though it’s going to help. Sister, that teat is dry.

Baylie Brown is up next. She was the country gal who was afraid of horses and feels she’s too big-city for her rural roots. That explains the dye-job. Baylie’s performance is flat and rushed, but the judges like her for some inexplicable reason. Not going through are Ashlyn Carr, who has been to Hollywood before, Porcelana Patino, the female Rocky, and Sarah Burgess, an early thorn in my side who fabricated a huge bullshit story about how her father didn’t support her choices, which came as a huge surprise to him when she ambushed him on the phone after finding out she was going to Hollywood. Nicole Turner is the last hopeful of the day, arguing with her mother about which song to sing, and then capitulating to mom’s choice, an old Aretha song called “Ain’t No Way.” Nicole gets cut, but I thought she did well and should have gotten through. Oh, but it’s not over. Nicole makes her mother feel so guilty about haranguing her into singing the wrong song, that mama hobbles onto the stage, walking stick in hand, to plead her daughter’s case. Then Nicole gets into the act, even though all the judges tell her it wasn’t the song that didn’t get her through. Simon gets so fed up, he shouts at her and walks off. But this is not to be a Brittenum Twins redux, thank goodness. Fifty six of the 114 girls are through to the next round, including delightful early favorite Melinda Doolittle, hateful no-talent Gina Glocksen and retarded sob story milking whore, Jamie Lynn Daddy-Shooter.

Day two and the boys are next. Jason Head thinks the fewer number of guys will work in his favor, though no one wants to mention he takes up the space of three, not including the midget hippie we could cobble together from his excess chest hair. Brian Miller is in Hollywood for the second time and he looks like he’s dressed for Sunday School. He does decently, but next up is Jarrod Fowler, the navy man who had much too much time wasted on him and his shipmates during his audition and who you know is going to go through on pure Executive order. Jarrod tells us he was dressed in his navy whites due to an order from his superiors and thanks the navy for allowing him to be there. Hell, son, they put you there. He’s got an okay voice, but a dull delivery.

Next is one of my early favorites, Matt Sato. Matt, if you remember, was the guy whose parents really didn’t support his career path, unlike Sarah Burgess, who lied through her teeth. Matt’s skin has cleared up considerably, though he is still plucking his eyebrows thin enough to make Eydie Gorme proud. Matt picks a really shitty song, but manages to squeak by, as does Chris, the fat, curly haired guy from a couple weeks ago. Not as fortunate is Jarrod Fowler. I guess Randy and Paula are democrats. Brian Miller’s fate has been completely dropped, as he isn’t even part of this group. Matt calls his mom and cries on the phone to her again. One time is sweet, kid. Keep it up and you’re gonna verge into Picklerville, though it’s hard to be cynical after she tells Matt she loves him and he reveals to the camera that his mother never tells him that.

And apparently, that’s all of the guys we get to see for the first round. Thirty four have made it through, including Blake Lewis, the human beat boxer, Nick Pedro, who took himself out of Hollywood last year, Phil Stacy, the tool who ditched his wife in the delivery room and Sean Michel, the freak who has birds living in his Rumplestilskin beard. Oh, and Jason Head and his “Cousin Itt” chest-wig are through, too.

Time for the group round and hopefully, this will be more exciting than the previous half hour, which was dullsville. This year, the kids get to choose the groups, themselves, and can gather in groups of any number they choose. Matt Sato can’t find a group, neither can some girl who wears a post-modern pukka shell necklace and cries like she’s been last chosen for kickball, until she finally gets a pity invite.

Matt Buckstein, one of the “Brokenote Mountain” cowboys from last year, is back and sounding as bad as before. Jersey girls and best friends Antonella and Amanda team with Baylie, but fight over which song to choose, leaving the country girl as spooked by Jersey chicks as she is by horses, though one can see where she’d find resemblances. None of the girls can remember the lyrics to their song and while Antonella and Baylie go off to bed, Amanda, Jersey bred, goes in search of some Idol contestant dick.

Gina Glocksen and Perla are in the same group together and clash immediately. Gina claims Perla cannot harmonize, which I’m sure is accurate, but people in glass houses… Perla keeps singing off-key, which makes her no new friends.

During the group performances, the judges seem to be cutting anyone who can’t remember their lyrics. Matt Sato gets cut. So now, not only are we not being introduced to a lot of people who are going to make it through the next few rounds, the ones that we have gotten a lot of backstory on are being cut. Matt is dumped with not so much as a handshake. While on the one hand, I applaud the ability to shake things up and not foist on us only the people deemed worthy of backstories, my next question is- why have them at all? If you’re not priming the pump by getting us used to these people, then why show their sob stories at all? Why not focus on showing more contestants making it through to Hollywood?

Glocksen’s group performs and everyone goes through except Perla. So far, all my nemeses are falling by the wayside. I’m not holding out hope that the judges will get smart and cut Pickler-lite, though. Okay, I miss Matt Sato. I’ll get over it.

Blake, Chris, Rudy Cardenas and some other guy do a rousing version of the Bee Gees “How Deep is Your Love,” that gets the crowd going, however at some point, Blake is gonna have to step up to the plate and sing something instead of being the show’s own Michael Winslow. They all go through.

Jason Head is singing with two girls, one of whom, L’Paige, doesn’t remember one word of lyrics to “A Night to Remember,” and is going home. Jason also forgets his lyrics and just starts making shit up, as well as performing them wildly off-key, yet he gets put through. That shit is whacked. Even Jason acknowledges he shouldn’t have made it.

Baylie and the Jersey twins are up now. Antonella rocks her part, but Baylie forgets pretty much every word and Amanda has to prompt her. However, when it’s Amanda’s turn, she flubs her lines, which prompts an evil grin from Baylie. Antonella is the only one of the three who should go through, yet they keep Amanda. Baylie is sent home and rightly so. She didn’t even sing more than two words of her solo. Good riddance. Baylie completely shows her true colors and harshes all over Amanda, accusing her of flirting with boys instead of rehearsing. As true as that may have been, Baylie was responsible for learning her lyrics on her own and has no one to blame for that but herself.

Both of the roller skating Frisco’s waitresses get cut, which is surprising, since the black chick had an amazing voice in the first round. However, we don’t get to hear their group song. Fifty six people have lasted through this round.

The finalists are split into three groups. Group One goes through. That includes chubby Chris, Gina Glocksen, Rudy Cardenas and the Asian guy who sounded way too boy-band breathy. This is already telling me that the talent pool this year was incredibly shallow.

Group two goes through. This room includes Jason Head, Antonella, Sanjaya the Bolywood Donny (but not his sister), and the lesbian with dirty hair who sang the Lynard Skynard song. Somehow, Matthew Buckstein got through, as well, which REALLY tells you how shallow the talent pool is.

And if anything else happened after that, I missed it, sicne my tivo cut the rest of the episode off. I nominate this for the worst Hollywood week episode ever and my worst re-cap. Please see the manager for refunds on your way out.