Ahem. Let me get this out of the way upfront. I dislike Kyle Sandilands. Quite a bit, in fact. He frequently fills me with bile. I avoid his radio show at all costs and I wanted him to spontaneously combust when he was on Celebrity Big Brother. I find his attitude towards women appalling – he is a cruel, opinionated chauvinist (and I only find one of those qualities attractive – a pretty ribbon to the first person who guesses which one). Suffice it to say, I’m not a big fan. I am concerned at the damage someone like Sandilands might do to the first naïve, not so attractive, big boned seventeen year old who strays into his line of sight during the audition process. This is my extremely roundabout way of saying that should the planets align and Atlantis rise from the sea and I actually compliment or agree with something he says in the next however many months of Idol, then I really really agree with it. Cross your fingers that doesn’t happen . . .
Well. The first weeks auditions were twee, hideous, brave, foolish, hopeful, hopeless, sad and - at least two - were pretty damn good. And by pretty damn good, I mean I actually remember them two nights later. One of the good auditionees was QLD’s Pig-Girl (who hopefully will get enough screen time once we hit the top 150-odd that I will remember what her name is and can stop calling her Pig-Girl.) She gets extra points for pretending to stab Kyle, something I had screeched at the telly for her to do the instant she said she had killed pigs before.
Kyle? Meet your maker. Heh.
Second was Millie from Tassie, cute as a freaking button but with the worst fauxhawk I’ve seen in a while. It was like a mullet crossed with a fauxhawk . . . what would you call that? A mull . . . fawk? Luckily, her voice was awesome. Ditto Pig-Girl. They are quite literally the only two singers I remember clearly from the auditions without going back and rewatching.
I’m not going to do that. Gah.
I am choosing not to discuss in depth or detail the remarks made by the judges – there’s no point at this juncture, there were too many auditions, too many nasty things said and, quite frankly, too many freakin’ mediocre singers put through. And its going to be that way for a while, at least until the top thirty. The LulahB loungeroom was chockful of raised eyebrows and askance glances at some of the judging choices. Many a ‘huh?!’ was tossed around each time a prêt a porter/Kmart version of Beyonce was put through. And for the third year in a row, can we get a moratorium on vocal gymnastics?? They seem to get more pronounced and hysterical every year. Not to sound like Marcia or anything but SING THE FREAKING SONG. Just the song. Not the notes around the song, or the notes you can see in the song or the notes that Mariah and Whitney invented, just the song. The. Actual. Song.
(Speaking of Marcia, I clocked in at 7.48pm Tuesday night with my first Shutup Marcia of the season. I can’t remember why or how it came about, but may there be many, many more.)
Oh, and a HUGE thankyou to whoever loves me at Channel Seven – this Sunday night, a 90 minute MythBusters special about – squeeee - sharks!! and then a special anniversary screening of a film I’m kinda fond of. The only sucky thing is it will clash with the lovefest that is Tim on BB - huzzah for VCR’s, say I, huzzah.
