There comes a time when we just have to admit some things in life are completely beyond our control. For instance, if we should ever actually see a mushroom cloud hovering over the horizon ala Jericho or Day 6 of 24, we'd shrug our collective shoulders and mutter something along the lines of, "So much for that debate."
American Idol is like that. At one end of the spectrum are its rabid fans, who are somehow privy not only to the innermost feelings and fears of the contestants, but also have divined the coronation of the next Messiah of the Music Universe. At the other end are the equally rabid denouncers of the series who decry it as nothing less than one of the last two or three trumpet calls heralding the End of Civilization As We Know It. Then there are those of us seeking sanity in the madness, writing it off as a harmless talent show, and reassuring the radicals on both fringes that planet Earth will persevere regardless of the outcome, despite the ominous signs that it foretells the course of Western Civilization henceforth.
I'm one of those who precariously straddles the Idol fence, depending on how foul my mood is. My "intellectual" side screams that the future of pop music should be stentorian, something that snakes its way into our consciousness imperceptibly, slowly gaining momentum and energy as it shapes itself into a trend, and eventually, a genre. It's not something that should be decided by a spur of the moment popular votes sponsored by Cingular/AT&T.
Invariably, my "emotional" side rears its ugly head at this point, and wastes not an instant in whispering its bias into my brain. "If the populace at large doesn't decide the direction of pop music, can it truly be popular music?" it reasons. At that point, the two demons on my shoulders morph into Simon Cowell and Paula Abdul, and I'm left as a bewildered Randy Jackson, shuddering at the implications of it all.
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