I already feel guilty about LaKisha.



I knew that LaKisha was raw, unpolished in the best way. But until tonight I hadn't focused on her deep soulfulness - a quality none of the remaining three has. In the video package about her childhood, she wasn't just cute. She wasn't just touching. She wasn't just funny. She was all those things. She spoke about her mother and her grandmother and her "nappy fro" and how she was disciplined for talking too much as a child.

Then, as the death sentence was read, came her video obit. The dissolve transition from her initial audition of "I'm Telling You I'm Not Going" to her later performance of that same song was beautifully done. But it was her blunt admission that "other people have more confidence in Kisha than I have" that struck me. It was honest, almost wounded, but not in the least way pathetic.

I'm not sure that Barry Gibb did much for AI's slightly sagging ratings. He seemed perfectly nice, though not terribly animated. He also had a peculiar speech impediment, as if there was too much spittle building up in the sides of his mouth, and he was locking his jaw in an effort to control it. ("This" turned into "Thish"; "Sparks" turned into "Shparks") One explanation could be corroded saliva ducts. I went to college with an heiress with the same malady.

The wisdom of the judges was dispensed surprisingly equally - ie, it's usually Simon who makes most of the meaningful comments. Not this time.

Randy nailed it when he told Beat Box Blake that his "You Should Be Dancing" sounded like he was in a "discoteque in a foreign country." Brilliant - and it sums up Blake completely.



I once spent a night in a disco in Jakarta, Indonesia. (I was touring in a production of the musical "Grease.") Tanamore was the name of this fleshpot. Dark and mysterious, the room was crisscrossed with catwalks, across which tiny-footed hustlers and hookers minced - indentured sex slaves kept on short leashes by their menacing pimp. (Think Oddjob, the thug from Goldfinger.) Paunchy European ex-pats prowled, skulked around, brandishing mai tais, their pockets bulging with rupiah to pay for their fun. The Abba music blared, more cover for the unholy purchases being consummated. Even the smoke emanating from machines seemed diabolical, insidiously curling around every pole and cage grating.

The whole place pulsated with a sick energy. All you could see were the big blinking eyes of the underage Asian sex workers. All you could feel were the cold sweaty gropes of aging Europeans. The place was sheer evil ... and perfect for Blake.

I've never trusted Blake. From the beginning his beat boxing seemed like a cheap ploy, the Morrissey sound second-rate mod, the "seductive" grin on his face barely rising to the level of bad porn. Then came his interview with People magazine where he complained about being "sexually frustrated" and where he said with a sleazy wink, "A tour could be fun" - a transparent call for tweenaged groupies.

Seeing Blake last night in his Nehru jacket, I saw an aspiring Kurtz-like cult leader. He doesn't want to be an American Idol. He'd be much happier as the Idol of his own jungle kingdom (Laos?), ruling over an army of the young and defenseless, far beyond the reach of American law and values. Sound the Amber Alert now. Blake's on the loose.

(Oh, and might I add that "This is Where I Came In," his second selection, is not only a crappy song. It's got the clunkiest title ever.)

Before tonight I'd grown weary of the American Idol death ritual: the Video Obit of the "journey" beginning with the contestant looking pallid and pimply (i.e., pre-makeover), singing a capella at the first audition... Simon looking pensive, maybe saying something cryptic before announcing "Welcome to Hollywood" ... then a tedious sequence of celebrity mentor hugs. (J. Lo really put on her best big sister act with all the embracing. Tony Bennett, not surprisingly, came off the most genuinely, with a dignified handshake for the men, hug for the women.)

All set to the overwrought "I'm Going Home." (The cruelest joke that could be played on me posthumously would be playing that song at my funeral. I'm amending my will to stipulate that there will be no Chris Daughtry music at my memorial.)

The group hug at the end of the song that the terminated contestant is forced to reprise is equally cloying, along with the declarations of lifelong friendship among the survivors. Give me a break. After this summer's tour, they'll all be at each other's throats. Chris and Blake will be battling over the same tween groupies. Chris Sligh will reconnect with his Bob Jones fundamentalist past and start relentlessly proselytizing, determined to "save" Sanjaya. A desperate Haley Scarnato will try to sleep with Clive Davis. And the constant crying of LaKisha's baby Brionne on the tour bus will only ratchet up the stress. (Will AI provide an au pair for Brionne? LaKisha should start lobbying now.)

Tonight's AI was teeming with surprises:

It started with the appearance in the audience of AI erotica star Antonella Barba. For those of you with short memories, Barba was voted off the show weeks after racy photos of her surfaced on the internet. Interesting factoid: some of the pix were taken at the fountain of DC's National World War II memorial, with Barba in a wet t-shirt. I've always wanted to ask Barba why she chose that monument. Was this her tribute to the Greatest Generation? Or was it a protest against what is undoubtedly the National Mall's ugliest monument?

Gina Glocksen, the season's "resident rocker" (an annoying label) was in the audience, though that was predictable.

LaKisha's performance of "This Ain't A Love Song" was a pleasant surprise, though I'm not sure it warranted a kiss from Simon. (If this were May it would have been Paula who kissed LaKisha. Lesbian kisses are a TV Sweeps Season staple.) I'm always glad when LaKisha has family in the audience. She needs all the support she can get. This time it was "LaKisha's Cousins."

I'm going on Fox TV's "Mike and Juliet Show" this morning to discuss Idol. Here's what I'm thinking right now:

The contestants are getting desperate.

Chris Richardson's post-performance tantrum about how he really meant to sing "nasal" was embarrassing - and his invoking the tragedy at Virginia Tech was inappropriate. Yes, the camera caught Simon rolling his eyes at Chris. Although Simon clearly was not rolling his eyes at the tragedy, this could prove to be a costly camera move. The producers obviously swept in for damage control and asked Simon to express his own sorrow later in the show. It was an awkward moment.

LaKisha's latest mention about how difficult life is raising Brionne as a single mom is pushing it. I have always been a LaKisha fan and when Martina McBride lavished praise on her, I was excited. Unfortunately, when Jesus took the wheel this time, the car careened out of control. (Worse than Eddie Griffin in that Ferrari.)

As for Sanjaya, the Willie Nelson/Isaac Mizrahi doo-rag was a disappointment. It was a stunt and a shameless pander to the VFTW/Howard Stern crowd. Last week Sanjaya made a valiant and successful attempt to sing well. He was headed toward a coup, bucking the cynics who scoffed at him. Now we're not sure who Sanjaya is: Is he the guy who really wants to be an American Idol and prove himself? Or is he the jaded jokester, willing to debase himself to stay in this competition? Is he Mario Lopez ... or is he Dustin Diamond?

I feel vindicated now that Simon has called Melinda on her "Who, me?" shy act.

I'm a huge fan of Martina McBride's and look forward to her performance tonight. I expect we'll all have shpilkes in our geneckteckessoink. (Until last night Kinky Friedman was the only country singer to use the word "verklempt.")

UPDATE: I just returned from the Fox "Mike and Juliet" Idol panel. It included Season Three's Jasmine Trias (very charming) and Food Network's Paula Deen (very "country"). Outside the studio Paula wore a floor-length fur coat. Raccoon? (Presumably she spit roasted whatever animal she killed for that thing.) Jasmine was surprisingly outspoken on the subject of ethnocentric American Idol voting. She asserts that she went as far as she did by galvanizing the Polynesian vote. I pointed out that she was the only thing residents of Guam and American Samoans (two groups which historically have hated each other) could both agree to like.

[The following is an analysis of Tuesday's show. For my commentary on Wednesday's Results Show, click here.]

This was one of those episodes where everyone came out looking better. For me it started with Access Hollywood, where the troubled Ashley Ferl (last week's crying girl) was given a makeover. They hooked her up with with Lindsay Lohan's stylist and a makeup artist. By the time they finished tarting her up, she'd gone from looking like Jodie Foster in "Nell" to Jodie Foster in "Taxi Driver." (I think that's an improvement.)

I was skeptical of Gwen Stefani as coach - what with the over-the-top introductory infomercial - and the night's very nebulous theme (music that's inspired Gwen Stefani?). But I fell in LOVE with her by the end. She was warm to the contestants, clear in her advice and quite prescient. (She knew Chris would have trouble with tempo.) She's obviously very smart. She knows that maintaining a remote and icy hipster image would only leave her stalled in the 90s. Being nice is "now."

Quick takes: Haley disappointed with True Colors, though she looked luscious. Like a really hot hostess at Houston's. (Houston's by the way has an amazing Spinach and Artichoke Dip. Click here for the recipe.) Phil Stacey was only okay, though his wife seems very nice. She looks like Mary Lynn Rajskub from "24." Blake was very good. The camera held on his last exchange with Gwen, I suppose to suggest that they slept with each other afterward. That may account for Paula's rabid enthusiasm after his performance. (Don't be fooled, she's competitive.) Chris Richardson was kind of boring. In theory I like his "Friday Night Lights" grit but in reality it's just flat.

Tonight was a particularly rich episode of A.I. So many subtexts.

I was, of course, deeply disturbed by Ashley - the sad young girl in a constant state of near breakdown. She was meant to evoke the hysterical bobbysoxers who screamed for the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Instead she came off as a troubled loner, unsocialized, unhinged. Like a young version of Jodie Foster's raised-by-wolves character in "Nell." Where are her parents? Perhaps she doesn't even know.

The truth is, she looked at moments like Elizabeth Smart. Why was she crying so much? Is an Amber Alert in order? (You can watch a video of her reaction at the bottom of this post.)

In the past I've used this column to criticize American parents' tendency to over-medicate their children. But in a case like this, I believe it is the responsiblity of the state to step in and take control. Ashley is a symbol of the sad isolation of America's youth and the deliquency of its parenting. Watching her break from reality play out on television will hopefully start an important conversation.



Like most Americans I was made uncomfortable by the tension between Simon and coach Peter Noone, which almost boiled over when Noone pointedly said that this "is not a singing competition." He went on to essentially say that mean Brits (like Simon) come over to the U.S., because they aren't wanted in the U.K.

I was favorably predisposed toward Noone - and resisted calling him "Peter No One" - because, well, I met him when I was 13 years old. I was in a community theater production of Pirates of Penzance and when a professional production of the same musical starring Noone came through Washington, D.C., our whole cast went backstage to meet him.

After his insolence towards Simon tonight, though, I am no longer a fan.

Now for the performances: