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.)

This morning I rushed into my office minutes before an emergency conference call. (A shipment due to arrive in Ft. Wayne was re-routed through Indianapolis for no known reason.) As I swept past my secretary Peggy, I thought I heard her sigh, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." Curious, I thought, but I had no time to respond. Once the call ended (one of our reps drove out to Indy for the pickup), Peggy came in to bring me my coffee.

"What did you mean by "If it ain't broke, don't fix it," Peggy?"
"What do you think?" she countered. "I think Randy Jackson muffed the whole thing up."

An intriguing theory. Peggy's point:

American Idol is a delicate balance - a formula that's worked brilliantly since its beginning. Simon is acerbic, tough and no nonsense. Paula is the wacky mom with a heart of gold. (Simon and Paula are the comic relief, too. The sparring "lovers.") But Randy's role has always been crucial. He's sometimes been characterized as neutral or simply repeating Simon's criticisms in blander terms. Wrong. He has been the all-important straight man, but he's also been the supportive friend - not unconditionally loving like Paula, but constructive. An optimist who realistically looks for the best in each performer. (It's why historically Ryan asks Randy for "advice" for faltering contestants.) For many Americans, he's the point of identification on the panel.

But this season Randy chose to reinvent himself as Simon 2.0. At no point was the new Randy more wincingly mean than after Sanjaya's performance of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough." He was more than mean. He was contemptuous. He called the song "unlistenable" and laughed at Sanjaya, then sneered about his hair. Rather than defend Sanjaya, he stoked the crowd to mock him further.

(Randy should have taken a cue from Diana Ross, a legend who surmounted unparalled hurdles as an African-American. In the video intro, it was clear that Ross could sympathize with the special pressures faced by Sanjaya, AI's first Indian-American finalist.)

Peggy is convinced that the backlash that has now brought AI to the brink began at that moment. Sanjaya was defenseless before the mob.

"I half expected the crowd to yell 'We want Barabbas!'" said Peggy. "And Randy was weaker than Pontius Pilate."