The Good Men Project

A Real Idol

I went to the American Idol finale at gun-point, or so I was prepared to claim to any friends and colleagues who had spotted me on TV in the audience. (Of course, to ask me about my presence at the Nokia Theater would have been an act of self-incrimination, an admission by the inquirer that he or she was among the 23 million philistines who watched the show.)

The truth is my ticket to the finale was the result of a philanthropic endeavor that culminated amid financial chaos.  The event, a charity auction for the pediatric care unit at Mass General Hospital organized by my wife months in advance, occurred the week after Lehman Brothers went under.  When it came time to bid on the lot containing the Idol tickets, a package that under any other circumstances would have put a substantial dent in the funds needed to help save critically ill babies, my wife’s paddle went up and remained aloft out of loyalty to the cause. But once the gavel had dropped on her bid, there was no question: We were going to the show.

So months later, I found myself on a flight from Boston to L.A.  If this were a reality show, here is where I would step in front of the confessional camera and admit my real reason for wanting to shun the Idol finale. It wasn’t snobbery; it was fear. I had heard that in-person exposure to Simon Cowell might very well cause my brain to be sucked instantaneously out through my eye sockets.  To prepare for the finale I had watched hour after hour of Idol on TiVo, taking breaks for fresh air to build up my immunity to Paula’s indecipherable drivel. “I went to Wesleyan,” I kept repeating to myself on the flight.  “I cannot be brainwashed by these evil spirits.”

As an Allison fan I had trouble choosing a favorite between crooked-smile Kris and Adam, the blond and freckled boy-next-door-gone-heavy-metal-Goth, complete with tongue-enhanced screams.  My plan was to maintain a clinical distance from the proceedings by wearing my Ray Allen Celtics jersey–to remind the locals of game 4 of last year’s NBA Finals–and tweet my friends back home about the insanity as it played out in front of me.  But the sign at the red-carpeted entrance to the theater stated: “No logos, no beach balls, no skate boards, no weapons, no cameras, no cell phones and no pdas.”  I’d have to go in naked and actually pay attention to the show.

I was shocked at the cavernous size of the theater, all lit up with blue Idol lights for the occasion. We sat 25 rows back from the stage, on the right side of the theater, just over Simon’s left shoulder.  At 5 pm local time, Ryan took the stage to begin the show, and I would be lying if I told you that my heart wasn’t beating out of my chest.  There’s nothing like seeing a national spectacle in person and up close.  The thought crossed my mind that I had found my way to our version of Rome’s Coliseum to witness the gladiators. I still wasn’t sure I liked it, but here I was, close enough to whisper my complaint into the Emperor’s left ear.   And I couldn’t deny the symbolic power of what transpired.

Listening to Keith Urban, a man who has found his way to an authentic life while being a star, sing with Kris early on in the show, I asked myself the question, “Is this art?”  And as I looked around I realized that America has decided that it most definitely is.  Across the country, men, women and children from all walks of life had given serious consideration to what they found to be a moving performance. Idol might be pop culture, but in a way it represents a cultural renaissance.  Kids were being taught that they could have an artistic opinion and, more than that, they can aspire to be artists themselves, with a voice and sensibility all their own.  Then Steve Martin came on stage to play his banjo with great sincerity, and my high-minded train of thought momentarily vanished.

But the performances kept coming, pairing huge stars such as Cindy Lauper and the band Kiss with Allison and Adam, people who were complete unknowns just a couple months ago.  In the end, though, it wasn’t the amazing lineup of acts that turned me around; it was the small moments that showed just how these handful of lives had been transformed, and us with them.

Consider Adam’s reaction when, despite his superior talent, America voted for the safer singer:  He was thrilled for his friend and competitor.  And then there was Kris, who, when he had finished the final song of the night, stood dumbfounded on the little stage behind the judges.  His wife made her way through the throng to her husband, and then the couple turned away from the camera, cheek-to-cheek, and hugged in a way that only those truly in love do.

At the after-party, I ran into Michael Johns, another thinking man’s singer from last year’s Idol finale, who was standing by himself.  I asked him what it was like to sing on that massive Nokia stage.  He looked me in the eye and said, “You kinda get used to it, but you still shit yourself every time.”  His answer offered a window into what it is like to go, overnight, from being one of us to being a star–while remaining true to yourself.

In the end, I had nothing but mad love for the Idol finale.  The performances of Adam and Kris and Michael Johns–and the show as a whole–gave me a momentary break from the war in Afghanistan, from global warming, and from securitized mortgages leading to the death of wide swaths of the economy.  No one was shot on the show.  No one used foul language. And sex was in the distant background (except when bikini girl came on stage only to be out sung by Kara).  In short, the show was good, clean fun–soothing even, if that term can describe an annoying Brit and his hand-picked group of foils.  And it beat the hell out of reality.