CHOOSING BETWEEN BARREL-SCRAPINGS: Rockstar: Supernova's consolation night
Wednesday nights on Rockstar: Supernova are reserved for the consolation race. The "consies," as we used to call them at the Schoentown and Fredericksburg, PA, dirt race tracks in the late 60's, were for the worst of the worst. If your car finished in the bottom three of all the qualifying races, you were swept into the "consy," where you had a chance to stay alive and qualify for the final.
The "consies" were for going to the concession stand for drinks and popcorn. No one gave a shit about the barrel-scrapers.
Logically, all three barrel-scrapers from Tuesday's Supernova should have been sent home. Their performances tonight were not good and the band, as usual, was right in there with them.
A thin blonde woman was sent home for the sin of wretchedness. She was obviously out of her element and her performance was energetic but pitilessly annoying. The crowd cheered, as usual.
You know the reason why.
This live audience is hand-picked and coached so it would cheer Winnie the Pooh singing "Back in Black" by AC/DC. Even the Beatles occasionally took crap in America.
When she was ejected she took the mike, gave an ineloquent speech about Supernova being a good experience for her, and cried. There's no crying allowed for being told you suck at rock and roll.
On Tuesday night, a kid who performed a James Taylor-ized version of a Nirvana tune should have been banished to the showers on the spot. His hair is wrong. He looks like a small boy scout adorned with modest jewelry, thin and without thud or weight, lacking in anything that could be said to resemble a rock and roll backbone, a style of hard pop music no reasonable person would believe he likes.
And there is no way he could possibly front a band of any hard rock neanderthals, let alone one with old members of Motley Crue and Metallica. Pathetic isn't really a strong enough word to describe him. But "pathetic" must also be shared with the producers and judges who've allowed him into the competition for the purpose of perpetrating a sham that works as dramatic spice.
So he did another Nirvana tune and clung to the branch extended him by the judges.
The centerpiece of the night was Dana, a big girl whose face wrinkles up in a pout when she's slightly dissed by her peers. They and the judges tell her they know she's beautiful and that she has a great voice. It's standard American meaningless flattery in place of a suitably humorous and supercilious putdown. Dana's voice is fair to good and she's a bit plump with baby fat, too husky and pink to be in with the members of Supernova, who -- by definition -- must be obsessed with image.
But Dana did have the horse sense to choose a funky 70's-style blooz rock hump to sing to and it's the first time Dick Destiny blog has heard choice in material that matched the professed theme of the TV show. Dana was acceptable in the way Bette Midler was a "rock singer" in the movie, "The Rose." Dick Destiny blog knows that smartest member of Supernova, and least well known, Gilby Clarke, also knows this. (Clarke actually has recently worked with people who do rock, producing Crash Kelly's new Electric Satisfaction, which you can read about here. )
Tommy Lee is dubbed the "hatchet man" because he delivers the bad news to the disqualified. He says how much he hates this and says "Hi guys" to the losers, over and over. He's naturally oily and packs all the imagination and elan of a good-looking mushroom in a pink fuzzy dinner jacket, which is what he was wearing.
Over and over the judges tell the audience, the cameras and the contestants that they want people to "bring it." As in "bring" the rock. As if you can manufacture "rock" which is something, many will tell you, being akin to trying to pick spilled mercury off the floor.
The ex-rockstar judges utter the "bring it" exhortation so much it sounds like half-time in a high school lockerroom where the team being hectored will find a way to snatch defeat from victory, no matter what. So do some warm-ups, boys and girls. Out on the track with you for extra laps and calisthenics. Get down and give us twenty push-ups, slimey scumbags, or shoot rock and roll steroids.
Dick Destiny blog nailed it on Monday here, so have a read if you're late to the demolition.
Wednesday nights on Rockstar: Supernova are reserved for the consolation race. The "consies," as we used to call them at the Schoentown and Fredericksburg, PA, dirt race tracks in the late 60's, were for the worst of the worst. If your car finished in the bottom three of all the qualifying races, you were swept into the "consy," where you had a chance to stay alive and qualify for the final.
The "consies" were for going to the concession stand for drinks and popcorn. No one gave a shit about the barrel-scrapers.
Logically, all three barrel-scrapers from Tuesday's Supernova should have been sent home. Their performances tonight were not good and the band, as usual, was right in there with them.
A thin blonde woman was sent home for the sin of wretchedness. She was obviously out of her element and her performance was energetic but pitilessly annoying. The crowd cheered, as usual.
You know the reason why.
This live audience is hand-picked and coached so it would cheer Winnie the Pooh singing "Back in Black" by AC/DC. Even the Beatles occasionally took crap in America.
When she was ejected she took the mike, gave an ineloquent speech about Supernova being a good experience for her, and cried. There's no crying allowed for being told you suck at rock and roll.
On Tuesday night, a kid who performed a James Taylor-ized version of a Nirvana tune should have been banished to the showers on the spot. His hair is wrong. He looks like a small boy scout adorned with modest jewelry, thin and without thud or weight, lacking in anything that could be said to resemble a rock and roll backbone, a style of hard pop music no reasonable person would believe he likes.
And there is no way he could possibly front a band of any hard rock neanderthals, let alone one with old members of Motley Crue and Metallica. Pathetic isn't really a strong enough word to describe him. But "pathetic" must also be shared with the producers and judges who've allowed him into the competition for the purpose of perpetrating a sham that works as dramatic spice.
So he did another Nirvana tune and clung to the branch extended him by the judges.
The centerpiece of the night was Dana, a big girl whose face wrinkles up in a pout when she's slightly dissed by her peers. They and the judges tell her they know she's beautiful and that she has a great voice. It's standard American meaningless flattery in place of a suitably humorous and supercilious putdown. Dana's voice is fair to good and she's a bit plump with baby fat, too husky and pink to be in with the members of Supernova, who -- by definition -- must be obsessed with image.
But Dana did have the horse sense to choose a funky 70's-style blooz rock hump to sing to and it's the first time Dick Destiny blog has heard choice in material that matched the professed theme of the TV show. Dana was acceptable in the way Bette Midler was a "rock singer" in the movie, "The Rose." Dick Destiny blog knows that smartest member of Supernova, and least well known, Gilby Clarke, also knows this. (Clarke actually has recently worked with people who do rock, producing Crash Kelly's new Electric Satisfaction, which you can read about here. )
Tommy Lee is dubbed the "hatchet man" because he delivers the bad news to the disqualified. He says how much he hates this and says "Hi guys" to the losers, over and over. He's naturally oily and packs all the imagination and elan of a good-looking mushroom in a pink fuzzy dinner jacket, which is what he was wearing.
Over and over the judges tell the audience, the cameras and the contestants that they want people to "bring it." As in "bring" the rock. As if you can manufacture "rock" which is something, many will tell you, being akin to trying to pick spilled mercury off the floor.
The ex-rockstar judges utter the "bring it" exhortation so much it sounds like half-time in a high school lockerroom where the team being hectored will find a way to snatch defeat from victory, no matter what. So do some warm-ups, boys and girls. Out on the track with you for extra laps and calisthenics. Get down and give us twenty push-ups, slimey scumbags, or shoot rock and roll steroids.
Dick Destiny blog nailed it on Monday here, so have a read if you're late to the demolition.
posted by George Smith at 9:01 PM
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