OK, I have to do a proper wrap up even though I can feel the knots in my shoulders tightening from the thought of it. But let me say just this. It is SUCH A STUPID IDEA. This notion of each week the singers singing in different genres. As if the winner will be expected to do songs in all the different genres when they are.a.star. (even if it’s just for a moment before the cold cold call of the RSL circuit beckons mournfully on the horizon).
That said, there is something very subtle that it shows. How someone can lend their own style to a genre but not sell out. See. Subtle.
These people did an OK job of it:
Ben McKenzie. I can’t remember what he sang because he was wearing the most horrendous t-shirt my temporary blindness affected my memory recall. While his sexual preference has nothing to do with anything, Kyle went way over line with the gay innuendo and let’s cut the kid some slack. He’s SIXTEEN.
Matt Corby. The Teflon Kid. Not much is going to stick to this kid for weeks and it’s not just because of the amount of hair wax he’s applying. He sang something with a heap of falsetto and I reckon he gave it a pretty good whack of the stick. But there are some of us who grew up with Boy George and the wearing of the fedora is just.too.soon. Kinda like if one of them came out in high pants – you know – after the whole Dynamic Hypnotics’ Soul Kinda Feeling. Too soon.
Marty Simpson looked a lot less scared than last week. But apparently he rushed the end, or he fell behind, depending on which judge you listened to. I quite enjoyed his performance but my memory of it is already failing. Next!
Tarisai Vushe sang another big song and pulled it off. I think it was Kyle who said that every week he loves her a little bit more. I think I’m in that camp as well. It is clear from the judges that this is one little ball of enigmatic fun and that all the “I’d just like to say thank you Jesus” happy clapping during the auditions and early rounds were not so much a ruse but a red herring if you will to who she really is. And seriously. If she’s got the happy clapping evangelic bible belt of north-west Sydney behind her, she’ll be in the top three if not one of the final two.
These people tried oh how they tried but you know what, it was ROCK NIGHT. Wearing black and heavy eyeliner just wasn’t going to cut it. WHERE OH WHERE FORE ART THOU ROCK???:
Last year, Sideshow Bobby Flynn, sand exactly the same way every single week and was called mesmering, captivating and other glamour terms that catapulted him to places he would otherwise have never reached in the music machine. For some reason when Carl Risley did the same thing it was called lazy and a cop out. Go figure.
Brianna Carpenter. I lurve her, her quirky hair, her big googly eyes and crazy fashions. But watching her in this competition is fast becoming a train wreck in slow motion. If she lasts this week I’ll eat my proverbial hat (and listen, considering my current WW situation that is not an idle threat).
These people were OK but it was ROCK night. I didn’t see any of these guys even break a sweat, let alone rock on.
Me smells a rat in regard to the whole inclusion of Lana Ja’mie* Kroft.
The judges go too easy on her. This week they even bumped up the backing vocal to make her voice sound bigger. She attempted to punch the air but it was more like a little broken bird trying to fly. Pathetic. My incredulity at her inclusion is fast turning to incredulous anger. Not pretty.
* with a nod to Sam for that excellent analogy.
Cheray Doughty. ROBBED.