I Come Not to Bury Simon, But to Praise Him

Apologies to Shakespeare (and unscripted television haters), but based on last night's premiere, season seven of American Idol looks pretty good... and sounds even better.

I'm assuming I don't need to detail the show – if you don't know, you prolly don't read this blog. What's encouraging about these auditions (so far) is that the producers seem less fascinated with the seamy underbelly of attention-starved America and more interested in creating compelling stories about singers.

Oh sure, we met the misguided Gen Yers who've been told that they can do anything! Even be a star! Don't let anyone tell you different! Even people who know a lot more about singing than you do! Plus the hideous losers who still crave their proverbial fifteen minutes even if that time is spent laughing at them. And the sad cases of hopefuls who desperately want to validate their existence by winning a contest they have no business entering.

But we also met singers who – get this – can sing. Rather than parade an endless procession of increasingly awful freaks in front of us, the cameras actually swung around to track endearing Olympics-style stories that turn these kids into characters.

Finally, the judges are in good form. Bear in mind that good form for Randy is incoherent patter (now delivered from behind an odd pair of muttonchops). And Paula sticks to her I Heart Everyone guns, but Simon seems to have put his pistols away. Or at least clicked the safety on, reserving the real rancor for the people who deserve it – unfunny fame whores dying to degrade themselves on a national stage.

So we'll see - traditionally I tire of the auditions pretty quickly, but as last year they outdrew the finale, they're not going anywhere anytime soon. Here's hoping they continue along this plotline path.