At its most obvious, American Idol is a wretched phenomenon imported from England that became such because it hit at the right place at the right time in the right way.
A coldly cynical pumped-up "singing contest" complete with sincere contestants, snippy-bitchy judges and the ultimate in audience participation ( after all, the winners are decided by audience vote ) , A.I., broadcast night after night, comes slathered in hype and glitz to such an extent that it's hard to see the real focus; the talent.
That A.I. resembles one of the satiric TV shows featured in Paddy Chayefsky's script for 1976's Network ( "The Howard Beale Show" or "Sybil the Soothsayer" ) or the droll Schwarzenegger actioner The Running Man is obviously lost on a public that should know better. Ironically, the contestants who have made the biggest career splashes—Jennifer Hudson and Chris Daughtry—didn't win, while past winners haven't entirely lived up to all the hype. ( Anyone wanna buy a Taylor Hicks CD? ) On A.I. it's not if you win or lose, but how you sing the song.
Which brings us to Adam Lambert, 2009's runner-up. Squeezed into airtight slacks, and dolled up with eyeliner, nail polish and confidence to spare, he was the best reason to watch the show ever. ( Without him on in the last season, the ratings dropped. ) And to watch him face off with fossilized metal-glam-gods KISS ( a down and dirty "Detroit Rock City?" Oh yeeesssssssssss... ) or take on Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" was a thing of beauty. "Glambert" commanded attention not because of the A.I. hype but despite it; whether you're grooving on his looks or vibe you can't deny the man's got a voice for the ages.
Lambert's glam/androgyny touched off nerves, to be sure—why that conservative backlash catapulted blank/flavorless/pretty-boy Kris Allen to the top spot—while tickling others at the same time. Face it—no other glam-man rocker ever looked so cuddly, comfortable or sexy in his androgynous glammed skin. ( Bowie, George and Mick, take note. ) With his slightly doughy build and mildly cherubic face he's almost pretty, and his cosmetics—theatrical black, for the most part—enhance rather than distract from the package. It's a bit amusing that middle-age mothers and teenage girls flood his website with damp letters of giggly lust. Ashton Kutcher proclaimed on the sitcom, That 70's Show that, "I'm man PRETTY." Someone tell Kutcher, 'Bitch, your number is up.'
But Lambert isn't a big deal because he's hot ( ... and ) , or is incredibly talented ( duuuuhhh ... ) or happily gay, but because he, like the monstrosity that introduced him to millions, hit at the right place in the right time in the right way. Wisely, Lambert didn't come out during the run of the show, saving his revelations for a cover story in Rolling Stone Magazine ( inquiring minds certainly did want to know ... that edition was one of the top sellers in the magazine's 43-year existence ) and his performance on the American Music Awards now seems shrewdly calculated to keep people talking. That smooch with his keyboard player, the go-go boys on leashes and the whole androgynous shebang scandalized everyone by not actually being scandalous at all. The "scandal" wasn't so much about the actions depicted ( the same-sex kiss ) but the reality that they expressed. ( Unlike Brittany and Madonna, Lambert is an out gay man—that kiss was hardly an attention grabbing stunt but a live broadcast of the love that many would prefer stayed un-filmed. ) For him to come out any sooner would have detracted from his talent.
When Gene Simmons, KISS' fire-breathing bassist, said that the gay tag would hurt Lambert, that's when this saga turns into something else entirely. Lambert's debut album, For Your Entertainment ( RCA ) , puts him in an infuriating predicament; being openly gay and a rock and roller doesn't exactly go hand in hand. Though it debuted at the top of Billboard's Hot 100, its sales have been judged as disappointing, which actually says nothing for how good it actually is. The reality is that it's as good and grand as it certainly needs to be but at this point there's no point in talking about the album or A.I. or any and everything that happened before the launch of the "Glam Nation Tour," Lambert's maiden solo voyage. The question isn't who he's aimed at, but who IS Adam Lambert ... and who does his music speak to.
His show at the Horseshoe Casino June 17 answered all those questions in ways that left my head spinning even before Lambert hit the stage. There were several young same-sex couples in the crowd but a majority of the audience was made up of gangs of giggly young women and post-middle-aged suburban couples in polyester. To say that I'd never seen such an extremely varied audience in my life is putting it mildly. ( One youngish long-haired gent with a cane was sporting a vintage Nina Hagan T-shirt while another far more conservative man, probably in his 60s, wanted to know how big a fan of Lambert's I was. )
The "Glam Nation Tour" itself came off like performance art done up as a rock show with a life of its own. Encased in a black shapeless sparkly duster with a matching velvet top hat and enough glitter on his face to telegraph back to the nosebleed seats, Lambert crooned, "Come go with me/Come go with me ... It's my show/baby, do what I say...," and nobody, and I mean nobody in that room dared refuse him. By the time he flung off that cumbersome frock for his dramatic-velvety-tortured-lovely take on Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire," the show had gone beyond being a mere "entertainment.
With dancers, projected digital images and lasers going off nearly non-stop, it was a show that was blocked and choreographed within an inch of its life, which I didn't find surprising. What did surprise me was how easily Lambert picked up the baton of early '70s Bette Midler, combining rock, theater, vaudeville and cabaret into something fresh and new. Back then Midler was so fresh because she took forgotten tropes and refired them with her own personality. Lambert seems to have done the same thing but as a modern upfront out gay man, which—though he was wise to avoid humping on it—is undeniably a political statement.
And that's the revelation of the "right place, right time, right way" equation on Lambert. At a time in history when DADT is clawing its way through congress, the LGBT teen suicide rate is astronomical, HIV still won't go away and the issue of same-sex marriage is violently dividing the nation, Lambert—much like Neil Patrick Harris—is seducing conservatives and liberals alike with sheer queer-ass pizzazz. Intentionally or not, this man is definitely on a mission.
