Tuesday, February 17, 2009 at 8:30:00 AM EST
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It is the end of another year of American Idol auditions, and, conversely, a grateful end to the weeks long Scud missile assault on the myth of the sangin’ queen. This American myth has been an enduring one and a perennial favorite for those who like to believe every choir loft, glee club and Broadway chorus line is lined with preternaturally talented homosexual men. “Voice for days” is one of the few perceived benefits that come with the otherwise socially accursed gay gene. Akin to other innate talents like color coordination, choreography and the empathic ability to offer PhD level relationship counseling to straight girls in crisis, the belief that queens—like Negroes—need only open their mouths and magical melodies in perfect pitch sweeten the air has kept us in reverence and straight male hateration for centuries.
Then here comes American Idol carting out a parade of rainbow children who wouldn’t know a chromatic scale if it came gift-wrapped on Terrell Owens’ buns. Day after day for weeks on end it seems that every squalling boy who ever pranced in the mirror mimicking Mariah and Whitney on his mother’s hairbrush has the chutzpah to try their hand at authorial renditions of Neyo, Stevie Wonder, Otis Redding, and –gulp—Michael Jackson. They try octave jumps and gospel “runs” when they haven’t bothered to learn fundamentals like pitch, placement or just being somewhere in the vicinity of a song’s original melody line. Yet, they stand before a barely composed Simon, Paula, Randy and Kara, triumphant in the knowledge that falling confetti, placard-pumping fans, and a puerile #1 anthem about overcoming adversity are all just months from their grasp.
When met with blistering truths about their lack of vocal acumen, they first appear to not quite comprehend the magnitude of the judges’ comments. They blink away the waves of criticism, holding fast to the myth. Wondering when their fairy dust was going to settle in Cowell’s ears to hide those missed arpeggios, they appear as confounded and wide-eyed as George W. receiving curiously calamitous news in a kindergarten.
Then it sinks in: their hair “product,” generous helping of clear MAC gloss, Jackie-O shades, and calculated casual, 80s chic ensemble will not get them a yellow-ticket to Hollywood, much less a spread in W. “Tone deaf, you say? But…but, that can’t be true. I’m a homo! I am song!” they say to themselves before digging in their heels to defend the honor and one of the few social privileges of fairies everywhere. Ah, but first there is a little thing called begging left to do.
Genuflecting with the subservience of a Boston nun, they grovel for a chance at another song to wreck. After all, they’re fabulous! Who cares about such pesky details like singing and talent when you have a bonafide idol right in your midst? When kindly reproached for wanting to further damage America’s delicate eardrums and the Legend of Sangin’ Queer, they begin to turn nasty. The sunshades drop down on pressed-powdered noses, hand land defiantly on hips, and the neck begins to roll as they begin to tell judges in the voice of Foxy Love that it is they who are tone deaf! They who are robbing America of the best stars since Barry Manilow, Johnny Mathis, Liberace, and that Grande Dame himself, Clay Aiken!
Kicking platform heels in the air as security drags away lithe, writhing frames, shouting contraltos (ah, yes, there’s that high note!) they utter poxes on the houses of A.I.’s Fantastic Four. The door closes behind their last curse on Paula’s weave, and America is left with a horrible, sobering truth: All Queens Can’t Sing. OMG, what’s next: All Black Men Can’t Jump? “Dayum, now what are we suppose to do with Little Ray Ray singing Rihanna in Mama’s mirror?”
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