A Plea: David Archuleta Needs To Win “American Idol”
Damn you, Cooksuckers! A miracle of a man is standing before you, and you’re asking for more oatmeal instead. David Cook beating David Archuleta would be the most grievous public decision since Bush beat Kerry, if not since Barabbas beat Jesus. Do you really prefer lame rock over good schmaltz? Would you rather listen to Nickelback than “Can You Feel The Love Tonight”? This is a kid that sings like James Ingram, but looks like Fievel! David Archuleta is exactly the kind of circus act that should win America’s Best Whatevs in the absence of anything genuinely enjoyable, while David Cook is Daughtry with more hair and less charisma. Sure, Cook gets teary-eyed after his performances, but while he’s singing he looks like he’d enjoy nothing more than a body-sized mirror with a hole in it. Archie, on the other hand, is squinting, panting, and crooning for you.
David Archuleta brought it to the finals. Molten hot! Hot! Fire!
David’s dad made him sing “You’re The Voice,” and on his own accord, he sang Chris Brown’s “With You,” unconsciously wiggling his ass. Both more acceptable than Our Lady Peace.
Unlike his opponent, David Archuleta never revealed just how crappy a song “Baba O’Riley” is when it’s stripped of its keyboard hook.
I’d blame Cook for his interpretation of “Billie Jean” as well, but really, that’s Chris Cornell’s fault.
David Archuleta is a wittle mouse who likes to pretend he’s Vanessa Carlton.
Awwwww. Don’t you just want to put him in a shoebox with a little blanket?
As the career of Daughtry proves, David Cook doesn’t need the Idol crown to join all the other candy-ass yarlers who make me wish Eddie Vedder had suffered a lethal surfing accent soon after recording “Hunger Strike.” (I don’t want to imagine life without “Hunger Strike.”) I’ve even caught myself referring to the sound as “Cook Rock” lately, reaffirming how easily he’d slipped into the tepid world of rock/adult contemporary crossover. Archuleta’s magic is a more fragile thing, one that requires a royal handle in order that he may some day walk with cartoon animals. Yes, he may wind up a resentful queen like Clay Aiken. Perhaps his relationship with his father will send himself spiraling downward into chemicals and squalor. But when he sang “Smoky Mountain Memories” during Dolly Parton week, I watched the story of every child performer whose family depended on their modest talents brought to bittersweet life.
Not that I voted. (Just saying.)