rockstar - supernova

i don’t know how many of you watch ‘rockstar – supernova’. a brand new american idol wannabe that so desperately wants to be seen as its inverse. the resurgence of the dark against the light. while the contestants in ‘american idol’ pander to what they assume are the tastes of ‘middle america’ – clichés of love and loss sung in a bombastic fashion and/or covers of so called “classic” pop anthems by pop iconic divas of both genders, in rockstar the target audience wears dirty t-shirts leather and blue jeans.

in ‘rockstar’ a supergroup is assembled from the leftover remains of defunct rock bands who vanished even before the death of rock at the hands of teen pop and hip hop. these icons (as they are manufactured for us by being reminded every two minutes on the show by another such leftover who seems to have found a second vocation as reality tv host and a chick in designer bondage chic) lounge about, legs on top of tables in true rockstar style and pretend to evaluate the talent of a bunch of lead singer wannabes.

the contestants belt out that particular brand of music that comes from a handbook of easy-to-use rock. the right names are bandied about; the songs that are sung have now all moved from being great to being ‘legendary’ ; or come from that school of soft core ‘bryan adams with guitar and soulful eyes (and longer hair)’ brand of what passes as rock. tonic, coldplay, keane.. the goo goo dolls.. basically ballads with guitar.

legitimacy must come from what passes off as ‘authenticity’ through trite phrases declaring homilies like ‘being true to yourself’, ‘expressing oneself’, ‘finding my own voice’. angst and rebellion are displayed like calling cards during a performance, and disappear as soon as it is over to reveal eager to please teenagers in fancy dress looking for approval of their particular brand of impersonation.

since the studio audience entirely made up of groupie-like girls looks doe eyed at the men and goes all 'girl-power' at the women, they might as well be enrique inglesias and the spice girls.

at the end of it all your rock credentials end up in the number and kind of body piercing your have and not so much your much vaunted passion for the music – or even what it means for you. did i mention that hardly any one of the singers actually can sing? and those who can ham the act till it hurts. image is after all everything – this is television.