It is meant as a rhetorical question with the implied answer of “Nothing.” However there is a long pause and then John Cleese’s colleagues in the People’s Front of Judea begin to list the many positive legacies of the Roman Empire.
If we ask, “What has Simon Cowell ever done for us?” we find ourselves undergoing the same process, although the question might be more authentic if we ask what he’s done for the old fashioned concept of ‘showbusiness’
Cowell is an intriguing figure. There’s a shield around his personality. Analysts could spend hours pondering on the meaning of the flappy grey t-shirt and its brother in arms, the dazzling, split to the bosom, white shirt; the ‘Princess Diana’ head down and eyes looking up expression; the square hair.
Simon Cowell owns evening television at the weekend. From the first, bottle of water in hand, “Hello guys” as he steps from the limousine, to the final, “Well, it’s been a tiring week” departure, he rules your television. Even if you don’t watch X Factor, he’s still there, in command, in Wembley, despite your valiant and bold move to watch Discovery Shed.
Curiously, if I put you on the spot and ask you to name the (to date) six winners of the UK version, I think you’ll struggle. X Factor has the same coat of paint as Big Brother – when you’re in it and on it, you’re big news. As soon as you’re back on the street, you become one of us again, and the paint peels faster than Steve Brookstein’s career path.
Yet, like Big Brother, if you have genuine talent, and a capacity to listen to good advice, you can grasp at the flicker of the spotlight for longer than Shayne Warne or Leon Jackson. Alexandra Burke and Leona Lewis are very good singers indeed, and would, almost certainly, have never been heard without the re-invention of ‘audition tv’.
In the early stages of the mass try-outs, X Factor is the equivalent of those ‘stack ‘em high, sell ‘em cheap’ pound shops that proliferate in Britain’s High Streets. It is at this point that Cowell does us the biggest favour (there are other judges, but they, and each of the contenders, defer to Cowell; the ‘singers’ and us at home really only want to hear what Simon has to say) because, happily, he has an aversion to that dreadful style of performance that many pub singers and karaoke warblers believe is mandatory to prove their professionalism.
That anguished ‘living the song’ face; the dropped knee; the pacing; and worst of all, the ‘ooch, ouch, red hot microphone’ thing. This technique involves the vocalist treating the microphone as if it were a particularly nuclear McDonald’s apple pie. The singer tootles the mike around in their fingers, unable to let go, but equally unable to bear the pain of simply holding the damn thing.
It must be something handed down through the generations. A kind of Frankie Vaughan, Kathy Kirby, 1950s legacy. Simon spots them as soon as they bound on to the stage with their barely suppressed “Hello London!” He tells them they are out of date and out of time. There are tears, or perhaps a declamation that (and this is always an amusing moment) Simon doesn’t understand how hard they’ve worked, or how long they’ve had a residency at the pub.
The ‘old’ style way of getting a recording deal is dead. It helps if you can sing or play an instrument (efficiently) but the essential facet is to be visible, to be seen, and to be memorable. Yeah, yeah, YouTube, MySpace and whatever, may just help you a bit, but who knows you’re there? No, I mean apart from your Facebook friends?
At worst, a memorable appearance on X Factor will generate a couple of years’ worth of gigs on the cruise ship between Portsmouth and Santander, or fifty seater pubs in Dorset.
At best, well... Leona Lewis has been nominated for three Grammys, and her debut album has sold 6.5 million copies worldwide.
We don’t need a crystal ball or tarot cards to predict that this ‘search for a star’ style of television programme is currently peaking, and that audiences will begin to drift and look for something new. Talent shows flitter in and out of the ratings on a cyclical basis, but for the moment, on weekend evenings, keep your Twitter feed fired up, the kettle on standby, and your set tuned to ITV – because Simon Cowell owns your television.
Terence Dackombe, October 2010
