By now, everyone will have agreed that the American Idol
finale was by far the most sensational of them all. I’d like to
recap one most extraordinary moment. Or rather, my take on said
instant.
The awards are given and I am somewhat surprised that such beautiful
trophies have been made and are actually handed out for those
low-grade performances. Couldn’t they have been given out to the 12
finalists for outstanding achievement, or something? Nevertheless,
this kid—Michael Sandecki —who was bashed during his audition, is
handed a trophy for best look-alike, and is then asked to sing. As
the audition reject begins his unlikely rendition, I’m thinking how
nice for him, how nice of AI, and how completely odd, all at the
same time. Until the backdrop is raised, the figure appears and the
crowd goes wild. The kid—none the wiser—assumes the audience is
loving his performance and keeps on singing. The suspense is
staggering.
(Here’s the disclaimer: I am not a fan; I don’t own his CDs
and I haven’t followed his career. Sorry.)
Even with the close up, it takes me a few seconds to recognize him.
His hair is longer, darker. His pale skin is the angelical contrast
that brings his face into full focus. The new look is uncanny yet
striking. Coupled with his phantasmagoric presence, it forewarns of
something untamed and latent; like copper embers willfully subdued,
silently smoldering over this pristine porcelain visage, yet ready
to be set ablaze at the very first vocals with all the passion that
his singing unleashes. Then there’s something about the way he
carries himself—and this unforgettable expression of his—that has me
riveted to my television screen.
With the noble bearing of a prince, Clay Aiken inches towards his
fan—mic in hand. His expression is a radiant and intoxicating mix of
impish playfulness and powerful self-confidence; it accurately
reflects his anticipation of the genuine pleasure of surprising an
admirer, his love of performing, and this underlying intensity—a
hint of seriousness that permeates his commanding presence and keeps
me mesmerized and on the edge of my seat with expectancy. Now,
that’s what I call making an entrance! There is no denying it: his
entire persona exudes raw magnetism. Could it be that,
surreptitiously, this moment has turned the finale into Principality
Aiken, and I’ve become but his humble subject? Whatever it be, my
undivided attention is entirely his. And, quite frankly, I am
floored.
I recall the first time I’d seen him sing. It was on a daytime talk
show—Ellen, as I recall it. Now, if I had enjoyed “Invisible”, I had
been even more charmed by his demeanor, the look of pure joy that
was evident in his eyes in those rare frontal close-ups. There is
something truly magical happening when Clay Aiken makes eye-contact
with the camera. For some reason, his happiness is contagious. I
strongly suspect that that mystical “reason” has everything to do
with the fact that Mr. Aiken is genuine. In fact, the only thing
that I’ve found annoying in his subsequent performances has been the
editing. (What’s up with all those sideways close-ups, really!? )
But coming back to the finale at hand, if Michael Sandecki is
passionate about his idol, it is clear that that love is
reciprocated, and that Clay Aiken fully appreciates his fans. The
mic is finally raised to his lips, as Michael suddenly turns and at
last comes face to face with his true American idol—live and in the
flesh—for the shock of his lifetime, and one of the most delightful
moments in recent TV history. Time-travel-like dissimilarities
notwithstanding, his mirror image has masterfully taken over the
song, and now shakes his hand, as the kid convulses with awe. The
astonishment subsiding and giving way to pure joy, Michael summons
enough self-control to join The Voice he worships for a duet
rendition of “Don’t let the sun go down on me”, making this the true
climax of the finale of American Idol, that not even Prince’s
appearance—or the winner’s announcement for that matter—managed to
eclipse.
As for me, I suspect I’ve become addicted to a moment; the very one
when, as the sheer embodiment of the ultimate charismatic stage
presence, Clay Aiken and that haunting expression of his becomes a
transfusion of happiness in my core. His new look? Love it; simply
love it! However, not having access to Tivo, the next day I found
myself endlessly surfing variety shows for a glimpse, a replay, an
encore of “The Moment”. Yet it’s not enough and I’m already having
acute withdrawal symptoms. I positively need more!
Memo to myself: as soon as feasible, pick up all Clay Aiken CDs and
DVDs. Then will I finally be worthy of bestowing upon myself the
supreme title, that of full-fledged Clay Aiken fan...