Tyro Mania

So “American Idol” has been beating up the big boys in the TV ratings.

What is it about this show, this round-robin tournament of abasement, this schnooks’ gallery of deluded wannabes singing karaoke-of-the-damned, this flesh-crawling cast of judges--the crypto-poncy Simon Cowell, canned black man Randy Jackson and

the overwrought and labile Paula Abdul? What is it about “Idol” that more than 30 million Americans can’t live without it?

I’ll tell you straight up and without sarcasm, I love “Idol.” I mean it. Like a lot of people in the post-grad, post-ironic demographic, I long avoided the show because it seemed at a distance so self-evidently unwholesome, another reality TV spectacle of schadenfreude, except that instead of eating handfuls of locusts, contestants have to sing Creed or some such rubbish.

And then I started watching. I could feel the hook sink in my jaw. “American Idol” has been reeling me in ever since.

The possibility that “Idol” is not just entertaining but worthy of a deeper admiration simply does not compute in a lot of heads. After the show skated past the Olympics, a fair number of lamentations appeared suggesting that, in the face of the noble spirit of the Olympics, the success of “Idol” illustrates our culture’s pathological obsession with celebrity and appetite for televised blood in the sand.

There was a similar burst of perplexity when “Idol” beat up the Grammy broadcast. How could a bunch of misbegotten amateurs--such as Terrell and Derrell Brittenum, the diva-esque twins who were kicked off the show after they were arrested for identity theft-- outdraw U2, Mariah Carey and Coldplay?

In this newspaper’s op-ed section, author Thomas de Zengotita theorized that the popularity of “Idol” reflected the onset of the “virtual revolution,” a pervasive self-publicizing impulse (blogs, chat rooms, MySpace.com) that has ordinary people “demanding a share of the last scarce resource in the overdeveloped world--attention.”

This is a grand bit of pop culture hermeneutics, and it’s just bull. “Idol” is a talent show, an amateur singing contest, no better and no worse--and no more driven by digital culture--than the “Original Amateur Hour,” which ran on radio and then on television almost uninterrupted from 1934 until 1970. Were “The Gong Show” and “Star Search” also manifestations of the virtual revolution?

In fact, it’s the celebration of amateurism that makes “Idol” so compelling; conversely, it was the Olympics’ semi-pro vibe that made the Winter Games so farcical and forgettable.

How’s this for a mind-blowing concept: “Idol” suggests not the dearth of talent in mere civilians but the extraordinary, life-affirming abundance of it. Every one of the 24 finalists could sing passably enough to make a living at it, in bar bands or wedding-reception combos. Hey, a gig’s a gig. And a few of them--people like Ace Young, Elliott Yamin, Katharine McPhee, Chris Daughtry--are astounding vocalists who by rights would have recording contracts and big houses in the Hollywood Hills already but for the vagaries of the entertainment industry.

Far from polishing the almighty pedestal of celebrity, “Idol” takes a wrecking ball to it. Here is proof that pop stars are not so unapproachably special and rare that they deserve to be worshipped. People just as talented and just as worthy may be shelving your library books or cold-calling you for newspaper subscriptions or cleaning your pool. It turns out we’re a pretty gifted species, Homo sapiens cinderellus.

The viewers are always right. Take the first round of eliminations, in which hottie Becky O’Donohue was summarily booted after a wobbly rendition of Patti Smith’s “Because the Night.” In the real world, O’Donohue might have confidently relied on her looks to protect her. On “Idol,” the babe gets the hook. Justice is served. “Idol” is a handy illustration of the group acumen James Surowiecki wrote about in his book “The Wisdom of Crowds.”

Obviously, “Idol” has its limitations. The music is soulless and synthetic, often borderline tragic (Bobby Bennett was shown the door in the first round after singing Barry Manilow’s “Copacabana”). If a Bob Dylan, Neil Young or Billie Joe Armstrong had gone in for one of the show’s regional auditions, he might have received no more respect than William “She Bangs” Hung.

And, of course, the regional auditions are freak shows. I especially loved the guy who sang “Believe” like Cher on Haldol. And yet I find cause for optimism in even these vignettes. There’s something peculiarly inspiring about a tin-eared, talentless person storming out of the audition room in a huff. Just you wait and see! One day, you’ll be sorry!