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Rock in a hard place
INXS hit a new low picking a winner
BY JAMES PARKER
Related Links

 

INXS' official Web site

Will Spits write about Monoman auditioning for INXS.

How limited a thing is the imagination. I had thought, when it came to reality TV, that nothing could surpass the freakishness of the judges on the last season of America’s Next Top Model. Remember super-bitch Janice Dickinson, her surgically arched face a pure vector of envy for the young modelettes, slagging them off ("You look like a prostitute!") without pity? Or tubby, oiled Nole Marin, internationally renowned stylist, writhing a little in his seat as he squeezed his sac of venom: "I think the face is dead, I don’t like the face at all . . . " I had thought that these vicious and whimsical characters were the last word; no stranger panel of experts could be assembled. Wrong! If you want strange, get yourself the surviving members of a washed-up Australian stadium act whose lead singer hanged himself in 1997. Get yourself Kirk Pengilly, Garry "Gary" Beers, and the three Farriss brothers. Get yourself INXS.

Not that "the guys" — as they were consistently referred to by hostess Brooke Burke — were that strange in themselves, seeming in fact like a fairly amiable bunch of overdressed pub-rockers. But the whole set-up of Rock Star: INXS, the Mark Burnett–created show that wound up its run a week ago Tuesday on CBS, was just so damned peculiar. The hook was this: INXS, having lost golden and globally adored frontman Michael Hutchence, were on the hunt for a replacement. Fifteen contestants — or "rockers" — were moved into a gaping LA mansion from which they were plucked at weekly intervals to perform a number or two for "the guys" in a specially created "rock club" environment: a classic cover tune, and then — if the viewers decreed it with their magic telephones — something from the INXS back catalogue. In the usual way, at the end of each show, someone was sent home. "I’m sorry, you’re just not right for our band INXS." That was the kiss-off line. Not quite as snappy as "You’re fired!" or "The tribe has spoken" or "You are the weakest link," but possessed, you’ll agree, of a certain glum finality.

There’s the concept. Now to the setting. If you ever read or heard Mark Burnett rhapsodize about the visual code behind the "tribal councils" on Survivor — the surrounding jungle blackness, the tribe crouched in candlelit orange, the blue afterworld glow into which the expelled member, his flame quenched, goes obediently trudging — you’ll know that a certain amount of thought goes into the setting. Burnett, a Brit ex-soldier who fought in the Falklands War, has made gazillions with Survivor and The Apprentice, and he knows how to tweak a psyche or two. The subliminal motif, as it were, in Rock Star: INXS seems to have been . . . gladiatorial combat.

To begin with, the glamor-trappings of Brooke Burke — her amulets and belted tunics — set a mood of sci-fi paganism appropriate to bloodsport and end-of-empire entertainments. Then there was the Colosseum-like atmosphere created by the baying studio crowd, which looked to be made up of keenly lustful and possibly drunk middle-aged businesswomen and large, rather nonplussed men. On stage, some sweating hopeful would be hoofing and bellowing his/her way through "Proud Mary" or "Lithium." (The "best" of these numbers have just been released by Epic as Rock Star: A Night at the Mayan Theatre.) To the left, on a sort of tiered platform, the other "rockers" were standing in a loose group, watching with hate-filled eyes, while to the right were the nods of appraisal, the intimate consultations, the tiny-but-devastating shakes of the head that emanated from the members of INXS and the show’s co-host, rockin’ Dave Navarro. These were the judges, enthroned in high-backed and luxuriously upholstered armchairs. Their rock-star-at-rest clothes — exotic fabrics, tinted glasses, a bit of leather — combined with the slightly corrupt, even whorish look that comes over any band who’ve sold 30 million albums gave them the appearance of a gang of robber barons.

If pleased by a "rocker," they might say (to a woman), "Sweetheart, that was beautiful. And by the way, can I point out that you look stunning tonight," or (to a man), "Congratulations, mate. You really let the song breathe . . . " If displeased, or unamused, they’d assume expressions of dreadful sobriety and say something like "I’m just curious, y’know, as to why you chose a song that showcases your weaknesses in the vocal department." As these verdicts were handed down, the face of the performer would be a naked wriggling cross-section of hope and terror, and it was the task of Dave Navarro to palliate the situation, to be a bridge between "the rockers" and "the guys" by calling everyone "dude" and "bro.’ "

Dave Navarro — now there’s a career for you. I mean, yeah, drugs and guitar solos, Jane’s Addiction and the Chili Peppers, whatever . . . it turns out that all of that was mere muddled prelude to the true calling of his life: television. Shot (it appeared) in soft focus throughout the series, his coiffure softly glinting, his gaze brimming with kindly estrogen, Dave on camera had the feline ease of a TV natural. And what a commodity he is for the networks, what a diamond: a fully credentialed, tattoo’d-and-rehabbed alt-rocker, hipper and less addled than Tommy Lee, who can say "Don’t forget, your new Honda Civic includes a navigational system!" (the three finalists all got Civics) without blinking. Buy shares in Dave!

As a musical experience, Rock Star: INXS was a predictable mixed bag. The contestants tended to have backgrounds in musical theater and/or advertising jingles, and most of them sang in the style I’d call "bozo virtuoso" — i.e., a rich, self-adoring vibrato with intermittent grunts and hoots of ersatz soul. But now and again the raw power of karaoke would shine through — Suzie McNeil’s version of "Bohemian Rhapsody" (not on the CD) was as good as anything you’re going to hear at the Courtside, and funky Jordis, her dreads heaped high and turban-like on her head, absolutely killed with Bowie’s "The Man Who Sold the World" (one of the disc’s two "bonus tracks"). In the end, for "the guys," it came down to a choice between Marty — blond, unnerving, prone to fascistic arm gestures — and the more obviously sub-Hutchence J.D., a groin grabber and hammy seducer of crowds. In the final rock-off, each did an INXS song. Marty soared with "Don’t Change" — 1982, heavy new-romantic, Public-Image-meets-A-Flock-of-Seagulls — while J.D. bumped and ground through the hapless porno funk of "What You Need." They chose J.D.

What now for INXS? For a band whose commercial peak was reached — and descended from — even before Hutchence’s death, Rock Star: INXS represents one last cruel yank on the tit of the cash cow. They’re in the studio right now with their new singer preparing an album for November 29 release. The post-show buzz might buy them a hit single, and the phallic bluster of J.D. might sustain them for another year. After that, they’re in for a very different kind of reality — unless, of course, you factor in Rock Star DVD sales.

 


Issue Date: September 30 - October 6, 2005
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