I don’t know about you, but this year the
X-Factor feels decidedly anticlimactic. Maybe it’s the desperation of bringing
back Sharon Osborne, like the tired monster in a slasher franchise, resurrected
for one more lumbering, rotting installment. Or maybe it’s the format itself;
so tired that it’s practically narcoleptic. The only major innovation we’ve
seen so far is the addition of some cheap white seating – I can practically
smell the BAFTA from here. But above all, it’s the talent. If you haven’t seen
the US version of the show, which airs on Thursdays and Fridays, you may be
unaware of how much better the X-Factor can actually be. But that’s like my
Grandma thinking that pasta comes in a tin, because she never tried the real
thing.
Nonetheless, this is what we’re stuck with.
And we’re finally at the Live Show stages, where the stakes are high, every
moment counts and the contestants have to give the performance of their
lives. “Everybody’s got something to give.
And some more than others,” adds Louis, cryptically.
Tonight’s theme is The Eighties. Gary’s
bringing it on, Nicole’s appears to be taking it off, and Louis is particularly
excited because he loves big songs, big hair and… No, you know what? I’m not
doing that. Dermot bounds out, looking just a little more ashamed of himself
than he did last year. If this show survives another year, he’s just going to
lock himself in his changing room, cutting his arm with a butter knife from
craft services. The judges make their big entrance – Nicole looks gorgeous,
Louis appears to be an elderly sommelier, and Sharon’s had everything tightened
and polished. It hasn’t just taken years off, it’s eradicated any last vestige
of humanity – she’s like a gargoyle carved in Imperial Leather. Dermot gamely tries
to explain another new twist; the Flash-ah-ah Vote, but Nicole and Sharon seem
more interested in the contents of his alarmingly snug dress trousers. I know
I’d certainly get more enjoyment from rummaging around in there for the next
two and a quarter hours.
Hannah Barrett is up first, and she’s
determined to showcase a more carefree side than we’ve seen to date: “All I’ve
been doing is crying. It’s so cringe.” So is using the phrase ‘so cringe’ but
we’ll overlook that for now. She’s certainly laughing a lot more, and Louis is
wondering whether it’s too soon to try and get away with a “little Rustie Lee”
comparison. The stylist must have had the weekend off, since Hannah’s
blustering through What’s Fashion Got To Do With It, looking like she’s halfway
through fighting her way out of a binbag. The vocal’s strong and she safely
negotiates the key change, but it’s more Barrymore’s My Kind Of People than the
Grammy Awards. Louis is on a roll, running through all his greatest hits: age
references, love the voice, vote for Hannah, lot of potential. Sharon has to
offer her feedback in mime, since her face is about as expressive as Mount
Rushmore.
Nervously tugging his jacket over his
pronounced bulge, Dermot introduces wee Nicholas McDonald. Less a fledgling pop
star, more a supporting character on Supergran, Nicholas is doing a song by
Spandex Barry. Seriously, he’s never heard of the band, and most of his VT
consists of him asking his Mum about Tony Hadley. Louis is trying to coach
Nicholas through his performance and ignore the fact that his housekeeper is
clearly on strike – she’s downed tools and refused to iron his shirts. The
dancers have staged a full-on production, full of nervous teens asking each
other out, but at least it’s a distraction from the kid with the lousy
falsetto. The feedback amounts to little more than an interminable discussion
of Nicholas’ age, with Sharon so drunk that it sounds like she’s channeling the
spirit of Kenneth Williams. Louis offers another handful of generic platitudes,
name-checking the Scottish voters and offering a “You’re what this show is all
about.”
Miss Dynamix can’t seem to agree on how to
pronounce their derivative name, but Gary’s too busy congratulating himself on
creating something special - like he just cooked up a batch of 95% pure blue
sky. We like a bit of human drama with
our music, so here’s SeSe to admit that she’s five months pregnant. Everyone
does their best to look delighted for her, but the other two girls in the group
are clearly thinking that the only thing Miss Dynamix will be releasing in the
next six months is going to have an umbilical cord. They’re doing a lazy and
outdated version of Jump, and their vocals are so disconnected they could be
performing in different time zones. For some reason, Nicole thinks that when
she speaks to black girls she has to slip into some awful ghetto fabulous
slang, and Sharon talks about how they’ve been together less time than most
pre-packaged sandwiches. She also wants to see more joy on their faces, so perhaps
she can spare some of that Smylex she’s been injecting into her rubber mush. Speaking
of which, Dermot compliments Sharon on her appearance: “How does she do it?” he
asks disingenuously. “I have a very good surgeon,” she vamps, as ten million
viewers at home peer from behind the couch. I wouldn’t go that far.
Prison Sam is singing Power of Love,
because ballads. She gets points for saying it’s by Jennifer Rush, even though
she does the Celine Dion version of it. She’s doing her best to add some production
value, courtesy of clichéd choreographer Sisco (not that one). She starts off
in her high register, which is thin and reedy, but it gets much better once she
hits the main chorus. Of course, everyone’s going to rave about the power in
her voice, and ignore the fact that a great singer needs to be able to sell the
quiet moments as well as the big notes. She even throws in a totally
unnecessary key change, by which point I’m over it and wondering whether she
might want to try some sleeves next week. Gary says it was “off the clock,”
because Tulisa has successfully copyrighted the ‘hook’. Nicole’s even more confused, saying “I don’t
even know what I just watched.” Someone get her a Radio Times. And then there’s
poor, clueless Louis, who thinks the best compliment he can offer a singer is
“You hit every single note.” Sharon got goosebumps all over, even on the bits
that weren’t originally hers, and Dermot suggests that “You just wanted to get out
here and show us your pipes,” as if he’s in the VIP section of Spearmint Rhino.
The ad break gives us Katie Price,
promoting the latest volume of her autobiography. Remember the good old days,
when memoirs were published by raconteurs like Peter Ustinov, and they were
filled with pithy epithets and charming anecdotes? Now we get Katie, regaling
us with how she had to fuck Alex Reid with a strap-on.
Caroline Flack is moving a little closer to
inheriting Dermot’s job – she’s now been bumped up to the ITV1 show, although
she’s still backstage, conducting hopeless interviews with the contestants. Sam’s
decked out in an ice-wash denim shirt, so 80s night should be a breeze. Louis
is very excited about Sam’s full package (he’s a two-hander), and he’s picked
Summer of ’69 for his protégé to mangle. Sam performs the entire song through
his sinuses, and has a red baseball cap stuffed in his back pocket.
Unfortunately, most of Twitter mistakes this for the hanky code (ask your
confirmed bachelor uncle) – and it doesn’t take long for someone to point out
that red means fisting. We won’t dwell.
This is supposed to be a rock song, but it makes Glee look like
Radiohead. Louis clearly hasn’t a clue, telling Sam “You’re like a little Bryan
Adams” despite the fact that Sam looks nothing like a pineapple with a
side-parting.
All ridiculous hair and half-mast trousers,
Kingsland Road are far too excitable to tolerate without chemical stimulants.
They spend most of their VT plugging various Samsung gadgets and marveling at
how they’re five guys from East London, who are now in the X-factor (North
London). They’ve picked I’m Your Man by Wham and it’s exactly what you’d
expect. In fact, the only point of interest in the entire performance is a
curious Usual Suspects motif running on the screen behind them. I’m dying for
the one who looks like Alex Zane to say “Gimme the fucking keys you fucking
cocksucker” but he just goes three octaves too high instead. Apparently, the
lads have all worked their bums off, but it would be unseemly for me to pass
comment on that.
Shelley Smith is another one of Sharon’s
Overs, and appears to be paying tribute to the Muppets, since she looks like
Sam the Eagle in Miss Piggy’s hairpiece. Much like Sam, she’s a little too fond
of playing the “Ermagerd, I’m dead normal, me” card, which kills any star potential
stone dead. As she blunders her way through Alone by Heart, the poor wind
machine struggles to make any kind of an impression. She’s also joined on stage
by two pianists from Tron, but they’re soon forgotten about when she hops onto
a scissor-lift and launches skywards for the key change. The brief was clearly
‘add some production value’ but it’s like watching someone do a pick-and-pack
in the Amazon warehouse. Louis says “Shelley, you gave it welly.” Seriously,
does he get paid for this?
Dermot tries to high-five Louis, but it’s
about as awkward as me fist-bumping a vicar. Time to introduce Abi, who is
tired of the green tabard she wears on the Morrisons check-out. She’s rightly
chuffed with the results of her makeover, but manages to spoil it by acting
like she’s in a Victoria Wood sketch. Performing at a white baby grand, she
gives us a pared-down, acoustic version of Livin’ On A Prayer. It doesn’t
really work, but she’ll get points for trying a different arrangement, which is
only fair. Gary offers to get behind her, but I doubt there’s room on that
piano stool.
Spare a thought for poor old Lorna. She’s
won the ‘diva’ makeover booby prize – there’s one every year. They’ve styled
her to look like Rihanna’s mum, given her a weird arrangement of an upbeat
Whitney Houston song, and thrown in a bunch of shirtless dancers for good
measure. Hers is actually one of the
best vocals of the night, but that’s hardly a compliment, all things
considered. When Nicole claims the ‘diva’ comparison, Louis looks genuinely
aggrieved – he has nothing else to add.
There’s another embarrassing bit of filler
as Dermot introduces the live Twitter feed. This segment really needs some
work, as their social media manager has only managed to find three remotely
positive tweets – we see the same one about Dermot’s package twice, before it
finally gets read out. Well done everyone.
Tamera Foster has been briefed to play the
girl next door, so her entire VT is about how messy her bedroom is. She’s
picked Ain’t Nobody by Rufus and Chaka Khan, and the producers have decided not
to update it – they’ve just given her Liberty X’s arrangement instead. She
rolls around a security fence like she’s trying to break into a music festival,
and does a passable job with the song. Louis and Sharon have both taken to
referring to all women as ‘Mrs’ which makes them sound like they’re attending
the W.I. AGM.
Luke Friend moans that everyone is obsessed
with his hair, not least the Centre for Disease Control. I’m more concerned with his name, which sounds
like a duff joke off The Inbetweeners. He’s singing Every Breath You Take; the
arrangement sounds more like Dexys than The Police, which does him no favours
at all, and he’s dressed like he came straight from the Playboy Mansion. Nicole
comments, “Every time you perform, I can feel it.” I can fucking smell it.
Dermot puts his hand into Luke’s hairdo, and all I can think of is that scene
in Flash Gordon when Peter Duncan reaches into the log.
Tonight’s final performance comes from Rough
Copy, who are now a three-piece again. They tell us that growing up and being a
young boy in this generation is hard. Yeah, fuck you Cameron. They say everything in unison; it’s just a
shame that their vocals are nowhere near as well synchronised. They’re singing
‘In The Air Tonight,’ and it takes a special kind of talent to make me wish I
was watching Phil Collins. Nicole is obviously on a contact high from Sharon’s
fumes, because she thinks they’re the best band that’s ever been on the show,
and Louis says “There has to be a gap in the market for a band like this.” Yes,
it’s called JLS.
Time for that new twist we were promised.
The Flash Vote is a quick tally of the votes so far, to reveal one of the acts
that’ll be in the sing-off tomorrow night. This does, of course, beg the
question – why can’t they just evict whoever scores lowest, and do away with
Sunday’s show altogether? In the end, this segment is just an impressive
display of Dermot’s ability to conduct 12 mini-interviews with Swiss-watch
precision. As the dozen acts stand with their mentors, Sharon is hanging off
her Overs like a drowsy orang-utan on a tyre swing. Gary says he usually hates
Sunday night, now he can hate Saturday nights too. I know the feeling. In the end, Shelley scores the lowest vote, so
tune in tomorrow to find out who she’ll be up against.
Results Show
Welcome to four whole minutes of
entertainment, carefully squeezed into an hour of TV. There’s really not much to report from the
results show – the judges do their shtick, Sharon tries to pretend she’s not
the wicked queen from Snow White, and the finalists give and execrable
performance of Get Lucky. It’s as
lifeless as Sharon’s facial expressions, and features the worst dancing you’ll
see outside of a Young Farmers disco.
The first of tonight’s special guests is
Ellie Goulding, who boasts a Brit award, 15 million single sales, 4 million
albums, and all the presence of pre-mixed wallpaper paste. She’s wearing a
weird outfit – a flesh-coloured body stocking coupled with a vertical strip of
golden sequins, that makes her look like Smaug The Magnificent’s skidmark.
Dermot pushes her to name her favourite act, and she roots for Canestan Road.
After a brief ad break, where I discover
that Iceland just hasn’t met me yet (one more reason to stay ex-directory),
it’s time to welcome Cher to the X-Factor stage. She’s had an incredible six
decades in music, and she’s been fully dressed for almost half of them. Aged
67, she’s like pop’s Benjamin Button; gradually getting younger with each new
reinvention. She sings a rousing ballad, and as a flurry of golden ticker tape
rains down on her, I’m tempted to imagine that Ellie Goulding has been
tragically sucked into an air vent.
Time to count up the votes, and it’s no
surprise that Sharon acts take up the bottom two places. Shelley belts out One
Night Only, and Lorna tackles Faith Hill’s There You’ll Be. Both decent
performances, delivered with passion and control, but let’s be honest – both
acts could go tonight and the public would struggle to bat an eyelid. Sharon
takes a sip of her ‘tea’ and abstains from voting, so in the end it’s down to
Nicole to send Lorna home.
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