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Eurovision's version: anything but visionary

by Tamar Wilner

One after another, hopefuls take the stage and sing their hearts out. Some perform with near-professional quality; most seem barely able to sustain a middle C. Hackneyed words of love found and lost are rendered over and over again, in ever so slightly varying combinations: "Open your heart," "listen to your heart," "let's hold on together," "hold me now," "hold me real tight." After a while, it seems that each contestant is singing another verse of one very lengthy, somewhat disjointed song.

Contest finals at Big Mama's Karaoke Cafe? No, a spectacle even more breathtaking in its inanity. It's the Eurovision Song Contest.

Just how ridiculous is the Eurovision Song Contest?

According to the 2003 contest's official website, it's "a Magical Rendez-vous [which] can change the destiny of individuals, of nations, of countries...." Participants from 26 countries this year sang songs with titles such as "We've Got the World," "To Dream Again," and my personal favorite, Germany's "Let's Get Happy." It's karaoke taken to new heights, a massive international karaoke contest with corseted crooners, swaying back-up singers, gyrating dancers. A karaoke contest hosted at a cost of $7 million and broadcast to 100 million people. This year's winner, Turkey's Sertab Erener, pushed her chest out and shook her hips in a motion supposedly reminiscent of traditional belly dancing, before being whirled in circles by the 12-foot scarves that connected her to her dancers. Her shrieks of the song's refrain, "Every way that I can/ I'll try to make you love me again," managed to go sharp every time as she struggled for breath. She was definitely one of the contest's better acts.

The big shock of this year's competition was the defeat of Russia's chart-topping lesbian-pretensions duo Tatu. Never before has such a moneymaking act played Eurovision at the height of its fame (although ABBA's winning 1974 entry "Waterloo" did propel the Swedes to international stardom). But fame could not disguise the fact that Tatu's entry was little more than a series of wheezy whines.

When I was first introduced to the so-bad-it's-good brilliance of Eurovision, I could hardly believe my eyes and ears. Here was a yearly television special; nay, an annual event; nay, a phenomenon, so cheesy, so bizarre, so splendidly awful, and yet no one has shown it in the United States (Although I hear that you can get a Spanish-dubbed version on satellite.) American cable stations broadcast dueling Japanese chefs soundtracked by sports-style commentary, and yet can find no place for a pan-European festival of pop schlock? A greater tragedy I cannot fathom.

One of Eurovision's most remarkable feats is how it causes viewers to doubt their own senses. It's a Cartesian thought experiment come to life: I know that this sequined chanteuse, with a voice like Alanis Morissette choking on an oyster, cannot be the finest singing specimen Romania has to offer; and yet, my bleeding ears and the wretchedly peppy Latvian hosts seem to be telling me just that. What am I to believe?

If Eurovision is the crème de la crème of astoundingly bad entertainment, then Knoxville's abundant karaoke nights are the slightly less creamy part of the crème. I would never in a million years dream of knocking a night out at Big Mama's; that place actually attracts a fairly steady flow of decent singers. Unfortunately, most of them favor ballads, which lends itself to a rather dull evening. Now, an hour at say, Judy's, that's a tall glass of frothy milk. The divorcees looking for love and a little unsteady on their feet, warbling the courting songs of their youth, give the audience a small twinge of sad amusement; the man with a head like a billiard ball and body to match one-ups them with his Kermit-inspired rendition of Rick James' "Superfreak."

Still, Knoxville Karaoke isn't THAT bad. Not Eurovision bad. It must be noted that since Eurovision is technically a songwriting contest, every country's entry must be original and written by a resident of that country. Which means the material is actually considerably worse than what you'd find at Big Mama's or Macleod's. Yes, Virginia, there are more retch-inducing songwriters than those employed by Celine and Britney.

The appalling awfulness of Eurovision is not without its backlash. Italy has boycotted the event for the last six years, on the grounds that it's garbage and their singers are better than that. This year Austria's entry took the guise of Alf Poier, who's pictured on the Eurovision website bald and beret'd, holding a scrawny teddy bear and pinwheel. His composition alternated mumbled German with squealing, '80s hair metal-style guitars. Sample translated lyrics: "The difference between animals such as apes and primates/ Is no bigger than between noodles and pasta." Needless to say, many saw this as a joke entry that matched Eurovision's inanity tit-for-tat. It also earned Austria sixth place.

So how did Ms. Erener (who co-wrote "Every Way That I Can") snag top brass? Until recently, judges from each country voted for their favorites, Olympic-style. Now, call-in voting lets the European populace decide, with each country getting equal input. Even with this change, it seems nations' musical tastes align remarkably well with their political associations. The Baltics tend to vote for each other; Turkey and Greece have historically ignored each other's efforts.

As for England, my country of residence: Perhaps we were feeling some post-Iraq backlash. Or maybe our singers were just rubbish. But for the first time ever, we managed to score nil points. Now that's an achievement.