Idol's Castro misfires on "I Shot the Sheriff"
American Idol’s resident rocker got mixed reviews on a night themed around influential rock songs.
Tulsa musician David Cook scored points with the judges Tuesday night for his performance of the Who’s classic “Baba O’Riley,” after they were less-than-enthralled by his take on Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf.”
“That’s more like the David Cook I’ve grown to love right there,” judge Randy Jackson said, after Cook sang and played guitar on “Baba O’Riley.”
Jackson and Simon Cowell had deemed his earlier performance of “Hungry Like the Wolf” as “just OK.” They were disappointed that he sang it similar to the original and didn’t put his unique spin on the arrangement as he has in previous weeks, a criticism that Cook said he understood.
Handling the judges’ critique with humility should help Cook, said his friend Chuck Stikl, morning radio show host at Tulsa’s KMYZ 104.5 (The Edge).
“It gave him a real human quality,” Stikl said. “It wasn’t his best week, but how he handled it was great.”
Cook, 25, grew up in Blue Springs, Mo., but moved to Tulsa a few years ago to pursue his music career.
He faces tough competition for the “American Idol” title from another David: 17-year-old David Archuleta, who judges hailed as the best of Tuesday night with updated standards such as “Stand by Me” and “Love Me Tender.” Tuesday’s music theme was the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum’s list of 500 songs that shaped rock music.
Singer Syesha Mercado, 21, fared well with performances of “Proud Mary” and “A Change is Gonna Come.” Jason Castro, 20, didn’t have such a great night — judges loathed his “I Shot the Sheriff” and he forgot several of the lyrics during his performance of “Mr. Tambourine Man.”
“Jason, I’d pack your suitcase,” judge Simon Cowell told Castro after he’d sung both.
Tags: lyrics, man, mr., tambourine
How could you not link to it? Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era—the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. . . . History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of “history” it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time—and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened. My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights—or very early mornings—when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder’s jacket . . . booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. . . . There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . . And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . . So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.permalinkparentsixothree (0 children) [+]sixothree 2 points 9 days ago [-]I love all of his sunglasses, especially #6.
fair enough……
This dude is disgusting.
In a nation full of sheep, the rulers are pigs.how true
more style than substance.
yeah, you are wholesome yourself…….http://reddit.com/user/Grue/
You are tripping now, aren’t you?
His suicide note… No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won’t hurt.With a sort of cryptic, ironic, metaphorical hilarity, he took a black marker and titled the note: “Football Season Is Over.”
It’s from his 2003 book “Kingdom of Fear”that part of it is a section about GWB:http://www.bartcop.com/bald-pussy.htm
I think he saw it better than most
He didn’t blow his brains out because he had convinced himself that “there is nothing”. He just felt ready to check out, having seen most of what life had to offer.