Tyler Grady

Last week, “American Idol” entered its always risky semifinal phase and plunged right into territory that made it seem like yet another remake of the “Poseidon Adventure”. Our favorite television pleasure vessel sure seemed to be taking on water, and fast: Nearly every contestant cringed and caterwauled through foolish song selections, and the judges only made things worse with flat comments, rude clowning and utterly undisguised pessimism. The general tackiness of the two performance nights, followed by the voting off of Tyler Grady, the one kid confident enough to show some Sanjaya-style sangfroid, suggested that this season might capsize the franchise completely. But what is serial television, if not a renewable resource? The programs that make a lasting impact often flounder, only to be rescued by some new plot line, performer or simple twist of fate. Tuesday night’s “Idol” felt like a save, if only a partial one. Forced to perform a day earlier than expected  because of female contestant Crystal Bowersox’s unexpected illness, the remaining male hopefuls came closer to finding themselves. There were memorable performances, and the judges seemed happy and hopeful. The guys mostly came through by focusing on the very idea of what makes a man powerful — a singing man, that is, whose charisma doesn’t always fulfill the stereotypes of virility — and it added up to a valuable glimpse into the nature of pop masculinity right now.  Michael Lynche set the tone with a gesture that, like the gentle giant himself, was both completely forthright and a little surprising. After admitting a youthful penchant for musical theater, he quickly reasserted his macho bona fides by announcing his selection: “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World,” by James Brown. The Godfather of Soul! It doesn’t get more patriarchal than that. What was excellent about Big Mike’s take on the signature ballad of funk’s pomaded Zeus was the way it worked against the song’s easy associations. Brown preached it like the gospel revisionist he was, punctuating every phrase with a near-operatic verve. (In fact, he once performed the song with Luciano Pavarotti.) Lynche started out with a band, but toned down the song’s aggressiveness by leaning into its darker notes, recalling sophisticated bluesmen such as Robert Cray, whose music speaks of the burdens of traditional manhood as much as its power. Lynche’s turn was the night’s most sophisticated, but he had company in the game of employing pop’s favorite male archetypes to gain emotional, if not always musical, ground. Not John Park, sadly, who just can’t find the right vehicle for his rich, precise instrument. And not Andrew Garcia, the early favorite who stumbled trying on a few classic soul moves of his own. Elsewhere, though, guy-pop cliches abounded and were enlivened (marginally, at times) by the earnestness of the young strivers trying them on.   The Rocker Dude appeared in version both Classic and 2.0. First, Casey James busted out a few squealy but potent electric guitar licks to toughen up Gavin DeGraw’s bubbly “I Don’t Want To Be”; and then, in the coveted final spot, Lee DeWyze laid claim to the one rock stance that has proved triumphant on “Idol” — the Nickelback groan — by covering Hinder’s “Lips of an Angel” with such note-wrecking sincerity that it caused visions of Cookies to dance in Simon’s head.  The judge declared that DeWyze has the best male voice on the show, which is poppycock. What the former Extreme Karaoke regular has is that heavy, battered tone, the one that means manliness now, in an era of beaten-down average Joes. It will likely take him far, for better or worse.   Maybe this year’s generally panicked mood (both on “Idol” and in the larger world) is why DeWyze’s mirror opposites, the gender benders, aren’t faring well. Also, both are African American this year, and thus less likely to appeal to the Queen and Bowie fans, nostalgic for their youth, who supported the great Adam Lambert.    I wish the Idol voters — and judges — would more readily applaud Todrick Hall and Jermaine Sellers for the risks they’re taking. Hall’s theatricality and overt challenges to the masculine paradigm — twice now, he’s performed songs made famous by women — deserve more than the casual dismissals he’s getting from the judges’ table. And Sellers, though less cerebral, is exploring a falsetto range that, with proper vocal coaching, could be really exquisite. But, defensive as he is — he declared God on his side this evening, inviting Simon to church —  he’s never going to get there without at least one judge standing up for his pure talent. They’re too busy, right now at least, encouraging Aaron Kelly and Tim Urban, this year’s milk-fed pretty white boys, both of whom showed signs of getting into their lanes as teen idols on this show. Kelly ingeniously erased the context of a soul classic (“My Girl,” by the Temptations), rendering it as clean as Tom Sawyer’s fence. Urban, who seemed marked for death after a horrible turn last week, sold himself as the lost Jonas Brother, and this trick of association probably earned him another week.    Puppy lovers, man’s men, peacocks, dirty-sweet bad boys — the male Idols played their roles well, if predictably. As usual, however, the best turn of the night came from outside the frame. After a painful introductory segment in which he talked about vomiting before his performances — a tendency, sadly, more often pegged as feminine — Alex Lambert took his place under the spotlight armed with an acoustic guitar and a song by John Legend, a guy who wears his own masculinity lightly and without fuss. He sang, in that slightly strange, androgynous voice of his, without the slightest hint of swagger or bluster. He seemed thoughtful and sweet. A person worth getting to know better.