Four plump, middle-aged blond women sitting in front of us make like a whack-a-rat game, constantly raising their double-sided signs endorsing both La Toya London and Fantasia Barrino. The rows behind grumble, "Put the signs down."

A fresh roar rises as petite judge Paula Abdul sashays out in a sparkly white strapless dress, a floppy flower plastered to her head like a purloined tide-pool creature. Her patent-leather red lips part in a dazzling smile as she waves a well-toned arm at the crowd.

Next comes judge Randy Jackson, newly slim physique in loose-fitting clothes. Then out marches Simon Cowell, back as rigid as a Queen's guard, chest straining against a tight gray T-shirt. Despite a towering sense of self-importance, he isn't much taller than the diminutive Abdul.

A dancing audience sign begs "Judge Me, Simon. I Won't Let You Down," while another proclaims "Simon Speaks the Truth." His hard-line stand against mediocrity can be cruel, but it has its following.

I don't anticipate much cringing at Cowell's comments tonight. Big-band music is imminently singable, so even the weaker contestants will be safe. It won't be like Gloria Estefan night, when nearly all were impaled on the impossible Latin beat, or Elton John night, when every song was as unsingable as the "Star Spangled Banner."

Suddenly we're on-air as the stage lights break into a blinding frenzy and emcee Ryan Seacrest, our next Dick Clark if we want one, takes the center mark. An introductory film clip explains big-band music for the culturally illiterate, then a group of dark-suited and tie-wearing musicians with authentic brass, string and percussive instruments is welcomed at the side of the stage.

Diana Degarmo is up first, singing "Someone to Watch Over Me," which she dedicates to her grandpa and the troops who are "watching over us," and Judy Garland's "Get Happy." Her performance is fine, lovely even, though her lavender satin dress is not. The crowd is giddy with love, erupting with spontaneous applause at her first sustained note. But with the sound system's reverb, the frenetic lights and motion-sickness-inducing graphics from the backdrop of video screens, it's hard to hear what she really sounds like.

Paula and Randy adore her. "You're 16 and you sound like 50!" Simon sputters, as if maturity were a crime. This gripe is less surprising when you consider that it comes from the man who helped further the career of Teletubbies and the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. "You're an old soul!" he whines.

"I'll take that," an unsinkable Degarmo says, catching his bullet in her perky smile. I see a national tour of "Annie Get Your Gun" in her future.

"They'll all be forgotten in six months," L.A. mom opines during the break. "It's so sad."

Some in less time than that. I haven't a clue who the "We Miss Amy" sign someone's holding up is talking about. I later learn it's Amy Adams, the pink-haired girl from Bakersfield, Calif., one of the season's final 12 already immortalized on the recently released album "American Idol: Season 3 -- Greatest Soul Classics." But crossing the parking lot on my way to the taping I did recognize John Peter Lewis, who, apparently reluctant to head back home to Rexburg, Idaho, after being voted off the show weeks ago, has been showing up regularly to watch it from the audience.

Warm-up Guy takes a question for Simon from audience member Molly, 10, of Santa Monica. "Were you born mean?" she wants to know.

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