Stars of the Future

I can’t recall the first time I watched American Idol, but I can still remember the pangs of excitement that ran through my bones when I heard the tantalizing theme music. Would it be Justin or Kelly? Ruben or Clay? Munching on huge bowls of popcorn, I’d boo at Simon’s comments and applaud Paula’s light-hearted glee for every singer. Granted, I wasn’t the most rabid fan and never wore a t-shirt bearing my favorite star’s name. I always thought, though, how fun would it be to sit front row at a taping?

My rhetorical question was answered last Friday night. Molly, Krista, Sheena, Jessica, Katie and I all piled into a trotro and headed to the National Theatre in downtown Accra. We’d heard rumors that the live taping of “Stars of the Future” was free, and who were we to say no? After plenty of glances from Ghanaians (they often wonder why “rich” white people take the trotro), we ladies hopped off and scooted across four lanes of traffic to reach the National Theatre. We met Ryan outside, the sole male, and headed in. The Chinese built the theatre some years ago, and it looks like a giant spaceship hovering too close to the African soil. The shiny exterior and big cement stairs look harshly out of place, but Ghanaians flock to the center as their primary entertainment venue. There aren’t really any windows, which isn’t a total loss since there really isn’t much of a view in the heart of the polluted city. We arrived at the theatre about an hour early, and were greeted by hundreds of Ghanaians all seated quietly, as if watching an opera. Women lazily chatted in Twi while young men propped their chins on clenched fists. It wasn’t exactly the crazy frenzy I had hoped for, but I had faith that when the show got going, things would explode. And they did.

As soon as the music started to pulse through the packed theatre, men and women jumped out of their plush velvet seats (the place reminded me of the OK Theatre, for you Enterprise people). They applauded the host, a pleasantly plump young woman who held her too-big microphone too close to her pouty lips. A band stood in the left corner of the stage, with two back-up singers dressed in brilliant Kente cloth outfits. One man played assorted traditional drums and others jammed on guitars. Needless to say, their theme song was much more pleasing than the electronic rift that signals the beginning of “American Idol.” A projector shone on two different walls, showing the live TV broadcast complete with commercials during the break. On stage sat two yellow chairs, similar to the furniture the Jetsons might use to furnish their otherworldly home. The three judges sat in the front row. One woman was round and wore a brilliant scarf that curled on top of her head like a snake—Randy Jackson. Another thin, petite woman sat to her left, her flowery hair framing her face like the Mona Lisa—definitely our Paula. And to her left sat a chunky man wearing a too-tight shirt with small glasses—ladies and gentlemen, meet Simon.

We watched four men and three women perform, but they didn’t sing pop songs or Beatles covers or Elton John—instead, they belted out soulful tunes meant to rise above the rafters and drift right up to the heavens. That’s right—tonight was gospel night. These talented men and women had the whole building on their feet, swaying and clapping and shaking their wide hips as the music filled the place. Molly, Ryan and I jogged to the very front of the theater and danced right along with the Ghanaians—though we didn’t know the words, we felt right at home. Amida was our favorite, with her pixie-hair and bright dress. The girls all wore metallic heels—but when I say heels, I mean REAL, spiky, tall heels straight out of a high fashion magazine. Their outfits were all custom made from traditional fabrics for the show and they were absolutely beautiful. The men wore shiny black shoes with slacks, each donning a rather ridiculous, bright, floral shirt.

They all interacted well with crowd, but they way some put emotion into their songs was enough to move a person to tears (or at least to church that Sunday). People couldn’t contain themselves during the most rousing choruses and I saw a few eager young men jump on their chairs, holding up signs with bold marriage proposals scrawled on the front directed to the dashing young ladies. Sometimes, you couldn’t even hear the contestant over the roar of the crowd. It was really amazing that every person in that theater (except for us obronis) knew every word and every tune to each soulful song. At the end of each contestant’s performance, the host waddled back on stage and invited the singer to sit down in one of the Jetson chairs. She proceeded to ask him or her what the song meant, and why he or she had chosen to sing it. The answers were heart-felt, and the crowd erupted in applause after each and every one.

The night was over too soon, and we soon found ourselves lost in a sea of Ghanaian fans, toting their signs and white handkerchiefs (a sign of affection for the show). We hopped in a trotro to head to Osu, where we met up with the rest of the obronis for a night out. While Lil’ Wayne and other western beats pulsed through the speakers at the bar, I couldn’t help but think of the rousing renditions of gospel still ringing in my ears from the National Theater.