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FOX Rocker Bo Bice and "country girl" Carrie Underwood are the final two on "American Idol."

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Idolatry

The anointing of an American
pop star is musical Darwinism

The first fix is free. And the second and the third ... and by that point, too late, you're hooked. You got the jones, baby. "American Idol" has seized control, two evenings a week, and the rest of the week is spent rehashing every subtle move or raised eyebrow, every muffed, screechy note, every unfortunate song choice.

'American Idol' Sing-off: 7 to 8 p.m. tomorrow Finale: 7 to 9 p.m. Wednesday Tune in: KHON/Fox

Either you're in or you're out and tomorrow night marks the final showdown of the season. No middle ground or no-man's-land. Those who have stuck with "Idol" this semester know that Tuesday and Wednesday are the End of Days, the Final Countdown, the Big Magillah, the Playoffs, the Clash of the Titans, the Galactic Smackdown ...

OK, it's just a cheesy singing contest, not the dirty high-water mark of Western civilization. But it's also a brilliant use of the television medium, combining the homey intimacy of the living room with the breathless, transparent grandeur of fame and utter spectacle. Embrace the cheese.

After a kind of trial run on British television, "Idol" was imported to America and tweaked, tinkered and polished into the great gleaming juggernaut it is.

Although there have been talent contests on TV before, this one is fundamentally different. The range of talent required is both scarily narrow and broadly inclusive -- everyone can sing, after all, but can you pass muster as a pop-music idol? Not just hitting the notes in your throat and the marks on the stage, but conjuring up the presence, public presentability and magical charisma of a true star?

It's musical Darwinism. Only the talented survive, and the road is littered with the smoking corpses of the semi-talented, the occasionally presentable and the truly nice kids sometimes afflicted with stage fright. Because we all sing -- sort of -- we can project ourselves into the process. The competitors become our avatars. That sense of identification with the contestants and the process itself is crucial.

It's cruelly fascinating. One by one, perfectly talented and adorable young people are tossed off the hurtling train -- Vonzell, the dimply, lovable mail carrier who blossomed into a soul sister; Constantine, the greasy hunk who loved the camera too, too much with his eyes; Anthony, the immigrant son who sees both redemption and salvation in the cheese of pop music; Scott, the scary loner with a dead face and girlish pipes; Nadia, the overachieving, stage-stalking goddess; Anwar, the dreamy music teacher; Mikalah, the spookily self-possessed teenager; Nikko, the comeback kid; Jessica, all bluesy growl and womanly packaging; Lindsey, smoky, refined, a candle in the wind of televised bombast; and hundreds of others along the way -- more than 100,000 tried out for the cattle chute that eventually allowed only 12 on stage.

It's obvious from the tearful goodbyes when a contestant is booted that they've all become foxhole buddies, united in their quest, fellow travelers in Stockholm Syndrome.

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FOX
SEASON 1 Kelly Clarkson and Justin Guarini; won by Clarkson	SEASON 2 Clay Aiken, left, and Ruben Studdard; won by Studdard	SEASON 3 Diana DeGarmo, left, and Fantasia Barrino; won by Barrino

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The gimmick that makes "Idol" work so brilliantly is two-layered. One, having the public vote on the contestants puts the power in the hands of the audience. That's completely seductive and it completes the Great Circle of identification instead of objectification. Man, we're part of it! It's OUR contest! Mobilize the troops!

The other deal is that the whole thing is presented, simply, as an athletic event. Singing is no longer an entertainment; it's a competitive muscle that has to be flexed to crush others. In this sports show, there are hits, runs and errors, and strategy and post-game grandstanding and Wednesday morning quarterbacking and ... well, betting and oddsmakers.

The arena is presided over by "host" Ryan Seacrest, a kind of human bobblehead doll, and "judges" Randy Jackson, Paula Abdul and Simon Cowell, an odd trio whose tics have entered the national pop-culture vocabulary.

Jackson is the Shrekish ruler and gatekeeper of a private, mythic kingdom called "Dawg Pound"; Abdul is a giddy cheerleader and yo' mama; Simon, the acerbic British truthsayer who offhandedly makes Americans gasp in horror by speaking honestly instead of groveling before the altar of building phony self-esteem in kids.

This week, two are left. Both are so talented, so adorable, so damned cute, so representative of our inner dreamself that voting for either feels like a betrayal of the other: Carrie Underwood, the Oklahoma milkmaid who sings to her cows, has an awkward, teenage, fleshy beauty that is pure radiance. Bo Bice, the dimpled Southern rocker, has a bongful of genuine warmth and way-coolness, a bellowing hurricane on stage, whose voice comes from way, way down, pulled right out of his toes.

One will win, the other will lose. No doubt about it. That's the way this particular game is played, and it's kind of like real life, which is why "American Idol" is reality television of the highest order. It's like real life, only it's shinier and better and more interesting and the rules are simpler. It's what television is so good at -- creating compulsive interest in the artificial.

Go Bo. Go Carrie. Contestants, take your marks.

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ASSOCIATED PRESS The "Idol" team -- judges Randy Jackson, left, and Paula Abdul, host Ryan Seacrest and judge Simon Cowell -- attended Thursday's unveiling of Fox TV's fall schedule in New York.