CHALLENGING PRECONCEIVED IDEAS: So I was watching my favorite media trainwreck of late last night, the indescribable HIT ME BABY 1 MORE TIME, wherein (okay, I'll try) a bunch of past-their-prime bands and solo artists re-take the stage to churn out two songs each. First, they play their "hit," then next they cover a hit by a contemporary artist.

For example, Wang Chung (or at least two really dorky guys purporting to be Wang Chung) showed up last night and played "Everybody Have Fun Tonight (Everybody Wang Chung Tonight)," then came back and covered Nelly's "Hot in Heeeeeerrrre," I shit you not. Oh, and there's also this gawky, mullet-headed British guy who is apparently the host who dodges in and out and mispronounces stuff. He's painful. I don't know his name, but something like Nigel Dumbass would be appropriate. Ian Dickwad or Sir Colin Jackass would also work.

Anyhoo...

Last night's show featured the aforementioned Chungs (and believe it or not, aside from that one insufferable song, they were not a half bad band at one time), Irene Cara (who won the "audience favorite" award last night, big whoop), Sophie B. Hawkins (who seems like the kind of hyper-granola gal that would be the worst person in the world to get stuck in an elevator with, all hyper and fake-happy and soldered together with hot curlers and a lot of pancake makeup), and Howard Jones (he of the leaning tower of split ends hair-do).

I think I'm forgetting someone, but there's a reason for that, so I won't injure myself trying to think of 'em.

So, without blathering on for days, here's my point: This Howard Jones, he's good. He sat at a piano and sang his song his song "No One Is To Blame," and despite the bad show and bad host and had-to-be-breathing-laughing-gas, over-the-top audience, I found myself moved. The guy is an artist. He meant it. He was taking it serious. Good on him. And then he came back with his cover of Dido's wonderful "White Flag," and I was like, yes! Howie! Which had me clicking into the iTunes store this morning and buying like six of his songs, which I'm now listening to in my phat Bose Noise-Cancelling headphones in the middle of an overpriced Mom-'n'-Pop coffee shop that has the audacity to charge eighty cents extra for soy milk and to employ unwashed art-student servers with bad looks on their faces.

But this Howard Jones, my goodness, he's for real.