Then there was Brendan O’Hara, a music instructor and Jeremiah Pagan, a soprano

(CBS) How can you follow up on Wednesday’s “The X Factor” debut show, with a stunningly moving single mom who brought the house down, an Internet blogger who claimed he was a stud and dropped his pants, and a tense young man who, 70 days previously, was in rehab?

How about constant streams of the weird, the not at all wonderful and the downright tales from Weekly World News?

The second episode of “The X Factor”, featuring auditions from Miami and Dallas, walked the line between distressing and disturbing and made one wonder just whether this show was a little too, well, tasteless.

Yes, even for America.

The ratings for the first night were lower than some might have expected: just over 12 million viewers – but 52 percent higher than Fox’s numbers for the very same night a year ago.

While the monied and the numbered were only prepared to compare “The X Factor”‘s performance with “American Idol,” more human constituencies might have compared its performance with that of Real Housewives of Crazytown or Basketball Wife Basketcases of the NBA Developmental League.

Indeed, it took half an hour for anyone to be offered access to the boot camp portion of this groping, soaping, titillating, tabloiding spectacle. The auditioners’ names were less memorable than their freaky foibles.

There was a girl who talked too much, wandered around barefoot and sang like certain people who you’ve seen at three in the morning on public transport. Those people may have genuine problems. This allegedly unemployed lady called Ashley was merely a problem waiting to be foisted upon an unsuspecting (and fearful) audience.

Somewhere in Miami, hyenas were hiding.

“I wanted to slit my wrists,” said judge L.A Reid. Which would have been simple, had he meant it. He could have slit them with Ashley’s voice.

“I couldn’t understand a single word you sang,” said Simon Cowell.

Ashley’s response could have been tears. Instead, it was: “Can I try a ballad?” as if slower songs bring better diction. And better singing.

Some of the awful singers – carefully chosen by “The X Factor” producers to give the TV viewers something to talk about the next day – tried to appeal to the live audience, who seemed desperate to appeal to security to have these people removed.

When relief is represented by Cowell in a Verizon ad during the break, you know this isn’t going the way it might have.

Gloria Estefan arrived to offer encouragement. She might as well have offered pastries, or water cannon.

Here’s how bad it was: even a 16-year-old was rejected. She cried. She was desperate. It was OK. She got a hug from Paula Abdul, and a kiss.

Then a strange young man called Nick Voss was allowed through the gates of purgatory. His performance of Elvis’ “Trouble” was a bizarre melange of, in Nicole Scherzinger’s words: “Jim Carrey meets Jerry Lee Lewis with a sprinkle of Elvis.”

Which is not necessarily something anyone would pay to see, listen to or even consider theoretically.

It was, perhaps, entertaining. But so are videos of cats chewing gum.

Fourteen-year-old Ashley Deckard claimed she could see ghosts. Her singing was, regretfully, demonic.

However, the producers then attempted to make us all believe that the Dastardly Disappointed Deckard had cast a spell over the whole auditorium as the lights began to flash on and off.

Perhaps as a sop to the Netherworld, a strangely Tim Burtonesque lady singer called Marivana Viscuso was inexplicably invited to the next round.

“When I hear you, I think of wolves mating in the forest,” said Cowell. This was intended as a compliment.

Perhaps the spell was lifted, because suddenly we had slivers of joy. A girl band called 2Squar’d, who all managed to wear remarkably tight, white outfits, were garlanded with a “yes.” So was a very interesting black country singer called Kendra Williams.

Then there was Brendan O’Hara, 카지노사이트 a music instructor and Jeremiah Pagan, a soprano.

But here’s what was missing – their back stories. These are being saved, so that we, the unsuspecting will be able to marvel at (guessing here) bank robberies they survived, limbs they’ve lost, family members who were mowed down by a truck, or any other tale of which you first might have heard in something performed by Tammy Wynette or Dolly Parton.

Then there was Melanie Amaro, an 18-year-old college student. She was given a little more screen time to perform Beyonce’s “Listen.” Amaro has one quality you don’t often see in singing reality show: she can sing.

She let the house rise. Then she brought it down.

As the crowd, the judges and her family released their glee, one thought crossed my mind: the crowd reaction shots aren’t necessarily the crowd reacting to that particular performer.

It seems as if the producers have amassed vast quantities of footage of screaming, rising, arm-waving audience members that they have inserted whenever they feel a performance deserves a shot of a screaming, rising, arm-waving audience member.

Thinking these difficult thoughts, we found ourselves in Dallas.

The Miami formula was repeated. Wacky weirdos first, singers (if we could find some) a little later.

Perhaps the weirdest weirdo was Dylan Lawson, 18, from Kentucky who screeched and cursed his way through, well, something. He had sold his truck to get to the audition and he ended up sprawled on the floor.

Just another American (reality show) story.

A street vendor called Curtis Lawson “sang” as if he was under water. Which, after the judges’ verdict, he was.

Scherzinger claimed to have been “violated”.

Then there was the feelgood tale of Dexter Haygood. He wishes he had been James Brown. Instead, he is a homeless 49-year-old man laying his head down on friends’ couches, but with some mighty high platform boots.

The judges feared he was a tribute act. They gave him another chance. He was certainly a tribute to effort and courage.

But we needed to end on an even higher note. We needed to rise above the scrum of humdrum.

So here was Caitlyn Koch, a rugby coach from Buffalo, N.Y. Her piano-only version of the Supremes’ “Stop! In the Name of Love” brought something highly odd in the midst of the wackiness, the weirdness, the wonkiness and wrong-headedness: a small touch of originality.

We ended with 27-year-old Xander Alexander. (His real name is Alexander Johnson.)

He claimed he wanted to be “the next Donald Trump meets Martha Stewart without the jail time, meets Britney Spears meets Beyonce without the ugly husband.”

His concerts would be “Britney Spears meets Lady Gaga on crack.”

The “on crack” part already seemed to be in effect.

Especially when he explained that, being black and Philippino, many people likened him to Bruno Mars: “And I say ‘yeah except my hair’s not nappy and I’m not chubby.”

He got on stage, irritated everyone with something akin to attitude and challenged Cowell to a fight.

But he was the happy ending to the long, long journey into night, yes?

Well, no. “You got the audience to hate you,” said Cowell. “That’s it. It’s over.”