Turning Up 'American Idol'

She ran outside where her mother was waiting, the golden ticket clenched in her hand.

"My God," I said to my roommate, a classical music composer. "Did you hear that?"

"I can't believe you watch this crap," he answered.

SO WHEN IT CAME TO THE FIFTH MONTH, I heard Covais sing. Simon was right -- and I knew he was right, that was the amazing thing. Had I been taking my information from the captions and the

visuals, I might have thought: Here is the lone cowboy, trusting his song, telling off the smug and powerful. But hearing him -- well, the effect was ruined. That wasn't Stevie Wonder, but the tense warbling of, well, Chicken Little. Simon's facial expression when Kevin put him down said it all: Son, I could drop you like a quail-hunting heart patient; this is the end of your 15 minutes. Covais hung on for another week, but then was the low vote-getter, sang his goodbye and was banished from Idolworld, save for a predictably promising, "You haven't heard the last of me."

The finals continued. Crooners crooned, rockers rocked, balladeers balladed. The judges said, "Stick to what you know," and then they said, "Are you ever going to shake things up?" Now, I found the visuals distracted from the vocal. Kellie Pickler, gorgeous but seemingly dumb as a fence post, came on stage one evening looking like a frosted birthday cake. Taylor Hicks had his Steve Martin hair, eyes that reminded me of years of primo bong hits and dance moves straight from puppet theater. And Mandisa, lovely Mandisa, had a voice as big as, well, her caboose, which fairly or no, was probably her undoing. (Hey, don't shoot the messenger -- I dug her.) Each week was a spectacle. The circus had nothing on this.

But that wasn't what I was looking for, anymore. I wanted to listen to the songs. I wanted to learn what made a voice great; to understand what a sharp note was, what being "pitchy" was, the difference between singing loud and shouting. I went to my cochlear implant programmers, and together we devised a program specifically for "Idol," trading mechanical sharpness for more warmth and tone. I badgered a friend with TiVo, and she let me tape the show so I could skip through Ryan's bantering and the contestants' video clips, listening to the performances twice over and then to the judges' comments. Who was overpowered by the music? Who forgot to breathe? When I could predict exactly what each judge would say, I realized something: I was hearing. For real.

One night, Katharine McPhee, a glowy-skinned good girl, sang last -- the cleanup position -- and knocked it out of the park. Her voice, honeyed and low, filled the studio and lifted it off its foundations to some moonbeamed place. I could hear this. And I could hear the audience collectively hold its breath to listen. Sweet mango salsa, how does one get a voice to do that? Her voice said: Stop, I am in charge; you just be still. It said: I know your dreams. It said: Home. (And her breasts, it must be noted, floated above her dress and said: Wonderbra.) This was song. It didn't matter to me who won or lost, how many albums were sold, whether the bald guy got a raw deal or no.

I was hearing.

Now, every night, I take off my implant's external processor and microphone and put them in a drawer so my girlfriend's mutt won't chew them while I sleep. With the implant off, I'm stone deaf -- deafer even than I was before the surgery, because the operation killed off whatever residual hearing I'd had in my right ear. My noisy city turns as quiet as I imagine the moon to be. It is a beautiful thing to go to this place each night.

I realize there are many who don't have the option to switch between sound and silence, and others in the deaf community who wouldn't want it. I respect their choice. Having lived in Africa, having worked in the signing community, I know happiness is not based on decibels or song choice. (Sorry, Randy.) One of the great things about deaf culture, for example, is that absent constant background noise, people are alone with their thoughts a lot, which I think fosters a natural empathy. Being deaf to the feelings of those around you is much worse than missing some sounds.

I feel lucky to have experienced both worlds, and to still have so much to discover. These days, I'm working my way through the Beatles and Motown. I have so many questions: What kind of drugs were necessary to dream up a song like "Rocky Raccoon"? What kind of pain did Otis Redding walk through to come out with a voice like that? I'm also finding out many things I did not know: That, for example, Al Green is the exact vocal embodiment of the experience of loving, losing and loving again.

It isn't perfect. Around soft talkers I still miss a lot, and I am beginning to think that in all probability I will never understand Bob Dylan. But if Adele were alive, I'm sure she'd be weeping into her coleslaw at how much I understand. In fact, I'm flirting with the idea of taking it to the next level. Leonard Cohen's playing on the iPod right now (I've Googled the lyrics), and next season's "American Idol" tryouts are just a few short months away. Simon's already gone for a heavy guy and a gray-haired guy, why not for me? On a good day, I can pass for 29, the age cutoff, and I've already signed up for singing lessons.

Josh Swiller writes a blog, cochbla.blogspot.com, which tracks his experiences after surgery. His memoir about being a deaf Peace Corps volunteer in Zambia comes out next year.