Ryan makes the taller one sit down because, once again, he's short. I kind of like the lyrics, though the song itself is not that awesome. Lots of "I am made of more than my yesterdays" and whatever, moth shorthand, but the song musically is uninteresting, and who cares anyhow because coronation songs are going to be (justly) hated either way and still sell a billion copies. Whatever, Blake's up first. In a third kind of argyle and some very dramatic shoes, singing about how there was a time when he packed his dreams away. The outfit is about three things: biceps one and two in a shiny blue workman's shirt, and a whole lot of crotch action. Work what you've got. This is a song you've heard before and will hear again, that was his Then, this is his Now, et cetera. The song is boring and we knew that was coming, but it's not entirely out of Blake's wheelhouse, in some ways. It's clearly as boring for him as it is for us; he spends the middle point hopping around randomly like something is about to happen. It's not going to, and he knows that. At the end the Chrises cheer and act foolish. There's a seriously issue-tastic voice in the choir antiharmonizing like a monster, in both performances: a strange inconsolable sound like somebody being slowly crushed beneath either their Then or their Now. Randy lies that it's "not the kind of song" that really suits Blake's voice. Not true: Blake's voice is not as good as Jordin's. That's it. He can do Keane, he can do Maroon 5: what is this but more of the same, drowned in sunshiny rainbow treacle. He rocked "Imagine," for fuck's sake. Shut up, Randy. "You did a good job, don't feel that bad about it -- it wasn't great but it was all right." The fix is in. Paula tells him he did a great job and was in great voice, but who listens to her? She's a woman and the only one tainted by pop, except all of them. Simon calls it "all a little odd, to be honest" -- this is the man who praised "You Give Love A Bad Name" speaking -- and asks Blake how he's doing. He's sympathetic to the frustration that a crappy song like that can engender: "It's not a bad song, just not the type you'd sing." Marlee's guy signs to her as Simon says, obviously, that Blake should only be judged on the first two performances, since the last was written for Jordin. And everybody cheers. They joke about how Seattle sucks, and Simon pretends he didn't say that Seattle sucks but really he did say it sucked, and now all four people who won are from Seattle and everybody laughs and whatever.