I admit to being a fan of music all of my life. Among my first spoken words as a toddler was a blurted “Como!” when I recognized Perry Como crooning on the car radio. That’s not why I watched NBC’s The Voice.

The fact is, I didn’t watch it all. I was having my way with the remote control infrared channel selection device (years ago my son disputed my calling it – the button – as in “Hand me the button, would’ya?”).

The button landed on the Voice, and there you go.

It struck me as a novel approach, having the panel making their determination without being influenced by how handsome or shapely the singer. American Idol admits they are looking for the package deal, but even Susan the Squat Scot sold enough CDs to make any Idol contestant envious.

Cee Lo came from 90s hip hop Goodie Mob through Gnarls Barkely to land on The Voice. Christina came out of a fumbled national anthem. Adam Levine has his Maroon 5 background and music industry experience. Blake Shelton is hot on the country music circuit. Assembled, they make up the judging panel.

As for the voices – for some reason I expected the worst. As it turned out, most weren’t belt-it-out-in-the-shower, but-keep-the-curtain-drawn-types. There has always been diversity in the music industry anyway. There was a powerfully-done rendition of Janis Joplin’s “Piece of my Heart,” and a soulful take on Cyndi Lauper’s “Time after Time,” was credible done by Javier Colon – the best of the evening, in my estimation.

The thing is, landing on the program late, I didn’t catch the rules. When the judges began making pleas to the singers to “choose me!” I had to scratch my head. Team this, and team that. There is probably a plan in there somewhere. It’s obviously more than just the Voice.

Maybe you can ‘splain it to me.