Once people get hooked on something, their execution power goes through the roof.
The Voice's first season had barely finished airing its very first episode—and suddenly, the internet had only one voice: The Voice.
Most of the posts were complaints about how short the episode was—
"How can anyone be this short?!"
Most of the comments begged the producers to release more—
"Sure, short things are cute, but too short just isn't cute anymore!"
At first glance, such emotional outbursts might seem like a PR nightmare. When audience reviews are pure feelings instead of specifics, casual viewers can't really judge whether the show's worth watching.
But look again.
People complaining it's too short?
People demanding more?
That's not trouble—that's the best advertising there is.
When everyone's desperate for the next episode, that craving is way more effective than any spoiler or praise.
Besides, you can't even spoil a music show. Its whole appeal lies in the sound, and sound can't be captured in words—you have to hear it yourself to know if it hits your taste.
The public can afford to be emotional. Professionals can't.
Tonight, with The Voice's official premiere, nearly everyone in the television industry had their eyes fixed on ABC.
And then—New York. Rockefeller Plaza.
It was 11 p.m., and the NBC headquarters were still blazing with light.
In the conference room, NBC president Kevin Reilly leaned back in his chair, chin in hand.
"So," he said, "you've all watched The Voice. What do you think?"
Silence.
Nobody answered. Reilly sighed and slumped back.
He looked tired.
Reilly was a veteran of the industry. He'd entered Universal in 1984, jumped to NBC in '88, and developed Law & Order and ER.
Two monster hits that made him famous overnight.
And that was just the beginning.
After his breakout, Brad Grey poached him to Brillstein Entertainment Partners, a major production house that supplied content to every major network.
There, Reilly created NewsRadio, The Sopranos, and Shoot Me.
His stock skyrocketed. Fox snapped him up in 2000.
And the legend kept rolling.
In the next three years, he launched Nip/Tuck and The Shield.
Anyone who watched American TV knew The Shield.
It topped all drama ratings—the highest in TV history.
So yeah, Kevin Reilly had become the industry's golden god.
His words alone could shift entire programming trends.
NBC was so desperate to lure him back this June that they offered the biggest package ever for a network exec: $20 million a year plus stock options.
No oversight, no interference. The board trusted him completely.
When he accepted, he was confident. Why wouldn't he be? He'd made multiple blockbusters. He knew what viewers wanted in his sleep.
And right now, talent shows were red-hot.
American Idol's second season had hit 24 million viewers per episode—so Reilly wanted to make his own. He even had a concept ready: America's Got Talent.
Then—
Bam.
The Voice was announced.
That single news drop made his blood pressure spike.
Anyone with a brain could tell The Voice was a guaranteed success.
And when the audience pool for talent shows was only so big—how was Got Talent supposed to compete?
Exactly.
The great Kevin Reilly, the so-called god of television, had no answer.
Which is why, when he found others who also wanted The Voice to flop, he felt a grim sense of camaraderie.
But the show didn't flop.
And that disappointed him deeply.
Because The Voice wasn't just a threat—it was an extinction-level event.
So tonight, he led a late-night watch party with his team. They'd just finished viewing it together, and Reilly's back was cold with dread.
"The Voice caught everyone off guard," he said quietly.
"Its blind audition system, the double-selection rule—it's unbeatable, not just for reality TV, but for television as a whole."
"I don't know where Robert Iger found this idea. There's no way it came from him, and Barry Meyer sure didn't have that kind of inspiration. But honestly, that doesn't even matter anymore."
"Because I think The Voice just made every other talent show obsolete."
His words echoed through the room like a death sentence.
Cruel, but everyone exhaled in relief.
Because nobody in that room was stupid.
They'd sensed something was off while watching, but nobody dared say it aloud. This entire division existed to follow Reilly's vision.
When the god speaks, mortals don't interrupt.
Only the god himself can end what he starts.
"Kevin, I think maybe we're being too pessimistic," one exec finally ventured.
"The Voice is just a music competition. There are other kinds of talent shows."
"Yeah! Got Talent isn't just music—it's a variety show. Broader appeal!"
"I still think it's worth developing. It's not the same thing."
Reilly smiled faintly.
He'd started from the bottom, so he knew what this was: flattery dressed up as optimism.
He was about to call them out when—
Knock, knock, knock.
His deputy entered.
"The numbers are in?" Reilly asked immediately.
"Yes, sir."
"How much?"
The deputy hesitated. "…Thirty-one seventeen."
Reilly frowned. "What?"
The man swallowed. "Thirty-one point one seven million."
"What?"
Reilly shot up from his chair. Eyes wide as fists.
The deputy swallowed again. "The Voice's premiere drew 31.17 million viewers."
The room exploded.
Total chaos. Gasps everywhere.
Because that number was insane.
No network in the 21st century had ever broken the 30-million mark.
In 2000, CBS's Survivor averaged 29.8 million.
In 2001, NBC's Friends hit 24.5 million.
In 2002, CSI topped at 26.1 million.
Right. The last TV show to break 30 million was Who Wants to Be a Millionaire—in 1999.
Before that? Seinfeld.
And even those shows didn't hit 30 million in their first season.
And now The Voice had done it—on episode one.
Everyone had expected a hit. Some had even predicted 30 million. But seeing it actually happen was another matter entirely.
Reilly chuckled dryly.
"Well," he said, turning slowly to the room, licking his lips, "does anyone here still think America's Got Talent is worth doing?"
Silence.
Across town, CBS headquarters in Midtown Manhattan had also gone dead quiet.
Just like NBC, their execs had watched The Voice together—and now stared at the same number: 31.17 million.
CBS chairman Les Moonves looked like he'd swallowed dynamite.
His story wasn't so different from Reilly's.
He'd risen to fame with Friends. The show's success took him from Warner to CBS—yeah, he'd been one of Barry Meyer's guys too, until Warner's endless internal feuds drove him away.
At CBS, he started small as president of entertainment. But after producing Survivor and CSI, both record-smashers, he'd been promoted this summer to chairman and CEO.
Yes—both the 2000 and 2002 ratings champions were his work.
TV is a brutal business: no hits, no career.
He'd been happy about his promotion—until he realized the industry's real star wasn't him. It was Robert Iger.
Iger was on the verge of becoming chairman of Disney.
And here he was, celebrating a lateral promotion to CBS chairman.
Embarrassing.
CBS, like ABC, had its own parent company. Sure, Les reported to Sumner Redstone, but Viacom's CEO actually held more power.
And now, his home turf—the one thing giving him leverage—was about to be flattened by Iger.
"Oh—shit—damn that Iger—"
"How the hell does this guy have such good luck?!"
"He makes one hit in '99 and gets promoted, and now another hit—again?!"
"MOTHERF—!"
Moonves slammed his desk, then waved everyone out. Meeting over.
Not because he didn't want to fight back.
Because there was no counterplay.
If The Voice's debut already hit 31 million, the finale could easily soar past 40—or even 50 million.
And yes, that sort of climb had precedent.
Seinfeld averaged 30 million and ended at 76.3 million for its finale.
Cheers averaged less, but its finale pulled in 80.5 million.
Those were top ten records in all of American TV history.
And The Voice—just started—was already on track to join them.
At that point, Moonves didn't care if he got fired from CBS.
There was no strategy left that could beat The Voice.
The data hit like a bomb. Some people lost their minds.
Others went dead silent.
Like Steve Case—one glance at the report, and he sent his assistant home.
He knew this wasn't a fight he could win.
Or Ted Turner, who merely grunted and hung up after hearing the numbers.
The man had built his empire on television. He understood perfectly—The Voice wasn't just "phenomenal."
It was legendary.
Then there were Michael Eisner and Edgar Bronfman Jr. Both read the report, both closed their eyes.
Eisner realized this would make rallying Disney's shareholders even harder.
And Bronfman Jr.?
"Well," he sighed, "buying Warner Music is off the table."
"Richard Parsons and Ted Turner won't sell it for $2 billion now."
"So…"
"We change targets. Sony's looking to acquire BMG, right? Let's interfere."
"Call them. Tell them I'll go up to three billion. No more."
"If it goes higher, we pivot to EMI."
His assistant nodded and left.
People called Bronfman Jr. a spoiled heir, but he genuinely loved music—released his own songs in his twenties—and his lifelong dream was to own the world's largest music group.
With his father's blessing, nobody could stop him from chasing it.
Which is why, when he started meddling in Sony's deal, Sony went into panic mode.
"What did you just say? Bronfman wants to bid against us for BMG?!"
Sony North America chairman Howard Stringer was stunned.
He'd been eyeing BMG for ages. Bertelsmann was finally ready to sell, and just when the deal was about to close—Bronfman jumped in out of nowhere?!
They didn't even have a feud!
And when Stringer learned that Bronfman was only doing it because he couldn't buy Warner Music…
He just felt a stabbing pain in his skull.
"So what you're saying is—The Voice slapped the whole industry in the face, and even the gust from that slap was enough to blow us over?"
He took a moment to find the right words, then offered what he thought was a fair summary.
But the secretary who had brought the report shook his head.
"Boss, personally, I think that description's not quite accurate. The Voice wasn't out to target anyone specifically. Barry Meyer and Robert Iger aren't like Michael Eisner or Ted Turner—there's no vendetta in them. They just…"
"Want to equally annihilate all competitors."
"..."
Howard Stringer's expression froze, like a man suffering constipation.
It wasn't that he thought the secretary was wrong—he was too right.
So right, in fact, that Stringer had no idea how to reply.
And honestly, he had the luxury of silence—he wasn't the head of a news company, after all.
But the media people didn't have that luxury.
The moment The Voice's explosive ratings dropped, every outlet in North America jumped into the fray, racing to publish coverage of the historic premiere.
The first to act, of course, was ABC.
If your own show just detonated like a bomb and you didn't brag about it, that'd be like wearing silk robes to stroll around in the dark.
So, early the next morning, ABC's morning news anchor proudly announced:
"The much-anticipated music competition The Voice officially premiered at 8 p.m. Eastern on September 20, 2003!
It achieved an average of 31.17 million viewers—a record-breaking figure that rewrites the history of variety television!"
Next came NBC and CBS.
Sure, their executives would've loved to strangle ABC with their bare hands,
but the news and entertainment divisions in every media group are separate entities.
So if the entertainment teams were depressed, well—too bad.
Unless they specifically begged for mercy,
NBC's and CBS's news departments were still bound to report the truth:
"After three months of anticipation, The Voice officially premiered yesterday!"
"The first episode drew 31.17 million viewers!"
"Isabella makes history once again—her star power is unstoppable!"
Television had one major advantage over print media: speed.
But because TV segments had strict time limits, they couldn't go as in-depth as newspapers could.
A paper could just print more pages—TV couldn't.
And so, as the sun climbed higher and the morning papers hit the streets, the scent of fresh ink filled the air, along with a chorus of gasps and cheers across North America.
The Washington Post declared:
"The Voice May Be the Greatest Music Competition in Television History!"
"Anyone who watches TV knows the feeling:
No matter what kind of music program it is, no matter how much they say they love music, once it airs, it's just another entertainment spectacle."
"Music is an art of sound, but television is an art of images.
To attract the viewer's eye, producers always make contestants and judges put on awkward, overacted performances."
"Take American Idol, for example.
The judges and contestants on that stage are like puppets on strings—reciting their passion for music, dramatizing their 'struggles' and 'dreams.'"
"Let's be honest—on American Idol, the stories are better than the songs."
"But The Voice? Completely different.
The blind audition system lets us immerse ourselves in the sound.
When the judges can't see the contestants, music finally becomes the only standard of judgment.
That's the true spirit of talent."
The Los Angeles Times chimed in:
"After Last Night, There's No Doubt: Isabella Truly Loves Music."
"The selection system of The Voice is nothing short of revolutionary!"
"Only someone who genuinely loves music would think to judge by sound alone."
"That's why two full hours felt too short!
It leaves you desperate for more!"
And honestly?
Even a calm, rational person, after reading those two articles, would feel something boil inside.
Because the writing was so exaggerated, it was practically foaming.
If a sewage truck drove by, these journalists would probably grab a ladle and taste-test it out of curiosity—ptooey!—you get the idea.
The point is, their exaggeration worked.
Even people who hadn't seen The Voice suddenly needed to watch it—just to see if those papers were telling the truth.
But compared to The New York Times, the Post and the Times-LA were like junior interns.
Because The New York Times' September 21, 2003 front page headline read:
"North America—Your Queen Has Returned."
And the article beneath it went full Shakespeare:
"Those familiar with world history know that the first empire ever called 'the empire on which the sun never sets' was Spain.
King Charles I once proclaimed, 'The sun never sets on my dominions.'
But the foundation of that empire was laid by his ancestor—Queen Isabella I of Castile.
As Queen of Castile and Aragon, she unified Iberia and funded the great navigator Christopher Columbus, whose voyages brought the New World—North America—into view.
Though she changed the course of human history, she never saw it with her own eyes; she died in 1504, before global seafaring truly began.
We may never know if she dreamed of setting foot on the lands she helped discover…
But five hundred years later—she may have returned."
"The evidence is clear.
In 1999, Warner Bros. announced plans to adapt the Harry Potter novels.
In 2000, they hired Chris Columbus to direct.
That summer, a young European girl named Isabella appeared."
"Laugh if you wish—but hear us out."
"Four years ago, we knew Harry Potter would succeed.
It had a massive fanbase, a great director, ILM doing effects—failure wasn't an option.
What we didn't expect was that the film's greatest miracle wouldn't be its box office, but the arrival of Isabella."
"In the past three years, this girl—who shares a name with the Queen—has delivered miracle after miracle."
"She's the youngest two-billion-dollar actress in film history.
The youngest solo No.1 artist in music history.
And now, after last night, the creator of the most successful TV premiere in history."
"A debut above 3.0 in ratings—something entire generations of producers could only dream of."
"And she achieved it effortlessly—while already holding two other all-time records."
"Let's be honest:
One person breaking one record is amazing.
Breaking two across industries is astonishing.
Breaking three, consecutively, across film, music, and television—that's beyond logic."
"Maybe, like the great figures of history, Isabella's success isn't coincidence.
Maybe the world simply needs her to win."
"And as for why her miracles happen here, in North America—perhaps it's because, five centuries later,the great navigator has finally welcomed his Queen to the New World he discovered."
Boom.
That article detonated the public sphere.
It was so wildly dramatic that people had to talk about it.
Some were shocked—
"Did The New York Times just compare Isabella to Queen Isabella I? Are they insane?!"
"Columbus welcoming his queen to the New World—what a line!"
"Wait—film, music, and TV records? If she conquers animation next, that's total industry domination!"
Some were ecstatic—
"Wait, last night's 31.17 million was a record?
I'm part of history?! I'm amazing! I'm as amazing as Isabella herself! Hahaha!"
"Finally, someone's acknowledging Isabella's cross-industry success!"
"Queen sounds cool, but I still prefer calling her Miss Beaver!"
And some were just losing their minds—
"I knew she was great!
Now stop writing articles and tell ABC to air another episode already!"
"Yes! Forget praising her—urge them to release more content! I need episode two right now!"
"ABC! I'm begging you! Just one more episode! I can't take it—my skin's crawling—just one more—AAAHHH—"
…Yeah.
By the time The Voice's viewership stats came out,
Robert Iger and Barry Meyer were already celebrating like kids on Christmas morning.
Because when your debut breaks 30 million, you don't stay calm—you dance.
And when the media frenzy exploded, their smiles twisted into Nike logos.
They both knew—this was only the beginning.
With the momentum The Voice had, crossing 40 or even touching 50 million wasn't out of the question.
But—
No matter how much the fans screamed, there would be no extra episodes.
The schedule was locked.
Every episode was filmed live.
Even the producers didn't know who'd advance next.
You can't "add episodes" when reality itself hasn't happened yet.
Still, just because they couldn't add more, didn't mean they couldn't add something else.
Since fans were desperate for more, ABC made an offer.
On the evening of September 21, 2003, the production team of The Voice expressed their gratitude to the North American audience through ABC Television.
They thanked everyone for supporting and loving the show, and announced that, starting September 23, a special series titled Growth would officially air on ABC to help the public get to know the contestants better.
Growth was a compilation of pre-national competition performances from all the advancing contestants.
Each episode focused on one or two contestants, running for about 30 minutes. Of course, the exact number of contestants and runtime varied depending on how many had advanced in the previous round. The program aired Mondays through Wednesdays at 7 p.m. in both the Eastern and Western time zones.
Once the news broke, North American audiences were thrilled.
Even though ABC wasn't adding extra main episodes, bonus content was good enough! After all, the pre-national rounds were only broadcast regionally, and the internet wasn't nearly as wild as it would be in the future. Since the public didn't know much about the contestants, these behind-the-scenes clips let them see more.
Uh… yeah, North American fans really are intense when they get hooked on something.
Or maybe that's why Hollywood DVDs have so many editions — bonus edition, complete bonus edition, final bonus edition, full collection bonus edition, and ultimate bonus edition — because, well, people actually buy them.
When September 23 finally arrived, The Voice special Growth aired as scheduled at 7 p.m.
The first featured contestant was Katy Perry.
The 25-minute episode flew by, and when the end credits rolled, Katy Perry realized — she was famous.
No, correction: she'd already become known when The Voice first aired. But after Growth? She was blazing hot.
As for the reason? Simple — Growth pulled in 21.03 million viewers.