Like every year, the Grammys were predictable, monotonous and downright stupid. Of course, we all tuned in.
The vapid, 210-minute broadcast crowned yet another fleeting songstress the future of music, found Fred Durst creating a new word in “agreeance,” and featured the usual melange of safe performances by water-soluble artists.
As for the performances, the results were mixed. Coldplay had no business playing “Politik,” when the rest of the gems on A Rush of Blood To The Head are significantly stronger, Avril Lavigne sounded incredibly flat without the assistance of Pro Tools, and No Doubt needs to officially stop making music for the remainder of their lives.
Gwen Stefani’s Scottish soccer hooligan meets CBGB’s punk façade is such a bore now, and it’s a shame that the public still can’t get enough of her doing push-ups on stage like it’s a Wu-Tang gig in the Bronx.
What did work was the tribute to Clash singer Joe Strummer by Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello, Steven Van Zandt and Dave Grohl. The grouping was like comic-book lore coming to life, with four superheroes of rock music coalescing in perfect harmony. They kept their rendition of “London Calling” like the Clash catalogue itself — simple, passionate and engaging.
Another odd surprise was the duet between Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock on “You’re An Original.” Despite Crow appearing quite uncomfortable with the bass, she looked and sounded great for a 40 year old, and Kid Rock was uncharacteristically refined and confident in what would seem a somewhat odd pairing to the average person on the street.
What was utterly appalling was the tripartite performance by Vanessa Carlton, John Mayer and living legend James Taylor. The performances themselves were fine, with Taylor the best performer by a long shot.
What was unacceptable was the underlying message that perhaps Carlton and Mayer are somehow on level with or successors to Taylor. All you can do is hang your head and sigh at such asininity.
Twenty-three-year-old chanteuse Norah Jones walked away the toast of the town with eight Grammys, continuing the female singer-songwriter kick that the academy seems to have been on these last several years with the likes of Alicia Keys and Lauryn Hill.
Lauryn Hill didn’t do much for her fledgling career by shunning Caucasian listeners, and Alicia Keys seems primed to just keep on falling down the ranks of forgettable lounge acts.
For Jones, it was just a numbers game. The academy likes repetition and is happy to oblige the press with nice, cookie-cutter headlines like “(Insert artist here) sweeps Grammys with eight awards. More on page 6C.”
While the daughter of sitar legend Ravi Shankar has a pleasant, smoky voice, did she or her team of writers compose the album of the year? Nah, but it is nice to see a hardworking, relatively humble singer get some credit instead of the easier option of handing the award for “Album of The Year” to Bruce Springsteen and his Sept.11-inspired The Rising.
Bruce can’t be happy that he got passed over. It seemed like a surefire win was in the cards for him, with the show being in New York and him pulling double duty in the live-performance sector. Bruce will be back, though, and unfortunately the odds aren’t with Jones, who is just a momentary pawn in a much larger game of chess.
What was heartening, though, was the absence of any award given to the elitist garage-rock movement. It’s good to see that none of those bands have been recognized for the last couple years, because they don’t deserve to be. They most certainly aren’t here to stay and aren’t going to change music forever and every little bit of non-recognition helps this important cause.
It was boring, it was a waste of time, but we’ll probably still watch next year. And to quote Fred Durst, I think we’re all in “agreeance” about that.
