And the Grammy goes to… I couldn’t tell you the last time I watched the Grammys. I actually don’t know if I’ve ever watched the show, certainly never in its entirety. But we were flipping through the channels that night, and hesitated for a moment when the image of a large, multi-tiered stage and orchestra appeared. "
When ‘The Grammys’ returns, a performance by Best Album nominee Radiohead!"
We paused, impressed. Radiohead? These guys are innovators in sound, composition, music technology, and with this particular album, marketing. It’s available on their website for free. The band asks that you pay what you’d like for it. Such trust in fans in this era of instant gratification, self-justified digital piracy, and economic implosion is unheard of. So what the hell were they doing being nominated for a Grammy? I thought only top-selling country artists and Coldplay won these things.
Down went the remote. I committed. After the commercial break, a few impotent technical awards were announced, and then Gwenneth Paltrow came out in a slinky number and started literally creaming over “the next musical guest”. I swear she was on the verge of tears. They didn’t cut away to her husband, the lead singer of Coldplay, but I bet he was muttering angrily in sleepy, emo-British. The lights dimmed and the camera cut to the stage, where the lead singer and guitarist were backed not by the rest of Radiohead, but by a 30-piece college marching band. The rendition was great, and I was impressed that the band mixed it up for an internationally televised performance. Then before the next commercial break,
"When ‘The Grammys’ returns, a performance by Best Album nominee Lil Wayne!" Lil Wayne? It was like the 15th seed just beat the 2nd seed in the other Conference. Suddenly this thing looked winnable.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. How could the Best Album Grammy go to a band with a lead singer that looks like the kid from Gummo with Clay Aiken’s haircut?
Well I’ll be damned if Thom York is going to lose a freak contest to a dude that looks like Whoopi Goldberg and Gary Coleman’s kid enhanced with Truckasaurus parts.
When Lil Wayne performed, he was backed by an orchestra. I suddenly realized that it was The Grammys, and not Radiohead, that was pushing the artists to expand their performances. I gained hope that this was an actual celebration of music and innovation, and not just a popularity contest. Then we got Ne-Yo or T-I or Something-Something, and he was backed by another orchestra and a piano-playing Justin Timberlake dressed for a camping weekend in Greenland. Another R&B / rap act nominee? Another Conference had fallen! As I’m sure you’re already thinking, Ne-Yo is nothing but an inflated Grace Jones look-alike in a Liz Phair hoodie.
I was actually getting excited. Radiohead vs. Lil Wayne vs. Ne-Yo. I liked the odds. My confidence was bolstered further by a speech given by the president of the Grammys, a bearded suit excitedly reminding the world that our new President was actually a Grammy winner, having won the award for his audio recording of The Audacity of Hope. The Grammy-prez explained that now was the time to focus on the art of music by encouraging our new President, himself an artist, to create a new Secretary of the Arts position, to inspire America and the world to focus on creativity and inspiration. Ne-Yo inspires me to hide my wallet, and Lil Wayne inspires me to watch the Flavor of Love. I started imagining what anti-government, anarchic speech Radiohead would deliver at the podium.
Finally, the last performance of the evening – Robert Plant and some hag named Alison Krauss, singing an uninspired slow rock song with no orchestra, no marching band, no energy, no chance. It was utterly forgettable, except that Robert Plant now looks like a chemical experiment involving Phil Spector and Gandalf.
The moment had arrived. The presenter named the nominees. Lil Wayne. Ne-Yo. Heh. Robert Plant and Alison Krause. Whatever. Radiohead. First the Phillies. Then Obama. Now this. It’s been a winning season. And Coldplay. Fuck. Coldplay? Christ. It’s like a retarded kid running for class president. No one else has a chance. Coldplay is like the sleeping, colorless ghost of U2.
And yet I could feel victory slip away. Coldplay is the semi-political, semi-catchy, semi-inspirational band that the Grammys would likely find at its most extreme boundary of acceptance, but without sacrificing record sale popularity. No need to cross the aisle all the way to Radiohead when a more user-friendly alternative is smiling from the front row, no matter how much its wife swooned over the competition.
"And the Grammy goes to…" I watched the five artists on the split screen, already feeling pity for Radiohead and hatred for smug Coldplay. "
Robert Plant and Alison Krause!" I think I actually scared my girlfriend with my response. It wasn’t really anger, but absolute disgust. Are we going to be talking about this Plant / Krause album in 10 years? 10 months? 10 fucking weeks? No. It was an award of the moment, celebrating nothing. Such a waste.
For forty minutes, I put my faith into “the system”. And it kicked me squarely in the balls. Fool me once, I guess. Oh, for the days when I only listened to Iron Maiden.
