The 2010 Grammys
or, What is this Sh*t??!
by Django Jones


Well, the Grammys are over and they were, in keeping with the spirit
of the banking bailout and the corporate takeover of all things good and valuable, a garish, soulless, Circus Maximus spectacle. I kept thinking that they'd throw one of the chorus line dancers to a lion, just to keep the interest level up. From the start, with Lady Gaga being dumped into an incinerator then coming out all soot covered to sing a duet with a soot covered Sir Elton John, I figured that any semblance of good taste or class was heading right out the window. My instincts were pretty good. The night was mainly consistent with the theme of gigantic overblown empty-headed idiocy. Beyonce stomped on stage with an army that vaguely recalled the Chinese Terra Cotta warriors, Pink sang her song swinging from a trapeze, then was lowered into a vat of water, at which point she swung around and showered the audience with droplets. (Oh my god, oh my god, I got hit by water from Pink!!) Green Day, who used to at least act like they had some kind of integrity, performed 21 Guns with the cast of their new Broadway show (punk kid fans freak out and are forced to do serious soul searching over their idols) fists in the air, suddenly looking like the cast of Les Miz. Everyone's darling Taylor Swift sang a duet with Stevie Nicks and somebody must have left the autotune switch off, because Taylor sang as flat as a Texas highway.
I didn't get the email about the 3-D glasses, so I went out to the refrigerator during the Michael Jackson "Earth Song" tribute, but caught enough to see that it was at least respectfully done. Celine Dion sang Michael's parts pretty well, actually, and could probably do a Jackson impersonation show if her regular career ever fizzles. Jennifer Hudson, in one small bright shining spot in the evening, sang beautifully, as did Smokey Robinson. Michael's kids were sweet and cute. Dave Matthews was fun, so was the Zac Brown band, but by now I'd about had it. I wanted to see Jeff Beck, though.

He was worth the wait, and did a swinging, heartfelt, respectful tribute
to Les Paul, recreating Les and Mary Ford's classic, "How High the Moon," with singer Imelda May. After that I clicked off, wondering what they'd do next year. Bungie jumping? Shooting the Jonas Brothers out of a cannon? An underwater rock musical with Beyonce, Taylor and Pink in bikini's, like Weeki Wachee girls? Or they can splice in a reality show segment, and have Miley Cyrus in a "just us girls" chat with Katy Perry, about losing her virginity. The possibilities are endless, but you can be sure of one thing - when it comes to class and good taste, it'll be nowhere to be found.
Rant, Rant Against the Dying of the Light
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