The Grammy Awards were never meant for us—and by
"us," I mean people who actually love and listen to current music in
all of its myriad permutations, from the commercial and mundane to the off-beat
and weird. If that weren't clear, the Grammys—whom we're basically going to
treat as a cabal of old white men smoking cigars in the most inner sanctum of
an old-timey private men's club where they still listen to things on the
"phonograph"—made it extra clear from the outset by letting LL Cool J
get his overly excited hosting on like he just said
"Box!" in Krush Groove, only to open up with AC/DC,
who are surprisingly not in wheelchairs. (They actually released an album last
year. Who'd thunk, eh?) AC/DC frontman Brian Johnson rocked his Andy Capp hat,
looking like an undercover NYPD detective from a late-'70s movie; guitarist
Angus Young—rocking his Dickensian schoolboy outfit—seemed to be the last
living member from one of those random gangs from The Warriors, who was
either going to ask, "More porridge, please?" or get real vexed at
you for stealing his Lucky Charms. For added measure, members of the
audience—from A-list artists to seat-fillers—donned devil horns, as if solely
to troll Internet Illuminati conspiracy theorist extra hard....like this happened multiple times with the devil,bull, horn stuff but I digress.
Opening with AC/DC was less likely an invocation ceremony,
as much as it was the planting of a great, Viagra-stiff, Dad Rock flag
emblazoned with the words "Fuck You" via arthritic hands. Dave Grohl
was feeling it. Paul McCartney was feeling it. Lady Gaga was feeling it. If you
kept watching past that point, you got what you deserved. If you confused those
geriatric rockers for zombies from The Walking Dead and didn't realize
you were on the wrong channel, that's on you. If you stayed past the first presenter
of the night—which was Taylor Swift, the most annoying famous white girl on the
face of the planet—then fuck you. They done told you to get off their lawn,
already.
If you're one of those people who are still crying for some
sort of true representation of the now's musical climate via the Grammys,
you're an idiot, Or Kanye West...those things are mutually exclusive.
Because here's the thing that Kanye doesn't get: The Grammys
are bloated on self-importance and led by guys who will only let greatness be
great on their own terms. Unlike last week's lip
sync-heavy Super Bowl halftime orgy that was meant for devotees of wanton
consumerism, 'Murica and mindlessness, the Grammys are serious. The
pretentiousness, gravitas and highbrow self-indulgence of the ceremony is not a
byproduct of unconscious oversight or a symptom of things gone off the rails.
Like racism and poverty in America, it is the very thing which the
Grammys are built on. The Grammys exist to celebrate snobbery, just like
the 4th of July exists to celebrate white men, and Veterans and Memorial Days
exist to promote imperialism. Nothing is a mistake here. When nigh-corpses of
bygone stars are wheeled out like Bernie (from Weekend at Bernie's), and
you say, "Wait—that guy's still alive?" that's not a mistake. When they
announce nominees and you say, "Oh, that's how you pronounce her
name?" that's not a mistake. When they play song clips and you say,
"I've never heard this song before in my life," that's not a mistake.
That's what the Grammys do. It's their raison d'être. It's the ceremony's
destiny manifested.
To the show's credit, however, there were some truly
inspired performances. Hozier's "Take Me to Church" performance was
anti-climactic, but then Annie Lennox came through, brought the Holy Ghost with
her, and proceeded to kick in the door with "I Put a Spell on You."
If you know what you were listening to, you heard Screamin' Jay Hawkins, you
heard Notorious B.I.G., you heard Preemo. And—even through the not
insignificant whitewashing of black heritage that the Grammys promotes so
deftly that it's undoubtedly written into the organization's top-secret mission
statement—there was some unabashed, fundamentally beautiful Negro shit afoot.
Pharrell Williams' rendition of "Happy" (a.k.a. "The Song That
Will Not Die") was gloriously huge and featured not just concert pianist
Lang Lang (who?) and Hans Zimmer (fuck yeah!) but a "Hands Up, Don't
Shoot" moment, as did Beyoncé's
Ledisi jack of Mahalia Jackson's "Precious Lord, Take My Hand."
And, Prince—all swag, all the time—straight up said, "Black lives
matter," when he got to the mic to present Beck with the Album of the Year
Award (which Kanye almost did a "I'ma
let you finish" on, but thankfully didn't).
And there were other breakthroughs. In addition to Target's
disingenuous $8 million Imagine Dragons ad masquerading as a performance
and the requisite "save the (streaming) music" PSA from National
Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences president Neil Portnow and friends
(which elicited a hilarious "Negro, please" reaction from Pharrell
and a blank face from aspiring streaming music mogul Jay Z), there was a call
from Barack Obama to end domestic violence, followed by a few moments of
confession from Brooke Axtell, a telegenic sexual violence survivor.
Surprisingly (or tastefully), there were no Chris Brown or Rihanna reaction
shots, which could have been moving or sensationalist, or both. (For the
record: the two are not mutually exclusive.)
But perhaps the biggest surprise of the night was Iggy
Azalea's newfound ability to properly use social media. Instead of making some
patronizing comments about her shutout at the Grammys—which aborted dozens of
gestating thinkpieces—she took to Twitter to beef about a
Papa John's delivery guy giving out her phone number to his brother,
effectively shifting the focus from LOL to sympathy. It's tempting to read her
snub as a conciliatory gesture on the part of a cabal of old white men
listening to phonograph recordings. After all, Kendrick Lamar did win Best Rap
Song and Best Rap Performance for "i"; and A$AP Yams—as hip-hop as
hop ever was or will be—was graciously included in the list of the year's
deceased members of the music community (unlike
Gangstarr's Guru in 2011), for what may have been the most moving moment of
the night for those of us who actually love and listen to current music in all
of its myriad permutations.
It doesn't change that the Grammys don't give a fuck about
us. But they do see us. And that one moment of seeing Yams, with his braids and
baseball cap and tattoos and facial birthmark, placed on equal ground with
rockist legends made sitting through all of the bullshit almost worth it.
Almost.
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