When good ol' webmaster Stevie boy needed someone to cover the Grammys, he needed a man with a certain toughness, a man with superior writing skills, a man with testicular fortitude, and above all, a man with four hours to kill. I was that man.
The evening shot off live from the Staples Center with our old pal Prince (he's still alive?). Already the weirdness factor has set in, as Prince has a guitar shaped like his old symbol-name. Honestly, it looks like bait to me... but what do I know about symbol-names? Prince is entertaining as usual, singing "Purple Rain" and showing flashes of his old self... that is, until the quintessential example of "better seen and not heard" shows up. That's right boys and girls, Beyonce! As they stumble through "Crazy in Love" and some other load of crap, I switch to the NFL Pro Bowl.
Back on CBS, Prince is finishing the first crap duet of the night with a guitar solo. I haven't heard guitar quite like that since Marty McFly filled in during the Enchantment Under the Sea dance. Take some lessons, pal. This is followed by a patented Grammy moment: the "artist who just performed wins the next award, if they're up for it." Every time. A Beyonce duet with Prince led right into the first award of the night, R&B album. She got it. I decide that I need to take a quick shower and wash off the stink of injustice, but not until the next commercial.
Good decision, I soon see, as I get to watch Ellen DeGeneres stumble through one of her "No, not this, but this... you know what I mean!" pointless monologues to complete silence. Score one for me, as the score now reads Dan: 1, RIAA: 1. She eventually puts herself out of her misery and introduces Dave Matthews, Sting (who is Person of the Year, for God knows what reason), Pherrel, and Vince Gill to perform a Beatle tribute. It's perfect really, because when I think modern-day Beatles I think Dave Matthews, Sting, Pherrel, and Vine Gill. Off to the shower.
Naked and dripping wet, I come back to see another great Grammy move: an artist schitzing out. Someone was announced, they can't find him/her/them, and everyone in the audience is turning their heads. Good times. Andre 3000 eventually makes it to the stage (Outkast won something), and after at least a minute of dead air, says "Thank you" and sits down, with his tiny son in tow. Outkast takes the early lead in the race to take the Grammy spotlight.
My favorite acceptance speech of the night comes after Martina McBride sings about beating a little girl (which gave me a three minute window for the Pro Bowl) when Justin Timberlake gets an award for one of his crapola songs. He says a thank you or two, and goes immediately into an apology for the Super Bowl-Janet incident. "Hey, please, I've had enough this past week," he bitches when someone heckles him. He also sticks to his previous claim that it was all an accident and assumes that if he says it enough he'll believe himself. My hatred for him seethes inside and my blood boils. Brian McGrath, who has joined me by this point, points out the fact that Mrs. Timberlake is dressed like a cheap whore.
After Alicia Keyes (tonight's example number two of the "better seen and not heard" theory), we get to this year's "Performance Gone Terribly Wrong." To my extreme pleasure, the honor goes to Celine Dion! She comes out to perform Luther Vandross' "Dance with My Father," which is, as Brian put it, "a double whammy of crap." Well after the dumb bitch takes the wrong microphone out to stage, the engineers can't get the equipment right. Maybe the machine that translates her demon tongues into English was broken, who knows. She eventually starts and, of course, receives a standing ovation from the crowd... those buffoons.
I won't discuss Sting and Sean Paul or Justin Timberlake and jazz great Arturo Sandoval, because I'm still getting over them. Does the RIAA hold a yearly meeting to try to top last year's mindless duets, or is it a lottery system? Can we please see Eminem duet with Michael McDonald next year? And 50 Cent with Springsteen? Please?
Black Eyed Peas sang, "Where is the Love," which is a good song, but as Brian points out, "insanely cheesy." I enjoy it anyway... until Timberlake shows up AGAIN! I would have given anything for Andre 3000 to hit him with a folding chair and take his microphone, but alas, I am not in charge of the Grammys. Beyonce comes out for a performance, and I duck back into ESPN.
She concluded with a bird flying into her hand... and another standing applause. Just awful. At this point, I was thinking, "If they don't give 'Hey Ya' a standing ovation, I'm blowing up the Staples Center." Side note: 50 Cent loses best new artist to Evanescence, but goes up on stage anyway. 50 HOTT.
By far, the best part of the show was the fifteen-minute worship of Funk, with devotees Earth, Wind and Fire, Outkast, Robert Randolph and George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelics tearing the rook off the sucka. EW&F started it off with (that song that starts off with "when you wish upon a star," you'd know it if you heard it), Outkast rocks my socks off with "The Way You Move," Robert Randolph and the Family Band rock hard, and George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelics are their usual dopey selves throughout "We Want the Funk." The entire thing was really fun, highlighted by Bootsy Collins' high-pitched scream of "YYEEEAAAAHH!" at the end. Good times, great oldies. Just like CBS-FM.
Back to the Pro Bowl... and Tim Hasselbeck is officially my new favorite QB to hate. It's been tough to find one these last few years; McNabb tries too hard, Fiedler isn't good enough, and Brady is so... pointless. Hasselbeck gave that great "We're gonna take the ball, and we're gonna WIN!" speech at Green Bay this postseason, which alone made me hate him, but then punctuated it by throwing an interception for a touchdown. When Bubba Franks dogs it on a streak pattern, I remember why no one watches the Pro Bowl.
This is getting long, so let me summarize the rest. The Foo Fighters and Chuck Correa's performance of "Times like These," a performance I thought would steal the show, was mediocre. Zevon won the token "Dead Guy" award, with Springsteen. The president of the RIAA comes out and puts down illegal downloading, giving us a site where we can pay instead of getting it free. Coldplay gives (surprisingly) the only political endorsement when they push Kerry after winning best record for Clocks. Andre 3000 plays "Hey Ya" with a college marching band behind him (rocks my f'ing socks off). Finally, Outkast ensures a book ending of the Grammys with "artist wins immediately after performing" with Speakerboxx/The Love Below winning Album of the Year.
So there it is, the 2004 Grammy Awards. In the words of Andre 3000, "Stank you."
"You're smellcome."