Flotsam and Jetsam
I haven’t sat through an awards show in several years, so I decided to give our new sofa a try and endure that Super Bowl for People subscribers, the Grammys.
The Police, poised for their comeback tour, made the audacious choice of the oddly compelling “Roxanne” to kick things off. Their sparse presentation thankfully lacked the pomp and circumstance of a gyrating Ricky Martin number. They looked and sounded great. Even the people besides the kids they hire to stand in the front and wave their arms around wildly, waved their arms around wildly. I’d probably pay $150 a ticket to see them perform live. Which is, of course, the intended result.
I forgot what a marketing-palooza these awards shows are. The Chevy commercials featuring 8-time nominee Mary J. Blige were especially ubiquitous. And not one, but two performances by Ms. Blige (whom I call Bilge) precluded the broadcast of many awards considered to be of lesser interest to the average consumer. I watched the ticker that appeared at the bottom of the screen during the bumper sequences for awards relating to the music I actually care about. This is sad.
Other lowlights to me were:
1. A painfully long volley of Eagles covers between Carrie Underwood and CMT-manufactured band Rascall Flatts. Highly derivative bands covering other derivative bands. Can’t they hire the actual Eagles? Hell’s frozen over several times at this point.
2. Short shrift given to the lifetime achievement nominees, who each deserved their own documentary-length coverage.
3. Ornette Coleman giving an award to Carrie Underwood. Check, please. This is where I turned off the broadcast.
If Ludacris’ father is actually in critical condition somewhere, what the f is Ludacris doing at the Grammys ceremony???
I kept track, during the hour and a half I endured this show, of whom the people winning awards thanked. Here’s the breakdown:
Mom: 2
God: 2
Industry people: 4
The Fans: 1
Target: 1
Rick Rubin: 1
I’m pretty sure God doesn’t give two shits about how many Grammys Mary J. Blige wins. Maybe I’m just projecting.
The Police, poised for their comeback tour, made the audacious choice of the oddly compelling “Roxanne” to kick things off. Their sparse presentation thankfully lacked the pomp and circumstance of a gyrating Ricky Martin number. They looked and sounded great. Even the people besides the kids they hire to stand in the front and wave their arms around wildly, waved their arms around wildly. I’d probably pay $150 a ticket to see them perform live. Which is, of course, the intended result.
I forgot what a marketing-palooza these awards shows are. The Chevy commercials featuring 8-time nominee Mary J. Blige were especially ubiquitous. And not one, but two performances by Ms. Blige (whom I call Bilge) precluded the broadcast of many awards considered to be of lesser interest to the average consumer. I watched the ticker that appeared at the bottom of the screen during the bumper sequences for awards relating to the music I actually care about. This is sad.
Other lowlights to me were:
1. A painfully long volley of Eagles covers between Carrie Underwood and CMT-manufactured band Rascall Flatts. Highly derivative bands covering other derivative bands. Can’t they hire the actual Eagles? Hell’s frozen over several times at this point.
2. Short shrift given to the lifetime achievement nominees, who each deserved their own documentary-length coverage.
3. Ornette Coleman giving an award to Carrie Underwood. Check, please. This is where I turned off the broadcast.
If Ludacris’ father is actually in critical condition somewhere, what the f is Ludacris doing at the Grammys ceremony???
I kept track, during the hour and a half I endured this show, of whom the people winning awards thanked. Here’s the breakdown:
Mom: 2
God: 2
Industry people: 4
The Fans: 1
Target: 1
Rick Rubin: 1
I’m pretty sure God doesn’t give two shits about how many Grammys Mary J. Blige wins. Maybe I’m just projecting.
posted by expediency101 at 10:36 AM
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