I was all ready to write yet another snarky review of yet another award show after watching the Grammys last night.
I sat down, made a lap for Buzzy and kept a legal pad by my side to jot down my usually free-flowing barbed commentary and nasty-isms about obvious cosmetic procedures, fashion mishaps and terrible performances but, this morning, when I looked at what I'd scrawled, it was all "that was great" or "they were amazing," and even, "I better buy that album!"
On one hand, I was deeply disappointed to have so enjoyed the three and a half hour show yet how bad can it be listening to good music with a warm cat on your lap?
While it's possible that everyone was in a great mood because this year no one had drowned in a bathtub upstairs, the mood was festive from the start. Although I have no idea why Taylor Swift was dressed as Alice in Wonderland to sing her extremely over-exposed song about never, ever getting back together with some
I thoroughly hated her gawky prancing and smug expression and, therefore was gleefully expecting the evening to only get worse. But Taylor proved to be my final moment of discontent until someone named Frank Ocean sang a weird,off-key ramble about Forrest Gump. Of all people.
Having previously bonded with Mr. Ocean because, during an earlier acceptance speech, he thanked his mother, I was shocked at his later performance. Judging by the confused applause, so was the audience. But any man who acknowledges his mommy so sincerely can't possibly be bad so I attribute his lack of melody to nerves and assume that, as a child, he so enjoyed the movie with Tom Hanks that he vowed to "write a really weird song about it someday."
|Looking, and sounding, great!|
As for the other performances, I thought that Mumford and Sons' rousing "I Will Wait" was going to the the best performance of the night until Justin Timberlake slithered out and, in black and white, reminded us why microphone stands and tuxedos are so damn sexy.
Justin was fabulous and I thought that, surely, this had to be the best performance of the evening until The Black Keys popped out and sang "Lonely Boy" which made me want to grab the sleeping Buzzy and bust a move across the indoor/outdoor carpeting. Then my secret crush, the elfin Bruno Mars, blew the crowd away proving that short men with no facial hair can rock it with the best of them. Fun. (the punctuation is their's not mine) was tons of fun, too.
What a night!
Not to mention, the women all looked good, damn it.
Well, almost all the women.
Country star Miranda Lambert must have lost a bet because she was crammed into a 1980's Alexis Carrington reject that was way too short, too sparkly and about six sizes too small.
Plus, Adele was decked out in a brocade housing project pretending to be a dress. She, however was so adorable and happy that I was able to get past it and focus on Kelly Clarkson who, with her unfortunate bleached hair and ill-fitting frock, looked like the crazy woman I used to see ranting at Grand Central every morning when I worked in the city. I do, however, love me some Kelly Clarkson and she was in excellent voice last night.
The predatoryTaylor Swift was prominently featured in the front row. As each celebrity passed her to take the stage, rumor has it that she offered to sleep with them then write a song about it. The only one who accepted her offer was Ellen Degeneres.
|His Royal Highness|
I enjoyed the tribute to the recently late and ever great Levon Helm but still don't understand who the heck "Fanny" is and why she must "take a load off" and was surprised at how happy I was to see Prince in his wardrobe choice of black cowl, Joan Rivers classic's collection necklace and extreme lip gloss. I'm glad to know that I'm not the only one who shops at QVC, Prince.
The Grammys had put out a statement about not wearing dresses that exposed "bare fleshy curves, buttock crack" or mysterious "puffy" skin so I dressed accordingly at home but worried that Rihanna's skimpy top would fly up and scare me or that Alicia Key's underboob would soon become a wardrobe malfunction.
I was also entranced by J-Lo's enviably smooth leg, traumatized by Katy Perry's bottomless cleavage and genuinely alarmed by Florence and the Machine's reptilian green shoulder spikes. I assume she did not want to be hugged by anyone and went home alone.
I also want to try and understand why Johnny Depp insists on tying all kinds of scarves, rags, dipstick-wiping clothes, spit-up bibs and used paper towels to himself whenever he makes a public appearance. If anyone has a theory, please contact me.
|Florence and her spikes.|