Mercifully, I don't remember much before Lady Bey took the stage but I know that if my mother had access to the Weekend (who won the night for most improved hair-do), she would have slapped his face for his lyrics. She would also have told Bruno Mars that if he really planned to have sex anywhere near a fire to be sure and take off that synthetic Garanimals outfit he was wearing because it appeared to be extremely flammable.
|I'm pretty sure this very outfit was on sale in the children's department of Sear's last week.|
Every year I announce the Grammys were the worst ever. While I’m not sure if yesterday’s were the worst, they were very, very weird---starting with the noted absence of Taylor Swift gyrating with closed eyes from the first row. Instead, they filled the audience with Jonases.
Thanks to the magic of my DVR, I was able to fast forward through Katy Perry’s partially pre-recorded production number which concluded against a backdrop of the preamble to the Constitution. Now that would have made James Madison and the co-authors of the greatest document ever written very proud, I'm sure. What was Katy's specific intent with that message, you may ask. Who knows...but I wonder if Katy voted in the last election or if, as usual, she spent her day making prank calls to John Mayer or trying to get Russell Brand's visa permanently revoked.
|"I'm so sorry I swore....again.|
Usually when I write an awards show review, if I’m unfamiliar with an artist I’ll do a little research but, this year, while I enjoyed the duet between Alicia Keys' hair and the woman who forgot to put on her pants, I am unmotivated to do any googling. Instead, I’ll dig out my old Duffy CD and listen to it again. While the primary difference between Alicia’s mystery partner and Duffy is that Duffy wore pants while performing, the two sound so similar that I fear they will suffer identical fates: the bargain bin at Walmart in about a week.
|Off her game last night....|
Laverne Cox was more drag queen-y than the gorgeous and dignified trans-gender actress I’ve enjoyed in the past and while the always magnificent James Hetfield’s mike didn’t work for half the song, Metallica’s performance with Lady Gaga perked up my night. In other highlights, Bruno Mars and that sweet little hairless face of his can do almost no wrong and, while I am sick of Prince worship, I enjoyed Bruno's rendition of my personal favorite from the pen of His Purpleness, “Let’s Go Crazy.” Another enjoyable performance was by the eternally funky Morris Day and “The Time” of Minneapoliswho did a nice job honoring their mentor.
Neil Diamond, enjoying a day pass from assisted living, participated in a faux car pool karaoke with the irrepressible (because he says so) James Corden who is reportedly locked in combat for the most self-aggrandizing behavior from a late night talk host with the coked-up (mark my words, America---you heard it here first) Jimmy Fallon. A group of A-listers was quickly assembled to sing Diamond's “Sweet Caroline" yet, despite its status as an established classic, everyone seemed to be looking at a monitor for the lyrics...except Blue Ivy who, in an attempt to escape the gravitational pull of her mother’s gleaming busoms, wandered into the shot.
Poor Celine Dion has had some very tough times lately. It appears grief has intensified her French Canadian accent as she presented an award to Adele decked out in yet another outfit whipped up from discontinued upholstery fabric. Soon after Celine left for diction class, Solange Knowles popped up. Heavily sedated at the direct request of her brother-in-law Jay-Z so she wouldn’t attack him a second time, I happily sniffed my Sharpie in solidarity and again, tried to avoid looking directly into the vortex of her sister Beyonce’s glowing cleavage.
Much of the remainder of the show is a blur, including the tribute to the Bee Gees. I seem to recall Barry Gibb looking confused amidst the sea of unshaven Jonases but, by now, I was also having trouble staying awake, so most of Chance the Rapper’s performance was lost although I think I saw Chef Anne Burrell from “Worst Cooks in America” in a glittering gown, belting out a gospel number.
The DVR stopped recording a few minutes before the end so I will never know what adorable shtick James Corden employed to further endear himself to the universe or if Jimmy Fallon rushed the stage and they tumbled away like Cato and the Pink Panther.
All I know for sure is I’m buying a Gary Clark Junior CD later today.