Not that I'm against an event's emcee leading the audience in some random activity: I'd just like it to be the Hokey-Pokey for a change.
I know I took notes when the star of Kung Fu Panda, Year One and iCarly gave a Master Class on the difficulties of retaining one's indie cred. The Foo Fighters obviously listened, abandoning their repertoire to play a grunge remake of Ca Plan Pour Moi all three times they came up to bat.
Naturally I was brought to tears by the many tributes. The Band Perry saluted Glen Campbell by singing Gentle On My Mind, a tune written by John Hartford. Which is a little like paying tribute to Ashton Kutcher by reading old scripts from Two and a Half Men, but whatever.
Though the telecast seemed to proceed without incident, Lady Gaga watched from behind a police barricade.
I hope I don't sound "hipper than thou," but I live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which is where all the hot new music comes from. Naturally I was thrilled when Best New Artist went to Bonnie Bear.
Another highlight, of course, was Adele. What a gem! And I say this as someone who still thinks "Rolling in the Deep" is about mudwrestling. It seems like just weeks ago the music industry's modus operandi was notorious: rich white men would take some skinny chick and manufacture a singer out of her. No, judging by the the sea of white male faces behind Adele, now they're doing it with fat chicks too.
It's like she's speaking for an entire generation when she sings, "You had my heart inside your hand, and you played it to the beat."
Still, one dark blotch marked otherwise pristine proceedings. Outside the Staples Center, Hispanic musicians protested the elimination of an award for Latin jazz. "The Grammy Awards are not what it used to be," said Bobby Sanabria, a Latin percussionist. "It used to be about excellence in music."
Bravo to Mr. Sanabria! I totally agree. Now let's give 1978's Best New Artist the last word.
