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Friday, Nov 27, 2009
Flagging sales? War in Iraq? Dead concertgoers? "Whatever," says a flaggng music industry hiding behind Norah Jones and Eminem at the big Grammys telecast.
Feb 24, 2003 | During Sunday night's Grammy telecast from Madison Square Garden, Grammy chief Neil Portnow assured the audience that "the music industry is very much alive." He seemed to think that if he said it enough times someone would believe him.
Clearly the American music industry is dying before our eyes. Mostly it's the victim of online piracy, which means that its product is now free, and -- let's face it -- that model would kill almost any business. More troubling, though, are the signs that the industry has become increasingly remote to the world in which it lives.
The pre-Grammy buzz centered on whether well-known Bush critics like Sheryl Crow, Bruce Springsteen and Robin Williams would turn the prime-time awards show into an antiwar rally. The answer was no. During the surprisingly subdued telecast, in which the ivory-tickling 23-year-old singer Norah Jones stole the honors, one dopey hard rocker did take a shot at a political statement, and Sheryl Crow's guitar strap pronounced "No War." But in the end there were no shouts of protest, let alone a Bette Midler moment, like the one at the Grammys during the Gulf War. Remember? The audience leapt in applause to her live rendition of the song "From a Distance," and in particular the line, "From a distance we all have enough/ And no one is in need/ And there are no guns, no bombs and no disease."
I suppose artists could be forgiven for not wanting to cause a stir about Iraq. After all, it's hard enough to sell records these days without pissing off consumers with political preaching. A far graver sin was the deafening Grammy silence surrounding last week's club deaths in Chicago and Warwick, R.I., where nearly 120 music fans, out for a night of fun, were crushed or burned to death. In an unconscionable omission, not a single person connected with the Grammys -- not one navel-gazing performer, presenter, winner or television producer -- thought enough to take 10 seconds of TV time to remember the dead in Rhode Island and Chicago, to offer a kind word or prayer, or to send out a simple condolence. It was an unthinkable display of disregard for music fans everywhere, and one that will take years for the Grammys to live down.
Because what happened in Chicago, and even more specifically in Rhode Island, where patrons paid money to see a live band, was a music community tragedy and should have been felt and absorbed at the highest level. In Rhode Island alone, 96 rock fans are dead, a Great White guitar player is dead, a local Providence rock DJ, who worked the overnight shift for nearly 20 years, is dead, and the band's sound man was nearly burned alive. Meanwhile, the music industry pretends nothing happened, and hands out prizes without an ounce of public sympathy? The blunder only highlights how vast the canyon has become between the industry and its consumers, who apparently have become an afterthought. What follows is a timeline of the rest of the night's events, from the gloomily blockbuster opening, to the big ending, three and a half hours later.
8:00: Dustin Hoffman meanders out to center stage and introduces lifetime achievement award honorees Simon & Garfunkel. Rumor has it the duo is contemplating a reunion tour this summer. Will this performance help advance ticket sales? Fifty-fifty. Simon appears without his usual baseball cap. Boy, is he old. Same goes for Garfunkel. But their voices playing off each other are still a wonder. I'm not sure their song selection does the Grammys any favor, though: "Sounds of Silence" may be one of the most somber pop hits in modern times, and strikes a peculiar opening note to what's supposed to be a raucous annual affair.
8:07: Hoffman, seeming dazed (let's hear it for "Bruce Springstreet!"), announces that for the first time the Grammys will proceed with no host, and therefore, no laughs.
8:10: California ska rockers No Doubt perform while extras dangle upside down from ropes above them. The band refuses to play its hit "Rock Steady" (y'know, "Hey baby, hey baby, hey!") and opts for a middling medley of "Underneath It All" and "Hella Good," a number that even fatigue-clad dancers can't save. It's a musical mess, and an audience reaction shot lets us know Aretha Franklin is unimpressed.
8:22: While candles flicker, the impossibly young and talented Norah Jones croons the sweet, smoky sounds of "Don't Know Why," the song that's soothed us to sleep for months now.
8:28: It appears that something has gone very wrong with Faith Hill's career. The once-endearing country singer crossed over to pop and seems to have been clipped in the process. Tonight she's dressed like a high-class whore and singing what's now become her signature: schlocky ballads. Depressing.
8:38: Ad for new Chris Rock flick "Head of State," a movie about goofy white people in the White House acting black. Opening March 23.
8:41: Dressed as if he's busking on the subway, John Mayer sings his acoustic make-out ditty "Your Body Is a Wonderland." TeenPeople readers nationwide swoon.
8:43: Singer-songwriter Mayer introduces "the blueprint," James Taylor, who, accompanied by cellist Yo-Yo Ma, sings "Sweet Baby James." I'm guessing that over the last 30 years J.T.'s plucked this number between 840 and 950 times in front of a live audience. Still, it's an American wonder -- if not a wonderland -- that creates an immediate intimacy that other classics, like Simon and Garfunkel's "Sounds of Silence," for instance, never seem to achieve. Standing O for Taylor.
8:50: Viewers are spared yet another Monday night rant by Bill O'Reilly when his whipping boy Ludacris loses best rap record to Eminem, aka the last man in the music industry who still sells millions of records.
