Miley -Palooza!
Dear Wags,
The Grammys are a bore. But they have the virtue of being far less boring than every other awards show. We are pleased to see that we called most of the winners. Then again, this may say more about the predictability of these affairs than our crazy powers of prophecy. What strikes us, in this fraught moment in history, is how sedate the Grammys were. How very establishment. How …ZZZZ!
The good news/bad news deal with the Grammys is that they are about musicians. They are jazzed up by live performances, but musicians always come too late and stay too long. Never (ever) host a party for music people. They show up after midnight, reeking of the herb, with an entourage you did not invite. Those who actually attend the Grammys wind up being roped into to five or six excruciatingly long events in which the same tunes are sung and there’s no going home until the sun sizzles vampire skin. But we digress. The Grammys had some moments. Here’s what we thought of them.—Marie de Salle
Tracy Chapman is Not Mad at Luke Combs. The best part of the Grammys is when they mash together artists for tributes. What happened to that? At least the show kicked off with a lovely rendition of Fast Car, with Chapman joining Combs on stage. The set energized things after a limp Dua Lipa opener.
Trevor Noah, Your Have Our Sympathies. Game as he is, a stench of desperation hung about about our host, who wandered around the V.I.P. tables, bothering celebrities who studiously avoided eye contact. It was like watching a middle school dance chaperone desperately prodding listless adolescents to dance.
Mylie Cyrus Beamed in from a Better Era. The Tina Turner outfit. The Tina Turner arms. She was the lion’s mane event.
