Like a time when a woman could live scot-free in exchange for being verbally abused and cheated on, it’s hard to imagine an era in which awards shows offered any form of glamor and/or entertainment. While the 60th Annual Grammys were certainly more “woke” than the Golden Globes claimed they would be this year, the glaring banality couldn’t even be saved by James Corden doing a Carpool Karaoke sketch in the subway with Sting and Shaggy (a combination less likely than Lucille Ball and Immanuel Kant) that allowed the latter to bandy his trademark phrase by the end.
Though it kicked off with a strong enough opening thanks to Kendrick Lamar doing what has become his usual brand of politically charged performances (even if the military motif was already done on Madonna’s American Life, lest we forget the original video), things devolved into a standard yawn fest fairly quickly. And it made a viewer of a certain age wonder: where have all the stars gone? The days when Lil’ Kim would show up with her tit out and lesbianic kisses were exchanged to the chagrin of Justin Timberlake (these moments all happened on the VMAs, but whatever, you get the point). Sure, you had Lana Del Rey in her Statue of Liberty/Hedy Lamarr getup and the Carters looking like they were trying their best re-enactment of the Plastics at the lunch table. But there was no scandal, no grit. Nothing but Mark Ronson looking embarrassed to be sharing a stage with Lady Gaga, Rihanna sounding out of breath (but at least singing instead of lip syncing without a care as she did at the 2016 VMAs), an uninspired in its “tribute” (if by tribute what is meant is a full-on stealing of the In Living Color and Round House pastiche) to the 90s rendition of “Finesse” by Bruno Mars and Cardi B, a rather shaky performance by Kesha praised purely because it speaks to a movement that can’t be stopped, an extremely awkward re-working of Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven” dedicated to the victims of the Las Vegas shooting during the Route 91 Harvest Festival and the same fucking tired performance from Logic, who will sing “1-800-273-8255” for as long as anyone will let him and it can be billed as helpful to those thinking about committing suicide as opposed to the song itself eventually making one want to kill himself instead from being so overplayed.
While the members behind the voting process were clearly trying to catch up and offer recompense for all the lost time it spent pandering a little too heavily to white male listeners, it couldn’t fully dispense with precedent in choosing to give the award for Best Pop Solo Performance to Ed Sheeran in a category that was dominated by four other women. “Shape of You” is catchy, all right, but the politically chic choice would have been “Praying” by Kesha. Sheeran, who was snubbed in most other categories he might have been nominated for when it was still fully a white man’s world, was perhaps taken pity upon by the proverbial academy, but it was a bad call. Sheeran also beat out everyone’s favorite angel of the night, Del Rey, in the category of Best Pop Vocal Album, usurping Lust for Life (the lushest record of 2017) with ÷ (Divide).
Even the once raucous, known for wearing a silver bear leotard and grinding against Robin Thicke Miley Cyrus couldn’t be counted on for much excitement, her latest incarnation favoring long, well-coiffed hair and a ball gown for her performance of “Tiny Dancer” with Elton John. The latter of which, by the way, will sing with just about anyone if it means he can retain some semblance of the limelight, even going so far as to sell the gay community down the river by performing “Stan” with Eminem at the 2001 Grammys.
And here we have officially entered the problem with awards shows of now–of the underlying root of their unavoidable prosaicism: we’re still expecting splendorous staples of the past to remain present. Awards shows have succumbed to the Girls effect, the Lena Dunham-helmed show (sidebar: Patti LuPone is what Lena Dunham will look like in the future) that forced us to dispense with the Sex and the City glitz and stylization we grew so accustomed to and fond of in favor of “rawness.” Like the version of New York that no longer exists, however, and maybe never really did, red carpet glamor and bombastic stage presence don’t either. Even so, we appreciated the smoke and mirrors, came to count on it as an escape from the triviality and lack of glossiness in our own pathetic, couture-bereft lives. I mean, it’s bad when the most crowd-pleasing thing about a ceremony is Snoop Dogg, Cardi B and Hillary Clinton reading excerpts from a horror story masquerading as a political biography. No, shock value is a quaint thing of the bygone era of awards shows. When one didn’t have to take into account if being too sexy would warrant some kind of unhealthy rape fantasy. Or being too offensive (verbally or visually) might prompt a meme destined to live on the internet forever.
Maybe there’s something wrong with me, both for continuing to watch awards shows and expecting a different result, but also for wanting less triteness. Craving the ostentation and gaudiness that Blue Ivy clearly does too, as she conspiratorially expresses her disapproval to her parents, one of the last denizens of celebrity culture that still believe in bringing their A-game to an event. Because as any remaining awe-inspiring celebrity knows, even when you’re not performing, you should always be performing.
