What I Learned from the Grammy’s with the Volume Off:

I learned that nobody knows who Chris Brown is. That became obvious from the conversation at the bar. Who is that?  I dunno.  Is that Chris Brown? It might be… Who’s Chris Brown?  

I was also reminded that the music is not half as important as the size of the army convulsing behind you. Given the outlandishly retarded scale of choreography at the Grammy’s one might argue that the songs are irrelevant altoghether. I blame Michael Jackson.  Ever since “Beat It” no visual performance of a dance song can exist without four hundred drones going into seizures behind the singer.  The Dancing Extras Union must be a hell of a powerful force, because we’re talking about 30 years of exactly the same crap.

Where MJ had the trademark hand on his belt everyone else since dropped their paws a few inches.  Now the benchmark is being able to keep one arm pointing at six thirty through your crotch while leading a squadron of hopping orangutans and ducks with hip dysplasia. Are any of the ludicrous choreographies memorable?  Any particular steps notable? Nope, it’s simply silliness as a rule, and as Humpty Hump once put it: No two people will do it the same, You got it down if you appear to be in pain

Other notable revelations from Music’s Big Night –

Alicia Keyes is getting a little chunky yet still wildly hot.  But I am convinced she changes her skin tone depending on what venue she’s playing.  I’ve seen her almost fully Caucasian on the Today show and for the Grammy’s there could be no doubt that Ms. Keyes was black as she tickled the ivories next to that grizzled white hag, Bonnie Raitt.

Grammy Hammy

Adele looked nice and soulful and stuff.  Big, expressive eyes. Still, I couldn’t help but take a little sip of tequila and think “…bet Alanis Morissette can kick the snot out of that sobbing cow”

Dave Grohl is possibly the cheeriest fucker in rock. Can’t blame him, being in one of the last important bands in modern music and now fronting the cash machine that is the Foo Fighters.  I have not seen that dude break his smile ever.

All in all it was nice to have the volume off.  I’m frickin’ sick of hit songs, because my burden is no longer in having to hear an overplayed tune – I have to give thoughtful reflection to each fucking ditty because my kids listen to them. Has to be assessed as acceptable for small people’s ears before allowing it some play in the car. Gotta dig reaching those these points as parents when you become your parents.  Happens everyday, from the things that come out of your mouth (Don’t you get fresh with me, Mr. So and So…) to the weird, “purposeful” poses you strike when answering questions you don’t have the vaguest clue about.

Others are bigger, becoming factors in how you try to stay a few steps in front of your children – whether to protect them, keep them from doing idiotic things or simply to prevent them from having any fun.  Suddenly realizing that all the music kids listen to these days is crap, is one of those moments. You’ve mutated into the same repressed dipshits as your own mom and dad.

I like to delude myself. Say that it ain’t quite the same for me.  The reason today’s radio tunes are silly crap is because they really are – it has nothing to do with me being 43. Matter of fact they’ve really been stupid for decades now.  Creatively, whether we’re talking pop, rock, hip-hop or whatever the fuck “alternative” is now, the music world caught Chlamydia and went barren.  Rarely hear a female vocal which hasn’t gotten computer enhancements. Hardly any tunes which aren’t remixed melodies already made somewhere between 1963 and 2004.  So at least everything is familiar which, as an aging dude, is probably why I don’t hate it all.

What I do hate is current sexual content of Top 40.  Not that there’s so much sex content – but how blatant most of it is.  I’ve always preferred the dirty little innuendos of rock and punk.  It made it easy to play fuck-slanted songs in your room without triggering a conniption in your mother.  And it took more lyrical skill to write those songs. Once upon a time, we all knew what it meant to be “Turning Japanese” and got the full gist of both Devo’s Whip It and Prince’s Little Red Corvette.  There’s very little metaphorical masking anymore.  From Rhianna’s “S&M” to the countless Katy Perry verses which include a threesome, Top 40 is ain’t even trying for slick twists.  This sad surrender probably means we’re quickly headed towards songs with very straightforward titles.  Probably only a year or two away from a Taylor Swift song called “Fucking Billy Joe Makes Me Happy” or a maturing Justin Bieber crooning, “Can I Pork You with My Penis Tonight, Shawty”

The kids are picking up on the sex lyrics too and I loathe having to field their questions at this point. I rapidly switch stations when Rhianna or Britney Spears comes on.  I don’t even want to touch Perry’s “Futuristic Lover”.  Even though it actually aims for metaphoric sex references, the over-the-top repetitiveness makes it apparent she’s trying to get at something.  If G. catches on and finally asks, the only thing I’m gonna be able to tell her is this:  Never, ever, never have sex with aliens – it just can’t turn out good. Saw a space caterpillar get it on with an astrogirl in a movie once.  All she did was scream and get covered in worm barf…

But I don’t always successfully filter what my kids are exposed to. A Personally Monumental Faux Pas: In my attempts to mold my kids into my own idea of cool – I put Rage Against the Machine’s Ashes in the Fall on a cd mix for Jacko.  It’s a pretty great arrangement, so it was sweet to hear him cranking it up in his bedroom. Forgot all about the lyrics when I burned the song for him!  Will always remember them lucidly after hearing Zach de la Rocha in my little boy’s room growling about “the priest that fucked you as he whispered holy things…”

Oops.

Further Reading    and/or    From Coke Whore to Soccer Dad!!!