Coloring Within The Lines

By DEBORAH SPRAGUE

The folks behind the Grammy Awards like nothing better than a good, well-scripted story – and that’s exactly what the universe (helped along by the ever-predictable NARAS voters) delivered this past weekend. After several years of disjointed storylines – old standbys getting props, young turks performing and waiting for their shot at the gold – the fates converged and delivered a perfect storm of commercial success and unassailable artisanship.
And they called her Adele. And it was good.
Halfway through 2011, it was evident that the Brit singer’s second album, 21, was something special. You loved it. I loved it. Our moms loved it. Andy Rooney probably had it on his I-Tunes. The stage was set for Grammy domination, even before the specter of career-ending throat problems emerged from the shadows late in the year – giving the Grammy folks a chance to ponder her career mortality and offer a reward, either for a job (admittedly) remarkably well done, or as a parting gift.
By the time nominations were in, and it became clear that Adele stood a good chance of pulling off a sweep of epic proportions, it was equally clear that she’d dodged a bullet in terms of her health. Still, the viewing public was prepped to sit back and celebrate a six-for-six night on the part of the charming Cockney chick with the big voice – the script that stayed in place until 24 hours before showtime.
And then all hell broke loose.
Once an indispensable stitch in the fabric of Grammy weekend, from her double-digit wins through her presence at Clive Davis’s pre-awards hoedown, in the last few years, she’d become something of an afterthought. That all changed on Saturday afternoon, when Whitney’s sudden death prompted a rethink of the broadcast – ultimately retrofitted with a beautiful, poignant tribute keyed by one of Houston’s most high-profile acolytes, Jennifer Hudson – but not the party thrown by her mentor, which went on while her body went unclaimed a mere hundreds of feet away.
As for the broadcast itself? There was a sense that both Whitney and Adele loomed large. From host LL Cool J’s off-script prayer for the former – one of the most guilelessly moving moments in recent Grammy memory – to the happily-resolved ‘will she or won’t she?’ comeback performance by the win machine, the overall feeling was one of rooting for, rather than against, the big name.
And the big names delivered again and again throughout the show. Springsteen, with that powerful show-opening reprise of his everyman persona, Bruno Mars, with his glam-soul revue – replete with matching suits and vintage Motown choreography – just about all the big gestures seemed to connect.
There were exceptions, of course. Unrepentant domestic abuser Chris Brown’s mimicking of the old-school video game character Q Bert couldn’t distract viewers from his inability to lip-sync along with the backing tracks of whoever he hired to record the vocals for his latest sides, nor the repetitive nature of his sub-June Taylor dance moves. Brown’s one-time victim, Rihanna, didn’t fare much better. Note to RiRi: wig changes worked well as a focal point for Amadeus, not so much in a “live” performance at an awards show.
The spotlight on fakery – sweetened vocals, outright miming and so on – was most palpable when it was turned off altogether. The Foo Fighters delivered a stirring take on “Walk” – but then squandered the momentum by cozying up to Brown later in the show, while The Band Perry threatened to turn on the collective waterworks with their opening segment of a tribute to Glen Campbell, whose Alzheimer’s-induced farewell merited more attention that it received. (Campbell’s own goodbye performance of “Rhinestone Cowboy” opened the floodgates once and for all).
The older crowd got a lot more airtime than usual this year, thanks to the surfeit of tributes (Bonnie Raitt and Alicia Keys paying homage to the late Etta James) and a curious sense of obligation (two separate turns for Sir Paul McCartney). Admittedly, the momentum slowed a bit during these segments – the key demo is something like a half-century younger, after all – but the collective IQ boost was welcome.
As usual, the telecast was thrown off course by the self-serving rantings of NARAS head Neil Portnow, who opted to use his time on Sunday to inform us that the internet is evil – sounding like a cross between Abe Simpson and that redneck dad who blasted his daughter’s laptop with a shotgun in an effort to get her to eschew technology. But even he couldn’t dampen the mood.
No wardrobe malfunctions, no real need for a seven-second delay and no excess bare flesh – even Nicki Minaj kept her pants on while offending a fifth of the earth’s population with her art-damaged “blasphemy” – made for a decidedly non-envelope-pushing show, but one that tickled the pleasure center nevertheless.