O, to be 15 again, for a day...My channel surfing last night came to an abrupt halt when I landed on the Grammy Awards show. In full stereophonic annoyance sat Taylor Swift and Miley Cyrus butchering some song I've never heard. I'm not impressed with the work of Swift or Cyrus so the pairing is nothing special to me...nothing I've been waiting days and days to see. Easy enough on the eyes. At least that Cyrus Montana gal sure is. I'm not fond of that "waifish wisp of femininity" look that Swift is cursed with.
Hannah Cyrus exudes the air of one too young to know all the risque things she knows. If not for the innocent, baby-face Billy Ray blood she's carrying you'd think must be at least 36 years old, the look of passionate need in her eye, the come hither smile that says, "Let us explore the depths of my schizophrenia, my marvelous deep sea diver!"
On the other hand, this Swift chick looks like she'd crumble the first time her old man took to slappin' her 'round. BOOM, one hit, she be down for the count. Like a brittle, slightly pretty flower, she wilts in the blistering sun of REAL love, REAL devotion. She'd cut and run the minute trouble walked in the door. Her voice is weak, straight through the nose. Before she got lucky and hit it big I saw a performance she did on CMT and I thought, "there's no way this girl is going to make it. It's too obvious what she's trying to be...the inquisitive teen with a crush on some guy who daydreams about Hannah Montana."
None of which really matters, of course. The one thing I learned in the first 5 minutes that I caught of the Grammys was that neither of these young femmes fatale can sing worth a shit.
I didn't hang around for what came directly after. Somehow I found myself clicking around the dial again. I availed myself of another chance to watch the Grammys with the last click of the remote button's travelling. The Grammys, though a disasterous joke for at least the last two decades, was preferable to the rest of Dish Network's Hot 100 premium satellite channel line-up.
How do YOU spell 'ANNOYING'?Serendipity stepped in when I learned that Radiohead was coming up after the commercial break.
There was a time when I counted myself among the legion of Radiohead fans. I still like much about their music. I haven't kept up with them, though. And it's been quite a while since I was in a mood conducive to appreciating Thom Yorke's bitter vocal and lyrical prowess. They were already huge when I first began listening to them. Now they're beyond that, to the point where folks talk about how influential they are to the new generation of rockers. I suppose that's what drove me away. Eventually it gets to that point where you know they're just trying to top the last "masterpiece". Everyone, most of all the band themselves, realize it cannot be done. You might as well hop off the bandwagon. Don't let 'em drag you down with them.
I was in a generous mood. They might just have something real nifty up their sleeve. Some new song or style, something different, more upbeat and cheerful. I was prepared to enjoy myself.
The effort was quickly detoured when Yorke comes out looking all "under-the-bridge", shaking his skinny head and spewing out some less-than-decipherable gobbledegook. I could understand about every goddamn word in three but I think it's safe to say he wasn't singing about stopping to smell the roses. He hops around the stage like a malnourished monkey, milking the strange vocal ejaculations for all their worth, as if they are the words of Vedic wisdom, too high and lofty to be comprehended by the masses (especially the buffoons gathered at this awards show, all of whom eat this shit up like it's bacon). The man is disheveled, it is obvious. This entire fit he's throwing is likely the result of sleep deprivation and a failed attempt to procure a small amount of methamphetamine. The spat-out glossalolia could very well be the garbled attempts of a very tired man to communicate. He needs to let the doctor know that he's okay, he's not going to that safe place again, he is an ARTIST, and a tortured one at that. He proclaims the necessity of his illness in finding the place where his muse can sneak up behind him.
Radiohead. Woof-a-doof-a-woop-de-do!
"Where's Radiohead?" I asked myself. "All I see is Thom Yorke, Jonny Greenwood and a hefty sized cadre of horns and bass drums lined up behind them." It is possible that the other three guys were scattered amongst the drum'n'brass crew, but I didn't see them. Not to say that I looked too hard, but I'm reasonably certain they were not there. And so I asked myself one more time, "Where's Radiohead?"
The song itself, musically, was decent enough. It reeked of the whole "we're so big we're gonna put on a special, gala shindig for you" ethic. But Greenwood was able pull some pretty sounds from his guitar effects shit.
When it was all over I was comforted only by the fact that there was nothing else on television worth watching and so it wasn't too much a waste of time. My waning taste for Radiohead dipped a little bit deeper. I have not yet come to the point where everything about them bores me. Still, I must say, after last night's Grammy gig I am one step closer.
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