Every year, I’m reminded why I hate the Grammys. At least the Oscars recognizes lots of independent films that barely get released and the Emmys recognizes some shows people don’t watch. But the Grammys is quite clearly all about the Benjamins.
Witness the five nominees – announced yesterday – for Album of the Year:
• Mariah Carey, THE EMANCIPATION OF MIMI
• Gwen Stefani, LOVE. ANGEL. MUSIC. BABY.
• U2, HOW TO DISMANTLE AN ATOMIC BOMB
• Kanye West, LATE REGISTRATION
• Paul McCartney, CHAOS AND CREATION IN THE BACKYARD
First off, no Mariah Carey album should ever be considered the best, unless for some reason, perhaps following the apocalypse, only two CDs get released in a 12-month span and the other one is Don Henley. It’s not music; it’s studio-sheened pap. As for Gwen Stefani, I can’t hop on the bandwagon that finds her music terrific and finds her attractive; she’s okay when it comes to disposable Top 40 pop, I suppose, but it’s the equivalent of nominating Lindsay Lohan for Best Actress in MEAN GIRLS.
It’s hard for me to dislike a U2 record of any sort, but I think it hardly qualifies as one of the year’s best. Kanye West is likely to emerge as the victor since, unlike President Bush, the music industry cares about black people. Plus, he told the media a couple days ago that if he doesn’t win, he’s going “to have a problem with that.” I’d take that as a thinly veiled threat and check the box next to his name, voters. And Paul McCartney? Has this guy released a good song since the theme to SPIES LIKE US? Completely irrevelant, and awfully wrinkly.
It’s worth noting that the nominees for Best New Artist are Ciara, Fall Out Boy, Keane, John Legend and SugarLand. Worth noting because I can’t tell you a single song any of them have done.