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The Grammys 2017

vThe Grammys were awarded this week, honoring popular American music across original genres. I’m looking at you, Best Urban Contemporary Album. The ceremony and its accompanying performances are the most visible musical event in the country. Part of the Grammys’ appeal is celebrity. These musicians are stars, and the fanfare surrounding their appearance, behavior, and politics carries as much weight as the audience reaction. While a lot of pixels have been committed to the style behind the show, the musical performances and the winning musicians will receive the attention here.

The host opened with a rap in the style of Lin-Manuel Miranda about the show to come. Ardent and earnest, but on a mundane topic (”tonight’s presenters include...”, “performances by...”, “... and I’m your host, James Gordon. We have a great show for you tonight, so stick around...”), the style -- pioneered by Eminem in 8 Mile’s “Lose Yourself” and brought to apotheosis by Miranda on the soundtrack to Hamilton -- was killed live at the 2017 Grammys, an event akin to Hollywood and Broadway, by the host of a late night talk show. The form has exhausted its emotive potential for the moment, a turn in the right direction for those who don’t like their parents listening to rap.

Now, to sacrifice a person, I offer Paris Jackson, the daughter of pop legend Michael Jackson, and presenter of the Weeknd’s “I Feel it Comin’”. Jackson got pity-applause for mentioning the Dakota pipeline and uttering something about #GOdapple,which sounded like a pose, more than a conviction. She further embarrassed lovers of mother Gaia by flubbing a quote. “A legend once said,” she said, launching into the introduction proper, “that a star can never die. It just turns back into a smile, and melts, back into the cosmic music.” She then called the next act cosmic. That is how you talk on ecstasy. Hook.

The first performance of the night, by the Weeknd and Daft Punk, was nothing short of solid. The song grooves on a single lyric, sung with melodic variation. Little differences. Abel Tesfaye sang in falsetto over the beat and commanded the stage at a slow tempo, like watching a candle burn for three minutes. Good entertainment.

The award for best new artist went to Chance the Rapper, the most exuberant individual living. He thanked God for Chicago, and the crowd applauded. The people love bubbly, and Chicago, apparently.

The night was long, and much of the performances missable. Looper solo singer-songwriter; country stars; Beyonce; cover songs; impersonation. Things picked up when Katy Perry sang a mediocre new track before a set of white picket fences that morphed into the preamble to the Constitution. This theme continued with A Tribe Called Quest performing “We the People” with Busta Rhyme denouncing President Trump to the moniker “President Agent Orange.” Real people of minority race and religion marched onto the stage, dressed in everyday clothes (both hijab, and Mexican going-to-work boots) alongside the rappers. Not angry enough, but a step in the right direction.

Metallica and Lady Gaga performed together, and, if the costumes were phony, the vibe was, on the whole, sheer fun. Props to Metalliga.

Adele won best Album in what maybe was the safe/obvious choice. Traditional verse-chorus-bridge-chorus arrangements of real instruments. New York Times music critic Jon Pareles notes that the votes fear the drum machine. Frank Ocean boycotted and Kanye just didn’t show.

The Tye Dye Pixel will continue examining American pop music. Sound good?