Ah, the Grammys again. Has it really been a year since the last time JM settled down to watch Music's Biggest Night? More to the point, was it only a week or so ago that JM was feeling perky and full of anticipation, possessing a veritable spring in her step and a sparkle in her eye?

It all seems a very long time past now: the numbing effect of the three hours of the awards and musical numbers (plus the indescribably horrible red carpet pre-show) have been as effective as a swung crowbar in rendering JM close to catatonic. The best representation of the event can, in all honesty, be found in Sasha Frere-Jones' Twitter stream, which summed up the Grammys most egregious twists and turns with a couple of entries that in their economy and precision are nothing short of brilliant. The first is a keyboard mash, an inchoate howl, delivered when M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes" lost the Best Song award to Coldplay, and we quote: "][plfjkbhdrewqkiowfhjkrbadfio." This is followed by the chant of "*xanax* *xanax* *xanax*." JM hardly dares compete with such eloquence, but will again try to contribute a few humble offerings; it's time to find the Grammy night notes, put on the Junkmedia typing hat, and give thanks, yet again, for the healing powers of tea and generic ibuprofen.

As the pre-show begins, all is in readiness: the dog is snoozing and the cat is plotting something cat-like and evil. There are cookies. There is a washer and dryer. (Strangely enough, JM was doing laundry during the last Grammys, too. It's a glamorous life, people.) And yet still there is the sense of drudgery and exhaustion ahead, the way one feels on boarding a Greyhound Bus knowing that you're in for a long and sleepless ride through the night. And JM is in a bit of a hissy mood: earlier in the afternoon Jonny Greenwood's score for There Will Be Blood lost the best soundtrack Grammy to the Dark Knight (a movie we probably would have disliked even more if it had held our interest for longer than a few minutes at a time); and, worse, the West Coast broadcast is going to be on a three hour time delay. The suckiness of this is notable: the East Coast gets the glory live, while those of us in the same time zone as the Grammys get the taped version. It takes away a whole dimension of amusement—if the show is broadcast in real time, there's still that frisson of You are temporally there, sort of! Three hours later it's just a show, packaged like any other. The suspense might be mostly imaginary, but knowing that you are watching a live event still, even in this day of quickly available replays on YouTube, holds some drama. Though of course all this pales in comparison to the general State of Things in 2009; the Grammys are taking place against a background of worldwide near-apocalypse. Australia is on fire, and what isn't on fire is underwater, the world economy is spinning helplessly as it is sucked down some kind of money drain, and the fictitious economic sky-castles of Wall Street are crumbling. Apparently half the population of America will shortly be living in cardboard boxes or roaming abandoned suburbs in search of leftover garbage, while the other half will likely be resorting to cannibalism. In these circumstances, the pre-show, with its utter dedication to fatuous nonsense and obsession with the tiniest increments of status, is even more ridiculous than usual.

Ryan Seacrest is the first person who really should be thrown to said cannibals. As JM tunes in, he's hitting on one of the Kardashian girls, who appears to be coated with some kind of total-body lacquer holding her both hair and face rigidly in place. "Are you into white guys?" he smarms. She looks slightly alarmed: "You're making me feel very uncomfortable Ryan, you are my boss." Ha ha. Exhibit A in her coming harassment suit? In short order, Seacrest informs us that "E. owns the red carpet!" and that the Grammy Awards are "American as apple pie!" He's predictably forgetting the large number of British nominees. Next there's a review of the swag bags given out to the nominees and presenters: 25K worth of… stuff. Stuff that, as is quickly evident, is being product placed like mad: t shirts, watches, whatever. Fodder for future garbage dump looters. The collapse of civilization looks to be marching closer by the second.

Over the next three hours—yes, JM watched it all—we are treated to the following: Jay Manuel, a bronze-coloured half-human half-android, opining on fashion trends: "Let's move on to leopard prints!"; "Kanye has made such fashion statements with sunglasses!"; "Jay Z and Beyonce are always such a well matched couple, and I think that's so important!"; "Heidi Klum is a supermilf!" and so on until we are rescued by, of all things, Death Cab for Cutie, wearing suits but still carrying an adorable aura of scruffiness. On their lapels are turquoise ribbons, which they solemnly explain symbolize the fight against "Autotone abuse." Excellent. Even better are the band names that they reveal they considered before choosing Death Cab: Abusement Park and Canadian Comedians. You guys threw these away? They're great! The world condemns you!

Next interview is NeYo, who demonstrates his "losing the award but happy for the guy who won" face. It's a good one. "I practice it in the mirror!" he says. You can tell. We move to another presenter lady talking with Jason Mraz. It starts badly and ends with words to send chills through the blood: "Have so much fun tonight! You're in my iPod right now! Love your new single! Bye!" Add that to "Call my people!" for a true Hollywood blow-off. And then we're onto the educational part of the evening, in which we learn the following: that the Grammy museum has an interactive rapping booth with a teleprompter, that some rock stars have tattoos, and that others have fancy suits. Other important news: Ashley Simpson will be making her post-childbirth "debut" tonight after readjusting her body to hide any possible trace of pregnancy, and the Jonas brothers are "bringing fashion into their music" which means, we gather, absolutely nothing.

JM's attention is wandering. What is happening in the rest of the world? Over on Channel 34 they're having a day celebrating people with extremely rare genetic disorders. First up is the Mermaid Girl. JM is moved by courage, humanity, ordinary dignity in the face of extreme physical challenges, and so on. Back on the red carpet, it's Paula Abdul, involved in a mortifying exchange with Seacrest, who is asking her if she's ever had a dream about "being in bed with Simon or Randy." She looks furious. She can barely keep it together to plug her upcoming album. "Love you!" she chirps, finally making her escape. I don't think so. Ryan stumbles on: "I can't believe how much fun I have standing here talking to these artists!" Glad to hear that, because nobody else is, especially the artists themselves.

JM again flees via channel changer for greener pastures. And check this out-- it's the scene in Sense and Sensibility where Mr. Willoughby snubs Marianne at the ball! The cad! Marianne faints! And over on another channel we have some very remote tropical island with a beach. It looks peaceful. Quiet. The waves go in and out. I'm pretty sure that there's no such thing as a Ryan Seacrest there. JM, however, realizes that she's neglecting her duties, and heads back, to see Adele, looking utterly British and pasty pale. Awesome. She looks like she should be slinging pints behind a bar and dispensing hard won wisdom for no extra charge, perhaps about how everyone pulled together in the Blitz and Life's like that, innit.

Sheryl Crow is bony and wearing something blue and ill fitting. She talks about her workout schedule and plugs something called P90XYZ, or some such cluster of letters and numbers. Wonder if she got paid for that. Following this is a great exchange with Seacrest and John Mayer: "You are so deep right now!" "Well, I do have a golden helicopter!" Ha! They seem to be desperately trying to avoid any mention of Jennifer Aniston. Junkmedia knows all about them from speedreading the tabloids in the lineup at the grocery store, and wishes she didn't. Next up is Lisa Rinna. She says she feels like a drag queen, showing an unexpected degree of self-awareness, as she is, in fact, exactly that. Her tan is turned up to orange, and there's something odd about her upper lip, which appears… lumpy. There is no other word for it. JM is remembering only too well why she canceled her cable and left her television to sit in the corner covered with an attractive piece of fabric (courtesy of the brains behind Radiohead merchandising). Where is Radiohead, anyway? There's been no mention of them. Is this whole thing some kind of awful bait and switch?

Finally, the show starts, and the first burning question of the night arises: Why won't U2 just fuck off? Won't they be all over the Grammys next year, no matter what the quality of their upcoming album? Did Bono make a phone call, so peeved that Coldplay and Radiohead are performing that he felt the need to pull rank? Rumour had it earlier in the week that Radiohead were going to be opening the show; if so, they have been unceremoniously dumped down the pecking order. U2 are trundling through their just-released single, the video of which is supposedly about "women being the future" and so on, because nothing says female empowerment like latex boots and penciled-on mustaches. Bono is singing while the lyrics are projected behind him. The screen helpfully shows "Yeeeeahh" as he bellows into his mic; this is so we can appreciate it more fully, JM supposes. He's wearing eyeliner. We wish U2 would do something new instead of going over the same well plowed furrow; Bono in makeup does not a fresh direction make. Oddly enough, the instant they finish they are forgotten and wiped from the crowd's collective attention, which is now occupied by a shambling and vague Whitney Houston. She seems to be moving at a slightly different, and slower, speed than the rest of the world.

Coming up, after a horrendously misbegotten attempted comic monologue by the bullet-headed Dwayne Johnson/formerly the Rock, is a duet by Justin Timberlake and the Reverend Al Green. This has been hastily arranged due to the entirely coincidental absence of both Chris Brown and Rihanna, and rumours to do with an arrest and charges to be laid and scandal. The duet works well. The thing about the Grammys is that in between the facepalm moments and inanity there might actually be something real; the invocatory power of "Let's Stay Together" temporarily defeats the cheesiness of the surroundings. Also temporarily defeating the cheesiness is Jennifer Hudson, who manages dignity while on display as tragic heroine (and there is something heroic about her performance). What degree of mutual exploitation is taking place is something that JM finds unfun to try and parse out, so a fresh infusion of cookies will have to substitute in this area. Now it's Coldplay, who are introduced as "transcendent." JM chokes on her tea. Chris Martin is doing his guileless thing at the piano. He's in a fancy dress jacket; the last time JM saw something equivalent it was in the dress-up box at her son's daycare. There's something so… juvenile about this band, and having the gravity and the sheer weight of Jay Z bizarrely added into the mix doesn't help. Martin skips to the stage to join the rest of the band. JM is holding her breath, hoping against hope that Joe Satriani's lawyers will rush the stage and serve them the papers related to his plagiarism lawsuit. (Ah, Coldplay. Why can't one like them? They're inclusive, they seem to have their hearts in the right place, Chris Martin's ego problems are at least of an interesting kind… and yet, and yet.) In the audience we get a glimpse of Paul McCartney, holding hands with a new girlfriend. A real improvement there, Sir Paul.

Next is Carrie Underwood. She seems to occupy the same general musical space as Shania Twain, and the best thing about her is her lead guitar player. This is likely the only time all night we will see a woman actually play an instrument with any authority, or really do anything other than sing. Best Country award. The ecstatic recipients take the stage to a weird sound that sounds like dopplerized applause or churning floodwaters. What the hell, Grammys?

The dog moans in her sleep, and the cookies are gone. Time for some more tea. Is Radiohead actually here? How long will we have to wait? Hey, Castaway is on one channel up! Seriously, if you take away the FedEx product placement, it's really this kind of great meditation on humanity and our aloneness in the universe and…okay. Back to business. Coldplay wins song of the year. Again that weird rushing effect on the crowd noise, like the flushing of giant plumbing.

JM is starting to lose it, and we're hardly halfway through. It's Kid Rock, doing what JM first thought was a song called "Pavement," which had us dementedly hoping it was a tribute to Stephen Malkmus. But no: "Nation's race relations got me guilty for being white" he shouts/sings/something in between. Does this pass for Deep Thought among the Joe the Plumber demographic? The song is actually called "Amen," performed against the perfectly predictable background of an American flag. Will there be a stealth gospel choir to sing backup to his declarations that he's a Rock and Roll Jesus? This sounds both blasphemous and hilarious at the same time. Who could take it seriously? Anyone?

What's the theme this year, JM wonders, because there always is one, and lands on Real vs. Fake. We start to keep a scorecard, like this:

Whitney Houston: Real, but in a scary, possibly homicidal kind of way.

Dwayne Johnson: Fake to the fakety fakiest. There is no higher degree of Fake.

Coldplay: Started out real but now their terror of fakeness and their struggle with it has consumed them.

Justin Timberlake: Real. For now. Also, his realness may be illusory; he's a slippery customer, that Timberlake.

Reverend Al Green: Eternally real.

This keeps JM entertained while Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift sing about heartbreak at the age of fifteen. Earlier Katy Perry, in a pre-show interview, had displayed ribbon-tied locks of hair which she was carrying in her purse, claiming they belonged respectively to Miley and Taylor. This was so fetishisticly wonderful and grotesque that we were briefly charmed, but the spell has now worn off, and the thought of Miley and Taylor holds no joy whatsoever. This song, at least, is about a girl's experiences, which is a change of pace; and the one thing we can say for it is that it's a slight improvement on Janis Ian and her "love is meant for beauty queens," though the melody is drastically inferior. But what's better: pining for a boy or pining for lack of a boy? Hiding in your bedroom with invented lovers making imaginary phone calls or sending naked pictures to your boyfriend over MSN? Ah, the modern world.

Then things get worse.

JM has been continuing, in a half-assed sort of fashion, the Fake/Real scorecard—Robert Plant is Real, in case you're wondering, mostly due to his refusal to cash in on a Led Zeppelin reunion tour—when something happens. That something is a pairing wildly beyond the bounds of anything other than Grammy show logic. It's like a visit from Bizarro World, a twisted musical dimension where the usual laws of cause and effect no longer hold. In this strange place, perhaps, it makes sense for the Jonas Brothers and Stevie Wonder to play together on the same stage. For the inhabitants of this odd world, they may be nothing unusual about it. For Junkmedia, it's a jaw-dropping moment. The Jonas Brothers: So, so fake. Stevie Wonder: Real. Shouldn't they just sort of negate each other, causing a kind of matter/anti-matter explosion? It confuses us. We wonder what behind the scenes bribes and negotiations have led to such grotesquerie; it seems like the kind of idea that couldn't be excused even if it was made by a bunch of tone-deaf executives with access to an entire swimming pool full of cocaine. Is it possible that this was arranged by lying to Stevie Wonder about who or what the Jonas Brothers actually are? What artistic relevance are they supposed to possess to make this possible? Now Stevie is retreading some of the great songs from the 70s. (From my notes: Jesus this is fucking painful. Shouldn't be allowed.) Kids, these songs used to really mean something, back in the day; people danced to them at their weddings. They provided the soundtrack to a million declarations of love. In those great mid-seventies albums people found themselves; the songs possessed political awareness without ever overshooting art and landing in polemicism. I understand that the Jonas Brothers are adolescent catnip for those so inclined, but bands which embody the desires of 12 year old girls (and boys) seldom proceed to, shall we say, a state of artistic credibility. Not to insult the erotic imaginations of young girls: choose a Jonas brother, put a dozen posters on your wall, start a blog, write incestuous slashfic: JM gives you carte blanche. But let's not ever mistake the Jonas Brothers for musicians, okay?

Time for best rock album: it's Coldplay. There's that enormous flushing sound again. Chris Martin opines that Coldplay is "not so much rock as limestone," and then marches back to his seat down the front stairs while the rest of the band is ushered off into the wings in the usual way.

Junkmedia contemplates the snoring dog and ponders the virtues of unconsciousness. Now it's Katy Perry, lowered from the ceiling in an obscene, gigantic banana. Why? we wail. She's wearing a sort of fruit tutu, and she's singing: I kissed a girl just to try it, hope my boyfriend don't mind it, felt so wrong felt so right, blah blah blah. Miming away to this and Bo-peeping around the stage. Lesbian sex has seldom been so clearly portrayed as silly flirtation, as entertainment, as deeply trivial. The lesbian nation thanks you, Katy Perry! Sisterhood is powerful!

Over on Castaway, Tom Hanks is about to knock a tooth out with the blade of a salvaged ice skate, which causes JM to miss Kenny Chesney. Such is life.

And it's finally time for one of our most anticipated moments of the night; and we know it's gauche to quote oneself, but in this case it does feel necessary. From last year's Grammy review: What we wouldn't give to see M.I.A. in front of that well-fed and self-satisfied audience, but it's never likely to happen, is it. We've never been so happy to be proved wrong, because Queen Latifah, formidably curvaceous, is introducing a bunch of rappers—alpha males to a one—and M.I.A., who will be contributing a reenactment of the sample from "Paper Planes" that this song is built around. Ah, "Paper Planes," which we love in all its permutations: popping up in the soundtrack to Slum Dog Millionaire, in the song "Tenzagako" from the mix tape by Esau Mwamwaya and Radioclit, and now this single by Jay-Z and T.I. and Kanye West and Lil Wayne and there they are on stage and HOLY SHIT LOOK AT M.I.A.

…

…

THIS IS THE BEST GRAMMY MOMENT EVER. Who knew that pregnancy could be so thoroughly badass? She looks like a big black and white ladybug! This has made Junkmedia madly happy. We love you, M.I.A. We don't even care if you're marrying a Bronfman. Afterwards, Kate Beckinsdale notes, unnecessarily, that M.I.A was due to have her baby today, and leads a round of applause for "just getting through that!" Pffft. She's lucky that Maya doesn't come by, pregnant belly and all, and stomp her in reaction to this disrespect.

We barely have time to recover before it's time for Paul McCartney, excavating the corpse of the Beatles with gusto. JM has to go with Real here, rather than fake, but it's difficult, watching him animate the zombie corpse of Beatle Paul and making it lurch around the stage. At least he looks like he's genuinely and uncomplicatedly enjoying himself. And Dave Grohl is playing like he's having the time of his life—singing along and pounding the drums exactly as he does in the "Smells like Teen Spirit" video. Still, one might want something that Paul did more recently? To secure his current relevance? It's the Woman with the Giant Legs over on Channel 34. Ordinary human dignity in the face of extreme physical challenges, etc. With a sigh we head back to Music's Biggest Night.

Here's Charlie Haden and Jack Black. The jazz lifetime achievement, quickly noted and dismissed, like every award other than the majors. We see a trend here, with our usual laser-like powers of observation. The imperative to limit the Grammys to mostly performance this year has led to all sorts of interesting side effects; for one, the collaborative numbers just seem like a way to save time by stuffing two performances into one rather than communication between different musical styles. Pack Stevie and the Jonas Brothers into the same time slot, thereby making more room for other things! What a great idea! But what things? All the music tonight has stuck to rock/rap format, pretty much. No jazz, no gestures to classical, nothing. And they sure as hell aren't taking extra time with the obituary section of the evening: they're even doing those two at once. (And there is no mention of Lux Interior, even though they gave credit to the guy who wrote the Andy Griffiths theme song. Sheesh.) In other general complaints: the same flat lighting on everyone makes it visually monotonous, and there's barely a smoke machine, grand piano duel, faux-opera singers, or insane musical production number. We add these items to a growing kvetch list along with the following: way too many glittering cummerbunds—they remind JM of elementary art school projects involving toilet paper rolls, glue, and braid—a candy floss Mohawk on Cindy Lauper, who looked so great last year, and dancing audience members trapped in boxes in front of the stage. Are they waving their hands in the air because they're having fun, or in desperate efforts to escape? Who knows? Finally, just as it seems that despair will triumph, Gwyneth Paltrow, wrapped in foil, introduces Radiohead. Thom, Jonny, and the USC Marching Band blow the roof off. Junkmedia drops the channel changer with sheer delight. That is all.

Radiohead: Real. Gwyneth Paltrow: Uh…. jury's out.

Next on Channel 34: Pregnant for 35 years. Junkmedia is tempted to check it out, because here on the Grammys it's another white male singer with a rapper for decoration. How many is this now? No rap song should have a string section—at least not in this sort of style. And the genre lines are set in stone here, aren't they—white boys play the piano, and black guys rap and strut. How about we have a sensitive black guy emoting at the piano for once?

Finally we're on to Lil Wayne, and it's a Salute to New Orleans set piece. Awesome. It's now after 11 p.m.; in LA, the parties are already in full swing and the show has been over for hours. And yet we the viewers are stuck here, with the camera apparently working hard to avoid the spectacle of Lil Wayne's pants hanging well below his ass. Will.i.am and T Pain present the Best Rap Album with big, Mad Hatter level constructions on both their heads. T Pain with glittering teeth; back in the pre-show we learned that they cost 14 grand. Will.i.am snarks about the nominations for Best Rap Album: "For some reason I'm only on one of these albums. We'll fix that later… managers, business." Oh please. The winner is Lil Wayne, to nobody's surprise. His whole family gets up with him. Aw. He does a quick jump kick to the microphone, as if he's momentarily mistaken the stage for a half-pipe. Nice.

Lifetime achievement award: again a photograph and a name and a quick dismissal. Junkmedia staggers on, with glazed eyes. And at very long last it's the final award of the night, Album of the Year. Chris Martin shifts forward in his seat like a dog on the scent; four-fifths of Radiohead look solemn, scruffy and bored to death. Bless them. Raising Sand wins as we all knew it would. Standing ovation, etcetera. Robert Plant and his ravaged beauty; Alison Krauss who appears to have absolutely nothing to say. Conventionality reigns, again, and JM has stopped caring. Again. We hoped for something different, and we got a little bit of that. But not quite enough. And yet there was tea. And cookies. Next year, if it's anything like this one, we're moving onto single malt scotch and diazepam. This is Junkmedia, over and out.

By Juliet O'Keefe.
February 22, 2009