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Sharps & flats

Sharps & Flats
A compilation of songs from this year's Grammy nominees aims for the hearts of soccer moms and Shrieking Teenage Girls.

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By Jon Caramanica

Feb. 23, 2000 | The Grammys are for the people -- right? The Grammys are really for the industry, a self-fete on a grand scale and an excuse to bring Britney, Christina and Jessica under one roof and focus their combined star power, provided they don't all go down in the Greatest Catfight Ever Televised. As alternative awards ceremonies -- the American Music Awards, the MTV Video Music Awards and so on -- proliferate, the Grammys have tried to compensate with ostentation for what they lack in edge, whether it's a deranged Ol' Dirty Bastard or the outing of spicy Ricky Martin to the world (as a pop sensation, of course).

On the whole though, moments like that are as scarce as Will Smith on urban radio. Instead, the telecast inevitably degenerates into a record-label-sponsored match of My Diva Is Bigger Than Your Diva. And yes, that goes for the boys too -- how else do you describe Sting and his tantric career longevity or (p)opera heartthrob Andrea Bocelli? Like the gladiator matches of Rome, these square-offs aren't so much about who wins as the game itself -- it's all bread and circuses.




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Various Artists

Grammy Nominees 2000
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And easily sated they are, these frothing fans with tears in their eyes. First there's the, ahem, Soccer Moms -- women in their 20s and 30s who don't spend a lot of time consuming pop music, but when they do, they do so largely by group consensus. These are people who buy Vonda Shepard records not just because they relate to Ally McBeal, but because Shepard, with her bossy alto, speaks to them, polishing up the pain of approaching middle age with a neat drop of blue-eyed soul. You can track their purchasing habits on the Amazon.com bestseller list, which features Adult Contemporary (that's what the folks at Billboard call it) artists who are generally shunned by radio yet still, largely via word of mouth, manage a steady buzz -- Aimee Mann, Tracy Chapman, Bocelli, Shepard, etc. It's practically the Oprah Club for music -- white, softy-liberal, female suburbanites sifting through their angst with song. (Oprah, please don't get any ideas.)

Second, and at fierce odds with the previous group, come the Shrieking Teenage Girls. They abhor their moms' music for being, well, booorrrinnnnggg. They'd much rather see synchronized boys in tight jeans or bop along with non-threatening girl-stars next door. For them, music is like a Happy Meal -- each purchase brings a new toy into their world. The artists this group favors plead earnestness as well, just a far younger, less cynical version of it. Yes, the Backstreeters want it that way, and yes, Christina Aguilera knows what a girl wants. It's all part of the truth of youth, divine in its naiveté.

On this year's telecast, both of these contingents will be well catered to -- Whitney Houston, Santana and Faith Hill for the older set; Martin, Kid Rock and Britney Spears for the young 'ns. There's even Chucho Valdes and Ibrahim Ferrer for those who think the next Latin craze will need a walking stick.

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