T A B L E__T A L K

Garth-lovers beware! Fans of real country music unite in the Music area of Table Talk

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R E C E N T L Y

Tommy Keene
Isolation Party
Matador
(02/26/98)

Joe Lovano and Gonzalo Rubalcaba
Flying Colors
Blue Note Records
(02/25/98)

Autour de Lucie
Immobile
Nettwerk
(02/24/98)

Star Rise
Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and Michael Brook Remixed
Real World
(02/23/98)

Ani DiFranco
Little Plastic Castle
Righteous Babe
(02/20/98)

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BROWSE THE
MUSIC ARCHIVES

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V O W E L L

Sound Salvation
By Sarah Vowell
Tattoo by Versace
Courtney Love shuts herself up for acceptance in the straight world of Vanity Fair
(02/20/98)

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F E A T U R E

Carl Wilson
1946 - 1998
By Mark Athitakis
A tribute to the Beach Boy who made the band rock
(02/13/98)

BY GAVIN McNETT | I have to admit: The Grammys didn't go the way I'd hoped this year. After having girded myself for war, and after having snickered to myself for days over the fine show I was going to make of things when the time came to start lopping heads, this year's ceremony turned out to be fairly dignified and just. Most of the people, for instance, who I thought deserved an award actually got one, while most of the deadwood got pitched aside -- which isn't the way it's supposed to happen at all.

The Grammy process, remember, has traditionally been so narcissistic, and the awards so vapid, that it wouldn't have been beyond the pale for folks like Paula Cole, Sarah McLachlan, and Shawn Colvin to have gotten their nominations for appearance's sake alone, only to be trod into the mud for the sake of someone like Jewel. Tool (whom I hate, but that's a separate issue) might've been jilted for the metal performance award for some half-calcified act like, say, Mötley Crüe. Jethro Tull took that award a few years ago, as many will recall -- the hooting hasn't yet died down over that one.

The nominations this year were better than that, but not very. Warning signs were rife, with the pernicious baldie R. Kelley contending for both record and song of the year; the ossified Paul McCartney being up for album of the year; Aerosmith licking their distended chops over male rock duo or vocal ... It just went on. You can understand why a boy would be stalking around the house for days, tracing evil glyphs in the air with his pen. I'm as small a person as anyone; I live for my little yawps of righteous indignance.

But with Colvin having snagged the record of the year award (for "Sunny Came Home"), the only complaints one could have are purely technical. Cole's "Where Have all the Cowboys Gone," my pick for record of the year -- although I'd hesitate to defend that on rational grounds -- garnered her artist of the year instead, over Fiona Apple, Erykah Badu, Puff Daddy and Hanson. Colvin also won song of the year over Diane Warren's atrocious "How Do I Live" and R. Kelley's "I Believe I Can Fly," each of which would've had the judges mewling in years past.

And there it lies, and so much for having me burst in shrieking upon the whole affair.

But as far as I'm concerned, the big winners in God's ledger were -- in order -- Aretha Franklin and the two gate crashers who bum-rushed the show.

Aretha, who rules hell, was on the premises to be the foil for Dan Ayckroyd's "Blues Brothers 2000" act. The first Blues Brothers soul-revival was ignominious enough -- showing that it required the intervention of a TV comedy team to resuscitate the careers of Aretha, Ray Charles and (for heaven's sake, people) Cab Calloway. But this time, 18 whole years later, Aretha wasn't just propping up Belushi and blues-vampire Ayckroyd (he hosts the sanguophagic "House of Blues" radio show), but also John Goodman and a cute kid. Aaargh!

But Fate was to step in and place a crown on Aretha's head. Luciano Pavarotti called in truant and she ... just sort of ... stepped in and did his whole act impromptu, without rehearsal -- singing in Italian and English, with a full orchestra. You go, girl!

Coming in at second place, Ol' Dirty Bastard from Wu-Tang Clan grabbed the stage during the song of the year award, reeling out a line about how Wu-Tang should've won the award. "Wu-Tang is for the children!" he cried, "Wu-Tang is the best!" Well, nuh-uh. But damned if I don't all of a sudden like them, when I used to make a career out of ignoring their whole schtick. Hey! Punk rock! (Although it doesn't beat Jarvis Cocker mooning the audience during Michael Jackson's cheapening of the Brit Awards a few years ago. If ODB had shined his butt around the hall during the overblown, Gospel-chorus staging of "I Believe I Can Fly," then we might have something to talk about.) But then again, gosh: Hip-hop never, never, never slaps the corporate daddy that pays its Visa bills. That's why I've always been so suspicious about its, er, language of transgression. Talking about popping caps in some nigga's ass doesn't (correct me if I'm wrong) exactly help to address the problem of black America's being ground under the heel of consumer capitalism. I was really pushing for Curtis Mayfield for best male R&B performance, which shows you how bereft of contemporary heroes I've become.

And by now, you've probably heard that some white git launched himself onto the stage during Bob Dylan's performance (thereby grabbing the bronze). What he was about isn't clear -- he was just some shirtless dancing dude with "Soy Bomb" written across his bare chest. Dylan looked briefly more impatient than usual, and went on with his business. Guards hustled the interloper off to whatever dungeon Grammy-interlopers are hustled off to.

But I could see the guy with his friends the next day, turning up triumphant at some throbbing downtown nightbox and stripping off his shirt. "There's that GUY!" people would exclaim, "that SOY BOMB guy!" "Soy Bomb" must've been some petty private joke, and he'd catapulted it onto the world stage. So what? So nothing. It was something real where real things don't often intrude. I would've written something else on my chest, and I probably wouldn't have danced so well. But I would've done it too -- if I were there and had the guts and the silly, woo-hoo attitude that the Soy dude had. Somebody has to be out there with their shirt off, whooping up a big nothing. I owe you a drink, ya silly boob. Goofs like you keep shirkers like me off the hook.
SALON | Feb. 27, 1998