London tabloids have reported that Paul McCartney stormed out of last week's Grammys after losing Album of the Year to U2. That's hilarious, and not only because Sir Paul should so obviously recuse himself from that sort of petty nonsense. Mainly, the episode made me chuckle because we're taking about a spat between fortysomethings and a sixtysomething over an award none of them should have had any realistic claim to in the first place.
When did rock 'n' roll grow so old? How did we go from a young Elvis shaking his hips and the mop-topped Beatles racing to escape mobs of teenage girls to a way-past-their-prime U2 sweeping the Grammys and the skeletal remains of the Rolling Stones sucking ostrich eggs in front of a throng of adoring ringers on Super Bowl Sunday?
I guess I blinked, but I could have sworn I saw Sid Vicious whipping someone with a bicycle chain just before McCartney ambled out to sing "Helter Skelter," some 38 years too late.
Consider that the most dramatic moment at this year's Grammys came when Sly Stone—seemingly unheard-from since Woodstock—walked offstage during a performance in his honor. Otherwise, the awards show felt like Part 2 of the Super Bowl halftime show—a progression of venerable rockers aging before our eyes. Springsteen, Aerosmith, Bonnie Raitt. In that crowd, Elvis Costello looked like a kid, and he turned 61 in August.
Pete Townshend once famously penned the line, "I hope I die before I get old," then dedicated his life to sabatoging the lyric, limping along as The Who after half the band literally dropped dead around him. It seems the rest of the world has taken his cue, embracing nostalgia over innovation and aging legends over the young pioneers attempting to restore rock's lost spirit.
I'm guilty of it, too. I've cheered as Neil Young, John Fogerty and, yes, The Who worked through greatest-hits sets. I've celebrated the returns of the Pixies and Dinosaur Jr., and would drop serious coin should the Talking Heads, Smiths or Police ever reunite. And I've felt privileged simply to be in the presence of McCartney or Bob Dylan.
What I won't do is fool myself into believing any of that is more musically relevant than the husband-wife team singing "Take a Chance on Me" at your neighborhood karaoke bar. We all need heroes, but respecting someone for what they once did and convincing yourself they're still breaking new ground are entirely different matters. Hank Aaron and Willie Mays were great ballplayers, but we don't need to give them an MVP trophy every couple of years.
Not that I expect to see many fresh faces onstage at the 2007 Grammys, particularly not when the night's major awards are presented. On the few occasions when voters have shown a bit of moxie—tapping OutKast for Album of the Year comes to mind—they've overcorrected terribly, turning the following year's event into an extended tribute to the late Ray Charles. We all agree Ray was amazing, but bestowing a pile of posthumous Grammys onto his undeserving duets album simply isn't the best way to honor his legacy.
Even the two categories seemingly devoted to forward thinking—alternative and electronic/dance albums—found voters reaching back, rewarding ordinary efforts from the White Stripes and the Chemical Brothers over dazzling debuts from the Arcade Fire and LCD Soundsystem.
It's no surprise, really. Clinging to names we know is far easier than recognizing oncoming brilliance. U2 is always a safe choice, one not likely to offend many viewers. Then again, wasn't rock 'n' roll born of a desire to be reckless and offensive to the establishment? And if stripped of that, what do we have left? Just a backstage flap between aging knights over this year's industry spoils.
Spencer Patterson is a Weekly staff writer.