I'm so happy I didn't have to go to LA last weekend to cover the Grammy Awards. Of course, it's great that Warren Zevon won a couple, though it reminded me that he never won one while he was alive. It doesn't make me feel any better to think that this is just how Zevon would expect things to go. I'll miss him. But after three previous trips to LA for the Grammy Awards there is nothing—except the time I walked Bono to his limo—I'll miss. I tried watching the show this year and got quickly bored seeing the business that turns rebellion into money (the Clash never won a Grammy!) cowed into good behavior by Janet Jackson's boob. Even the usually volatile Prince wore enough clothes to pass for a Mormon missionary and avoided scribbling anything on his forehead.
Yes, there was no mistaking that the Grammy Awards was trying to get the message out that it was mainstream enough for prime time. Should there be any doubt, let me offer a few reminders to help bring this point home for the team. The hip-twisting Elvis Presley never won a Grammy for rock, though he did pick up three Grammy Awards for his gospel: that is three more, by the way, than Marion Williams, widely acknowledged as one of greatest gospel singers of all time, has won. Of course, underground cred of any sort—from the Grateful Dead to the Ramones—has always guaranteed a Grammy shutout. Critical raves aren't a plus, either. Bob Dylan, for example, was shut out until 1979, when, inexplicably, he finally won his first Grammy for best rock vocal on the gospel (?!) "Gotta Serve Somebody." Even critical acclaim and massive sales don't help. It took until 1994 for the Rolling Stones to win a Grammy, and it was for the forgotten Voodoo Lounge album. The Who and Led Zeppelin have yet to win a Grammy, and Pink Floyd didn't win until long after splitting with that Roger Waters fellow. Instead, the Grammy Awards has shown a knack for fawning on the stuff like Robert Palmer and Pat Benatar (and now, of course, Justin and Beyonce), honoring the sort of discs that when someone notices them in a collection a few months later, it's an embarrassment.
Besides their nearly five decades of bland taste, the other important thing to keep in mind about the music-loving folks at the Grammys is that they are the ones suing you for downloading tunes. And it is this fact, more than anything, that is responsible for why the music industry—with breathtaking hypocrisy—rose as one to act outraged by Jackson's Super Bowl performance, which was ridiculously typical of what they offer teens everyday. Back in the '80s, label executives arrogantly dismissed complaints from politicians and the Parents Music Resource Center (Tipper Gore, et al) as attempts to censor artists. (Were the Mentors art?) Of course, these are now the very folks the industry is courting to protect them from the freeloading ways of their customers.
So these days the industry powers are shocked and appalled by Jackson's lewdness. No one is saying the obvious: The NFL hired Janet Jackson (not Hilary Duff) and should have known that this artist has made raunchiness the core of her creative expression. If the NFL hired leftist songwriter Steve Earle, and he used the opportunity to denounce George Bush, whose fault would it be?
In fact, long before Christina Aguilera got "Dirty," Ms. Jackson declared herself "Nasty." In 1998, I caught the debut of Jackson's sexed-up Velvet Rope tour in Washington, D.C. Among the highlights: She brought a fan on stage for a lap dance. The teens sitting next to me loved watching her writhe on the guy. And this wasn't exactly beneath the adult radar either. That night, Colin Powell ran out on stage during the show to take the mike and, with diplomatic innuendo worthy of a future secretary of state, lead off a cheer with: "Does DC want Janet?" He even high-fived her; this, by the way, was after all the bump and grind.
In fact, Janet Jackson's kinkiness puts her nowhere near the fringes. As any kid will tell you, Jackson is tame by 2004 standards. If you have any doubts, check out a Little Kim disc, or watch an MTV reality show; you will soon dream that the filthiest thing your kid ever saw was one of Janet Jackson's middle-aged tits. In essence, Jackson's only mistake was misbehaving when the parents could see it, too. Unlike, say, the Rolling Stones, who in the '60s were happy (at the request of network censors) to offer the viewing public "Let's spend some time together," Jackson stayed true to her muse (such as she has). So it will be too bad if in the end she takes a career bullet for this incident while the music industry that censures her continues on with business as usual, plus a five-minute delay.
Contributing editor Richard Abowitz covers entertainment for the Weekly.