Hope ya hate it:
In case you couldn’t slake your hunger for trumped-up musical tripe with VH1 and Alternative Press, the Grammys were on Sunday. I’m writing this before they’ve happened, of course, but it really doesn’t matter who won. In fact, the only person who probably gives a shit about these little golden disappointments is Kanye West. What does matter is the gesture of avoidance that we make in ignoring this rock ‘n rollin’ circle jerk. So, as is my yearly prerogative, I will now insult the Grammy nominees.
Amy Winehouse: There’s something inspirationally fucked-up about Amy winning an award for a song about ducking treatment for her unrelenting drug abuse problem. Thousands of obituary editors wait with bated breath in order to finalize that last final detail: “Grammy-nominated songstress suffers fatal overdose,” or “Grammy-winning songstress suffers fatal overdose?”
Foo Fighters: Dave Grohl lives two lives. In one, he plays the drums, comes up with off-the-wall projects like Probot, and makes positive contributions to the world of music. In the other, he fronts the Foo Fighters and shits on my heart. If Kurt Cobain were alive today, there wouldn’t be enough shotgun shells on earth to satisfy his suicidal urges.
Paramore: This band is what’s wrong with music. A spunky retread of the clip-on pop-punk that Avril Lavigne was posing up years ago, Paramore is youthful rebellion marketed to people too boring for the real thing and too dumb to know the difference. And if the hair dye and homeroom power-pop weren’t bad enough, the band appears to be entirely incapable of stopping themselves from namechecking bands they have nothing to do with. Failure? Chicago? Why not just toss in Gershwin and Mozart while we’re at it? If you find this band enjoyable, please grow the fuck up.
Evanescence: As the Paramore of yesteryear, Evanescence’s recent tailspin toward insignificance puts a big sadistic smile on my face. Who knew that the twofold enticement of a pretty girl singing over nu-metal would have such a short shelf life? Or that 14-year-olds would one day tire of the mall-goth chic that once ruled their T-shirt selection?
Daughtry: As the line between rock and country continues to blur, so too does the line between popularity and garbage. Daughtry is a band forged by record industry persuasion and reality television; a modern day Monkees if you will. Frontman Chris Daughtry was famously on American Idol, although it should also be noted that the rest of the band has made sporadic appearances on COPS, The People’s Court and Locker Room Logjam 17.
The Arcade Fire: Wait, wha?
Nickelback: Puzzling though it may be that Nickelback has earned a Grammy nomination off of a special edition release of an album that came out only two years earlier, I think that the real issue goes much deeper. That album, as unilaterally boring as it is, has sold 9 million copies. So as much as Nickelback sucks, you have only to look deep within yourself to find the suck that is above all other sucks.
Michael Bublé: I can’t speak to his music, but I’ve always been a fan of his bath foam.
50 Cent: If it’s confirmed that Fitty used steroids, will they take his Grammy away? To be honest, I thought it was suspicious that his rhymes had increased so rapidly in physical strength and bulk. You can imagine how surprised I’d be to discover that that swollen head of his wasn’t just arrogance. Get buff or become infertile tryin’, y’all.
Feist: I actually feel bad for Feist. She’s locked in an award category with Amy Winehouse, Christina Aguilera, Nelly Furtado, and Fergie. Even a cursory comparison to those four is pretty degrading. And I heard that being that close to Fergie was how Macy Gray got crabs.
Best Metal Performance: Say what you will, my money’s on titanium. Ruthenium’s simply not at that level yet.
Vol: II, The Vegoose Chronicle, coming soon.