I think that I’ve hated the Grammy awards my entire life. Overproduced mutual-masturbation bonanzas like the Oscars and the Emmys tend to acknowledge small pockets of merit among the chaff on the rare occasion, but the Grammys generally nominate based on sales. This usually means a lot of the facile mall-shit I hate gets felt up while the year’s (or whatever bizarre calendar they go on) true gems go unnoticed.

Well this year, I had an epiphany and I think I might forgive the Grammys: out of curiosity, I gave the list of nominees a glance. Of course - the major categories were loaded up with Mary J. Blige’s some-shit about “her man,” John Mayer’s blah blah plagiarism of Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions, or a series of yawns from the Dixie Chicks. But for what was represented by the horrible mainstream, there was about tenfold of the most arcane: Best Croatian Power Balad, Achievement in Binaural Mixing by a Shetland Sheltie, Best Album in the field of Siberian Puke-Singing…and so on.

My grand revelation was that by the end of compiling this exhausting and extensive list, the Nomination Committee is so worn out that they say “fuck it,” slot in whatever the dart hits on the Billboard Hot 100 and then go to bed on a pile of money. Bless their shriveled little hearts.

That’s not really the great news though - today’s gift is that I learned that one of my favorite bands like ever, James, has reunited after five years, is touring and working on new stuff.

So fuck you if that doesn’t make you happy.

Technorati Tags: billboard, curtis mayfield, dixie chicks, emmys, grammys, james, john mayer, mary j. blige, oscars, the impressions