Yet somehow, each year, I feel at odds with the Grammys. I rarely agree with their choices for nominees, am embarrassed by the “kinda funky, kinda now” outfits people wear and exasperated by the general hoopla that makes a duet by Elton John and Eminem seem like a nationwide controversy (granted—those were simpler times.)
I vowed this year to take a Zen approach—take it for what it is—a silly awards ceremony, accept what I formerly scowled at, and keep in mind that it’s a pat on the back for a music industry that needs something to celebrate after a dismal year in profits.
Yet my new approach was challenged from the word go. The day before the event, I received word from a friend that she was unable to pick up my tickets, and I would have to drive down to Grammy headquarters in Santa Monica and do it myself. No problem. Though I was on my cell phone, running errands in flip-flops, the shirt I’d slept in, and last year’s line of Diesel jeans, I’d quickly pop down there and get it over with. After all, I had Clive Davis’s party to attend that night, and tomorrow would be hectic. It’d only take a minute….
I ended up spending two hours leaning against a wall in a crowded room with 60 industry types waiting for Grammy to call my number. But that’s not all. Everyone else was already dressing to impress. The L.A. guys were donning gelled dos and just that right amount of razor stubble, while the gals just happened to have on full make-up and heels. There was no covering up my Pooch Gym shirt that I purchased from the sale bin at Old Navy two years go, or the flowered scrunchy in my hair (so 1998!) I applied my new Zen approach and reasoned that most of my colleagues would pretend they didn’t know me anyway.
That way I only got stuck saying hi to one peer, and he came to me. Ha! Feeling as though my new mindset was working, I finally got my tickets and was whizzing out of the building when I bumped into a WELCOME TO THE 44TH GRAMMYS sign, cut my arm on the laminated cardboard and sent the poster and its supporting easel to the floor. Even as an unenthusiastic Grammy-goer, I’d bled for these tickets.
The sleeveless dress I planned to wear to the Clive Davis party—an event that is one of the most hyped pre-Grammy events—-was almost the same color as my bruised arm. With less than a half hour to get ready, I had no time to pick up a wound-hiding corsage or a political arm band with some nebulous slogan on it like CHOOSE LIFE. No one would notice anyway.
The party was a star-studded event that the former soul of Arista Records, and now head of J Records, holds each year at the Beverly Hills Hotel, or is it the Beverly Wilshire, or the Beverly Hilton? That was the very question that made me over 90 minutes late as I drove from tony hotel to tony hotel.
When I finally figured out it was the Beverly Hills Hotel on Sunset, I stopped cursing, pulled in the drive and got ready to slide my shoes on and have the valet take my car. The flash of cameras was almost blinding when I pulled up. There was Quincy Jones on the red carpet, and was that Cher? (They’re always shorter than you think.) Before I could even exit the car and set foot on the carpet, the valet informed me there was no parking left. I would have to take a space on the street. In Beverly Hills, that’s about as easy as finding $1,000 on the sidewalk. I circled for another 25 minutes to find something close enough (walking in girl shoes over four blocks can cause irreparable foot damage.) The one space I did come close to nabbing was taken by a rude, local news van driver whom I argued with for 10 minutes until screeching off and having a drink with friends at the equally-as-glamorous Ye Old Rustic Tavern across town.
On Grammy day, I’d given myself plenty of time to get ready and was waiting in traffic outside the Staples Center by 3:30 p.m. Not bad considering doors close at 4:30. I was determined to get in by 4, have a drink and eventually make my way to my seat. I was in by 4, watching Busta Rhymes saunter around like Bootsy Collins in his leopard-print hat and jacket, the Dixie Chicks schmooze with Bonnie Raitt and the main guy from Five for Fighting walk amongst the other nonfamous folk in the main foyer. As exciting as this may seem, my spirits were dampened by the fact that, alas, they decided to shut the bar at 4:05 this year. I missed it by 30 seconds and had to beg for a cup of water. So humiliating.
Inside the giant sports arena, there were a million girls who looked like Sheryl Crow. I made bets with a friend on who the real Crow was. We both lost. Also seated on the arena floor, No Doubt (singer Gwen Stefani looking fabulous in a sort of rockabilly pompadour), DMX in street clothes and best album nominee Dre from Outkast in a fuzzy white hat and plaid leisure suit (an A for creativity.) Interesting note: he barely moved in his seat as ‘N Sync and Nelly played, yet rocked hard to the Soggy Bottom Boys and Bob Dylan. To the side of the stage, a bevy of blondes decked out in everything from a red, white and blue corset to a supertight Daisy Duke-style shirt walked down the aisle toward the stage. I assumed they were part of a “lady of the night” theme for the “Moulin Rouge” “Lady Marmalade” performance by Pink, Lil’ Kim, Mya and Christina Aguilera. That was until I realized they were Hugh Hefner’s 10 dates. That was close to my favorite part of the Grammys. But the top moment: when the “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” soundtrack won album of the year. It made all the shoe pain, arm injuries and forced sober viewing of the Grammy’s worth it.
And the after-parties? EMI’s party at the old Park Plaza Hotel was an indicator of just how troubled this label—which just dropped Mariah Carey and David Bowie—has become. They served pizza, French fries and burgers, sorta like a picnic with 300 of your closest friends. But the eclectic artist attendance was high—Beck was there being hounded by journalists as Thom Yorke from Radiohead did his best to hide from adoring fans.
Then there was the MCA party, hosted by Shaggy and Blink 182 across town. It required getting on a shuttle at the Pacific Design Center and being dropped at an undisclosed location in the Hollywood Hills. Again, there was no parking, not enough shuttles to accommodate the dozens of overzealous partygoers. My Zen approach had all but faded. It was midnight, I was hungry and still somewhat mad that India.Arie had not won best new artist this year (I do love her). I never did make it to the secret party.
By 1:30 a.m., I was back at my hotel, surrounded by police. Since we were only blocks from the Staples Center, they were still on high security alert. Apparently, someone had thrown a fire extinguisher out a sixth-floor window, causing it to explode in the center mezzanine. A terrorist activity? No, I say it was another scratched and bruised Grammy-goer whose new Zen approach failed. At least they decided to end the Grammys with a bang.
