Tag Archives: Music

Sick to death: A playlist

In my dozen posts intended as verbal whistles in the dark, I’ve often alluded to my two-mile walks. Yesterday I went too far. After a stomp through 94-degree weather without water, I got home nauseous and light-headed. Today I take it easier — I’ll bring water. This phone playlist I called Sick to Death kept me sane. A mix of chestnuts and new material I sussed or am still sussing, the playlist also reflects my reading, whether obits, an ILM poll of The B-52s marvelous second album Wild Planet or Pitchfork’s unexpected Stevie Nicks rankings. Imagine my surprise when The Other Side of the Mirror‘s forgotten single “Long Way to Go” made the cut and with a terrific Jayson Greene that’s leather and lace (sorry, Andy Cush, I treat the Nicks-Don Henley duet as if it were a grocery shopper in 2020 without a mask). Other stuff’s here because it’s accompaniment to pounding the pavement: Can, The Orb, Soul II Soul. Scott Walker’s serpentine melodies are rope ladders to clamber out of hidden caverns.

I’ll get this list on Spotify soon. Enjoy. Continue reading

John Prine — RIP

“When I woke up this mornin’/Things were lookin’ bad,” he sang on the first song on his eponymous debut album in 1972 over basic chords. Many songwriters would’ve stopped right there. In the next line, however, comes the kicker: a bowl of oatmeal tries to stare him down — and wins! To be a successful absurdist is to observe a monotheistic faith in precision. On John Prine (1971), the late singer-songwriter got away with zingers less talented artists would’ve pulled their eyeballs out for, couched in melodies as homespun and casual as the prose Prine chiseled as accompaniment. Who else besides perhaps Loudon Wainwright III in the seventies would’ve summed up the depredations into which a heroin addict had sunk with the line, “There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm where all the money goes” in “Sam Stone”? Perfection and inevitability are synonymous — among songwriters Prine made it so. Continue reading

Ranking Pavement’s ‘Wowee Zowee’

Wowee Zowee is pitched halfway between the indulgence of a superstar or cult hero, and the run-of-the-mill oddities that have passed for normal in the indie world for years now,” Eric Weisbard observed in his review for SPIN Magazine in May 1995, a 7 out of 10-star judgment that also deemed WZ “an underground game of musical chairs.” Which means it functions like a double album by people with some money to burn, and a persona to burn using money as kindling. Not much money — Pavement was on Matador.

Since buying it in the early summer of 1998, WZ has hovered near the top of my Pavement pile: their grandest, silliest, most inscrutable statement. Listening to it today, the songs quake under the scrutiny; what seemed like fetching casualness sounds sloppy now, unrealized. For every stop-start wonder like “Rattled by the Rush” — what a terse description of good Pavement! — and woozy, aqueous call-to-action like “Motion Suggests,” there’s half-ass moments of half-assery, an album that worships The Beatles “Wild Honey Pie” while looking askance at “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road”; or, to take a post-punk example, a gnomic garble from Double Nickles on the Dime without the requisite instrumental concentration. I don’t care if Pavement intend “Fight This Generation” as parody of the here-we-are-now-entertain-us cohort or as a tentative contribution; it ain’t worth it.

Yet I love the indigo slipshod blueness of Wowee Zowee anyway. Here’s an album meant to be inhaled, not endured. Continue reading

On the Kenny Rogers legacy

Before “The Gambler,” “Islands in the Stream,” and Roasters, Kenny Rogers applied bearded fervor to material by The First Edition, for whom he sang and played bass. Those early hits still sound refreshing. “But You Know I Love You” has the faintest of swings that fans of The Guess Who’s “These Eyes” would tap their toes to (Dolly Parton took her own version to #1 on the country charts in 1981). Even better was a cover of Mel Tillis’ “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town,” in which the Houston-born vocalist’s sexy burr gets its most attractive setting. Note the pause between “Ruby” and the rest of the phrase; he knew what he was doing. For listeners rustling in their seats, run toward “Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In),” a psychedelic shack of a song in which Rogers watches his mind fall out of his head while his bandmates pinch distorted riffs out of their guitars — you’ll swear you’re listening to Lou Reed’s solo in “I Heard Her Call My Name” or mid sixties Stones — and get hysterical with the organ washes. An anti-drug number, “Just Dropped In” of course descends into camp, but go back to the bearded fervor: Rogers is having too much fun to play George C. Scott in Hardcore. With “I Found a Reason” the band revealed themselves as expert magpies — tune out the vocals and the horn chart will evoke The Kinks. Continue reading

Survey du jour

Alicia Keys

Angel Olsen


A Tribe Called Quest


Peter Gabriel

Roxy Music


“Guilt is a useless emotion” — New Order

I never saw Prince or Bowie.


Defining the Poppy Bush Interzone

Congressman, ambassador to the United Nations, envoy to China, RNC chair, and CIA director, George Herbert Walker Bush became the first vice president since Martin Van Buren to win the presidency without his predecessor dying on him and so far the last president in forty years to lose reelection. His term could not have gone further. Continue reading

Oh lord, help us: Grammys 2020


11:10 p.m. I’m fading. I must grade and read. But Bonnie Raitt remains a Grammy evergreen whose pluckings I’ll never tire of, especially covering John Prine.

11 p.m. We’re gonna be dealing with John Legend forever, Grammy watchers. Boy, is he smooth.

10:57 p.m. Did Sharon Osbourne read the nominations for Best Rap/Sung Performance because Ozzy misplaced his larynx between the East End of London and L.A.?

10:50 p.m. Why is Alicia Keys on a dais higher than the performers nominated and uh performing?

10:45 p.m. Is Quincy Jones up for any Album of the Year nods or

10:38 p.m. Boy! Smokey Robinson and Little Big Town can still harmonize! They present Song of the Year. Billie Eilish’s “Bad Guy,” co-written with her brother, wins. “For all the kids makin’ music in their bedrooms today,” Finneas O’Connell avers, you’re next. I want to think this win for a marvelous song and an even bigger epochal pop radio moment augurs change. But I’m sure John Mayer’s pissed he wasn’t asked to be on “Old Town Road.”

10:35 p.m. Rosalía’s gonna be an American star. On what terms she becomes an American star depend on how Grammy frames her songs and performances.

10:32 p.m. I can’t think of a moment this evening when Alicia Keys hasn’t turned a musical moment into a lesson she can teach us about what she learned about herself.

10:24 p.m. The Grammys and the gospel tradition with its penchant for giving its believers the burial and sendoff they (and we) deserve — they mesh expertly.

10:20 p.m. A sequence reminding us about award histories reminds audiences about the uselessness of categories. We’re here for social media moments.

10:12 p.m. In the wake of the allegations against powerful Grammy men, I’m not sure if Demi Lovato represents the award show’s insurance policy.

10:08 p.m. GOD do I love Greta Gerwig’s “Vogue”-era Madonna suits.

10:01 p.m. All too easy to applaud this performance of a song designed for BTS, Kid Rock, etc.: a performance that had “Grammys” written all over it even in May ’19. But the ebullience with which Lil Nas X, BTS, etc. performed is the best proof that we need Grammys bullshit about The Universality of Music.

9:59 p.m. So…what if Lil Nas X didn’t exist and Jason Aldean or Sam Hunt had cut “Old Town Road”? How long would those comment sections extend?

9:57 p.m. The first Grammy performance in which the boy porno mags from My Own Private Idaho gleam on the wall.

9:55 p.m. Fuck the Grammys for following up Tyler with Ellen DeGeneres making white lady hip-hop moves to the accompaniment of “Shoop.”

9:51 p.m. Tyler, the Creator wins a Grammy. A self-identified queer rapper. And he dispatches his weeping mom with the same malevolent charm. And he gives a speech absent of self-affirmative nostrums. His timbre helps.

9:44 p.m. …and if the reaction shot is any indication they and Aerosmith still shock Smokey Robinson.

9:42 p.m. Know what? Hip-hop radio treats its icons over 30 so disgracefully — so ignominiously — that Run-DMC deserve this nostalgia move.

9:40 p.m. Kudos to opening their medley with “Livin’ on the Edge,” the only distinctive single in their Amazing-Cryin’-Crazy trilogy. Whether Steven Tyler realizes how John Roberts Furious Five, Donald Trump, and impeachment surpass his worse fears is another story; his expert wordplay has always struck me as a Hadrian’s Wall.

9:39 p.m. “Tonight we honor that livin’ on the edge,” we learn on a Grammy stage in which Alicia Keys and Kenny Loggins have bowed.

9:35 p.m. I didn’t warm to Billie Eilish’s album, figuring she’ll release a longform playlist commensurate with her post-adolescent sense of grandiosity. On the Grammy stage, county seat of reification, her weirdness is weirder: she’s doing Barbra Streisand as a Smiths ballad.

9:24 p.m. Ariana Grande has so much presence that this Dynasty meets Dangerous Liasions boudoir scene is intelligible after a glass of wine and a fourth of a chocolate chip cookie.

9:22 p.m. Singing “Imagine,” Ariana Grande gives side-eye to 1980s dreams.

9:21 p.m. The eighties will never go away. Reagan’s policies, sure. Checkered blazers, boom.

9:14 p.m. Wow. Tanya Tucker and Camila Cabello’s eight-minute segment was the evening’s most satisfying.

9:11 p.m. On a roll as Grammy winner for her 2018 album and essential Highwomen member, Brandi Carlile accompanies Tanya Tucker on “Bring Me Flowers,” and, I must say, Tucker’s craggy hot-toddy timbre works better live than on her well-meaning comeback.

9:10 p.m. The older man to whom Camila Cabello sings “My Oh My” is her father, and it earns the night’s warmest applause.

9:07 p.m. I have to wonder if even strong women like Camila Cabello approve introductions that adduce their dependence on other men; Cabello exists as an appendage to Shawn Mendes. And she sings “My Oh My” rather well.

8:59 p.m. This is an American Idol routine. Usher’s better than this, and his new Elle Mai duet proves it.

8:57 p.m. Oh — a ballerina.

8:54 p.m. Oh okay. Prince performances get clicks. And Usher can sing — and older and puffier he wears the Prince drag like Elvis did his ’50s material in 1969. Sheila E backs him. But is this necessary? By the way, Usher, strangely, one of the 2000s best-selling artists, does his contemporary cred no credit here.

8:52 p.m. Best County Duo/Group goes to a pink-suited oddity with long hair part of Dan + Shay for “Speechless.” His wife inspired the song.

8:50 p.m. Blake Shelton and Gwen Stefani blink happily at Alicia Keys like Shriners in a Publix deli line.

8:48 p.m. First cup of coffee. Deciding whether to return to Geoff Dyer’s Out of Sheer Rage.

8:45 p.m. Why would Usher “pay tribute to the legendary artist known as Prince” who’s been dead four years?

8:44 p.m. Watching Tyler with the world afire behind him is like listening to John Lydon on Dick Clark in this Year of Our Lord.

8:42 p.m. May Tyler always perform with a blonde wig.

8:40 p.m. I’m surprised Tyler, the Creator survived Trevor Noah’s awful introduction. I find the rapper’s tracks incommensurate with his song craft — IGOR made my top thirty with the full knowledge it’ll slip into oblivion next year — but he’ll do.

8:39 p.m. Chocolate chip cookies require three days for Soto to consume them. Just sayin’.

8:31 p.m. Best Pop Solo Performance goes to Lizzo for “Truth Hurts,” deserved. And her speech about reaching out has the spontaneity of a regular person.

8:27 p.m. The Jonas Brothers look as if they retained water for the sake of wearing terrible shirts. They owe much to Neil Diamond too: hard acoustic strumming, fireworks, indecipherable object of desire.

8:25 p.m. K-pop, John Legend, Lewis Capaldi — the Grammys namecheck ecumenicism without rewarding it.

8:22 p.m. Greil Marcus dismissed Kenny Loggins as a guy who couldn’t resist clapping; that’s Alicia Keys, delivering monologues as if she insisted on others to clap for her.

8:20 p.m. Alicia Keys, who can’t recite pieties without reminding you she’s telling you What These Pieties Are, and she’ll play boring piano parts too.

8:14 p.m. Do these zombies realize the men who run the Grammys are accused of sexual assault get mentioned the same day Kobe Bryant, accused of sexual assault, gets eulogized? Let’s celebrate his achievements, fine. The Grammys aren’t the time. Not the right setting.

8:13 p.m. Gunning for the Stevie Nicks award for Unnecessary Maternal Support, Stefani delivers a wedding cake performance. How ridiculous to think she had any interest in pop, futurity, staying current — she’s a Bridal Guide model.

8:11. “My friends Blake Shelton and Gwen Stefani” play next, wreathed by Lady Liberty lights that illuminate the size of Shelton’s brain.

8:07 p.m. I’ve been hard on Alicia Keys. Paralyzed by forty years’ worth of award show ponderosities, she can’t even deliver a line about Kobe Bryant without sounding as if she were reciting Emma Lazarus. I suppose ‘everyone’ in L.A. knew him. Boyz II Men appear to sing a bit of “It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday.”

8:05 p.m. When Lizzo plays flute, it’s like watching the late David Bowie play lead guitar.

8:03 p.m. Wearing an outfit that looks carved out of fishscales, Lizzo plays “Truth Hurts” with the confidence of a performer as long-term as Diana Ross.

8:01 p.m. “Tonight is for Kobe,” Lizzo announces, giving the blessing to the effacement of Bryant’s rape charge. Lizzo remains a singular presence: sincere, unabashed, conscious of playing a part (a fact detractors miss).

8 p.m. I can’t imagine these Grammys untouched by the death of Kobe Bryant, admired by the L.A. community of basketball fans.

‘It was just music and the baths, music and the baths’

What I like about Cowley’s instrumentals is how their bleeps and spiky melodies evoke a chintzy anonymity — the anonymity of sex in The Anvil; I can smell the sweat and mung. Reviewing Patrick Cowley’s journals, “a voraciously readable historical document” released at the same time as a comp called Mechanical Fantasy Box, Rich Juzwiak captures a period in gay life that looks like the long British spring of 1914 before Franz Ferdinand fell victim to an assassin’s bullet:

To hear him tell it, Cowley was enthralled by the sex he was having—so many great asses, so many great cocks, and such prowess. “I could never take the fuck I give,” he brags. In addition to the graphic sex, his writings contain sprinklings of romance and momentary ambivalence regarding his fast lifestyle (“The churning, crowded heat of men in a sexual banquet crowds in on me and the forced-by-circumstances emotion-lacking atmosphere drives me away”). There’s also a real sense of the brotherhood that the ritualistic scene could foster for a lapsed Catholic like Cowley: “I’m on my knees worshipping Phallus. All around me are the other similarly engaged. I feel the one-ness of our activity. Silent yet all things understood.”

A child when the AIDS panic swept Florida, I learned to cordon off my sexuality from the rest of my life. Then my uncle died of HIV complications a year before New England Journal of Medicine published an article suggesting the benefit of antiretroviral therapies. Fear, trembling, and panic — they trail the god of war. To have survived this era doesn’t fill me with gratitude so much as expose a hollowing. I could never return to a past as unfamiliar to me as the Romanov court.

On the loud, proud indeterminacy of R.E.M.’s ‘Monster’

Understanding how discretion and secrecy may share a space but aren’t synonymous, R.E.M. issued declarative statements from behind new screens on Monster. A new remix polishes the vocals to middling effect on their 1994 multi-platinum: Stipe and guitarist Peter Buck compete for Sexiest Man Alive when they and bassist Mike Mills and drummer Bill Berry had always offered themselves as multifoliate unit. Continue reading

‘David Crosby: Remember My Name’ emphasizes the life, not the art

In David Crosby: Remember My Name, the long-haired rock scion allows the camera to catch him in two moments of empathy. Describing Christine Hinton, whose death in a 1969 car accident accelerated a descent into a miasma of addictions, Crosby uses her as a stand-in for the “hundreds,” in his words, of women whom he has treated wretchedly — the girlfriends he turned on to heroin and coke, for example, the abuse of which led to prison terms for charges of hit and run and possession of concealed weapons in the 1980s, not to mention a liver transplant (Phil Collins paid for it!) a decade later. Noting that “Croz,” as his friends refer to him, got tut-tutting fingers shaken in his face for years because of the glow of his iconicity doesn’t diminish the depths of his agony. Continue reading

This is how you disappear: Scott Walker RIP

For the second time in as many weeks, I delved into an artist’s work not long before his death. Savoring the mediation on medieval Provençe called The Mays of Ventadorn and thumbing through one of his final collections The Shadow of Sirius, I awoke to the news about poet W.S. Merwin. At the same time, I had acquired a rather expensive (for 2019) used copy of The Climate of Hunter. I’d heard it in dribs over the years. I relish uneven accommodations to mainstream taste; years after admiring Scott 4 (1969) and learning how to listen to Tilt (1995), I needed to catch up. Now I have all the time necessary.

Scott Walker was not a fringe artist in 1984; a scan of the credits reveals the names of Mark Knopfler and Billy Ocean, flashed like FBI badges, both having or about to have their greatest pop moments. If Walker intended The Climate of Hunter as his contribution to the MTV-indebted New Pop explosion, then it failed. On ballads “Rawhide” and “Sleepwalkers Woman” the climaxes don’t happen in the expected places if they happen at all. The squeezed plushness of the American-born Walker’s vocal approach, like Edith Evans singing through a paper towel roll, enforces a waiting game; with a voice this unusual, this mannered, there had to be a payoff. Meanwhile the rhythm section burbled and rumbled at a discreet, discrete remove, as if an engineer happened to record it. At all times the use of strings was unnerving: while Walker stayed in place, they screeched like a replay of Bernard Herrmann’s Psycho score; when Walker chose to keep up with the bass and drums, the strings hung fire.

Similar dynamics applied to Tilt‘s “Manhattan,” in which sustained Bach-like organ chords keep up anxiety levels. Other instruments, unidentifiable or avoiding their usual functions, buzzed — “each instrument is locked into a hovering circle of vibrato, like bees moving in swarm formation,” in Derek Walmsley’s perfect description. When Pulp hired Walker to produce their final album We Love Life, it’s clear that the band wanted to organize “The Trees” around these tensions. On the title track Jarvis Cocker’s performance demonstrated why Pulp wasn’t Scott Walker: it does build to a climax, a glorious one. In Walker’s later music it would have been a principle betrayed, a concession to a mass taste he hadn’t courted since the sixties. Who needs a boring old guitar solo when a donkey’s bray will do?

About the Walker Brothers material and Nite Flights in particular I will cede insight and knowledge to Chris O’Leary, whose extensive writing on Walker’s influence on David Bowie (and Bowie’s own generosity acknowledging the influence) persuaded me to give Walker another chance. I have not much else to write about the albums released after Tilt except to note his needling score for The Childhood of a Leader, directed by Vox Lux‘s Brady Corbet, in 2015. But let me return to Scott 4, on which I’ve spent most of my time. Drenched in a chansonnier tradition that ran parallel to rock through the sixties and into the next decade, Scott 4 adduces Jacques Brel, Dionne Warwick, the Richard Harris of “MacArthur Park.” A stately collection, “classy” in the booboisie sense; also, louche and mildly decadent in the manner of fading European nobility persisting into the Nixon and Heath era. Walker rarely allowed him a couplet as plummy as the following in “Duchess”: “With your shimmering dress/It says no, it says yes.” Male chorales compete with strings in the perfumed air of “The Old Man’s Back Again,” in which, speaking of faded glory, the ghosts of Stalin, Dostoevsky, and Voznesensky insist on being remembered. Ian McCullough and Pet Shop Boys no doubt wore out their vinyl copies.

All this, plus, to use the Randall Jarrell method of listing praise, “Two Ragged Soldiers,” “Plastic Palace People,” “It’s Raining Today,” “Fat Mama Kick,” and cover material of marvelous fluency and vitality. To say Walker toyed with camp is to accuse water of being wet. Camp is irony at its most equable. When Walker unleashed that vibrato on an unsuspecting syllable, he called attention to a limited physical range that was determined to break through emotionally anyway. Sound – the suggestive possibilities of phonemes; the dynamic on those later albums whereby the spaces between instruments and voice had a disjunctive power – intoxicated him. In the songbooks of Bob Crewe and Leiber-Stoller he saw unexplored corners of weirdness: the weirdness of a David Lynch movie in which an old man drives a lawnmower across the verdant lawns of rural America and neighbors say howdy. Scott Walker’s corpus will continue to fascinate the devoted and to elude casual listeners. At his best he alerts listeners to how fluttering things, to quote a poet whose composed, cologned mien hid a musky imagination, have so distinct a shade.

Oh god save us: Grammys 2019

11:08 p.m. G’night, y’all!

11:02 p.m. Almost bedtime. Three more categories and an Aretha tribute. I want to read a few more pages of Jack Kelly’s excellent recounting of the Pullman Strike and a couple of Louise Glück poems before head hits pillow. Let me gather my strength for a final award, Best Rap Album. Invasion of Privacy wins, an album that in 2018 is impressive for its brevity and focus. So is Pusha T, but you’d expect this from the Don Henley of rap.

10:58 p.m. I underrated By the Way, I Forgive You a year ago.

10:50 p.m. I’d like to thank my friend Tere Estorino Florin for introducing me to and proselytizing for Brandi Carlisle for years. She sings “The Joke” as if her life hung on this performance, this night. And it works.

10:42 p.m. BTS emerge without a spot of blood, like Fortinbras in Act V of Hamlet. They announce that H.E.R. has won Best R&B Album. She will get streaming revenue, deservedly, for this EP, not album, as she points out, yet her EP is almost seventy-five minutes.

10:41 p.m. Motown was gayer than this.

10:40 p.m. “Square Biz”!

10:37 p.m. As fascinating as this performance: the cutaways to the audience, who to a man and woman nod as if listening to a recitation of Goethe.

10:37 p.m. Can you imagine if the curtain rises and performing every Motown chestnut is Meghan Trainor

10:34 p.m. ….yet Keys and Smokey harmonize well on a snippet of “The Tracks of My Tears.”

10:30 p.m. A Motown tribute with…Ne-Yo? Has it come to this? A decade ago he released one of the twenty-first century’s best male R&B albums.

10:26 p.m. The commercial breaks increase in frequency and length. So do the slow jams. James Blake’s single with Travis Scott and Metro Boomin’ is the 2019 equivalent of a 1978 Kenny Loggins song, complete with bloodless funk section.

10:11 p.m. Ten minutes after the room has had a chance to grab a Tito’s and soda, Lady Gaga is on stage to perform “Shallow” in a Bowie-worthy leotard. She does Queen better than Bohemian Rhapsody.

10:01 p.m. In 1979 I would likely have criticized Diana Ross’ self-regard too, but it’s been forty years, and with her formidable catalog coursing through every capillary she turns “Reach Out and Touch (Somebody’s Hand)” into a valentine for her fans and their lifeline to her. Moving.

9:59 p.m. There was a time when the Grammys meant watching Diana Ross in these gowns.

9:50 p.m. After quiet weeping in the bathroom, I return and Drake wins Best Rap Song for “God’s Plan.” I think of Tootsie‘s last act when I see Drake: “Oh boy, here come the terms…” But Aubrey Graham’s speech, replete with praise for the little people who trudge through snow and rain and Trump tweets to his shows, is solid. All I can stand are two minutes, but producers interrupt him for a commercial break anyway. They’d rather let Alicia Keys mangle The Classics.

9:44 p.m. After performing a round of classics, Keys conclude with her “New York State of Mind,” as if to say, I’m one of you, I won 15 Grammys.

9:43 p.m. oh for FUCK’S SAKE

9:39 p.m. Alicia Keys playing two pianos at once. A generational talent. She sings Roberta Flack as Hazel Scott, then flips to “Lucid Dreams” by way of Sting. Now “Unforgettable.” I know these performances establish continuity and context to a pop world that abjures history, but Keys can’t do it without coming off like the smartest Vegas singer.

9:30 p.m. Best Country Album goes to Kacey Musgraves, a harbinger of her shut-out in an hour for Album of the Year.

9:27 p.m. I expected Cardi B to dominate year-end lists. This performance reminds me why she should have.

9:22 p.m. A Motown tribute from Smokey Robinson. We needed one.

9:20 p.m. oh WOW — a H.E.R. guitar solo.

9:19 p.m. I wanted H.E.R. to perform “Comes a Time,” “Journey Into the Past,” “Motorcycle Mama” or any other Neil Young country track to make the evening complete.

9:16 p.m. BRB.

9:11 p.m. We critics publish variants on the following statement after every awards show: these ceremonies don’t offer redress for past crimes so much as act as arbitration. Perform tonight, we’ll forget about ignoring you all year.

9:09 pm. Snark aside, I heard more women singing country in 10 minutes than I heard on my local country station all year!

9:08 p.m. The cutaway shows a politely indifferent audience to “9 to 5.” Which was weird! In this Post-Malone world, “9 to 5” is proto-rap.

9:05 p.m. Although hard to make out through the sturm und drang, this new Parton composition sounds promising.

9:01. Now the evening’s highlight: a poignant cover of “After the Gold Rush.” BTS loves it too!

9 p.m. It’s 9 p.m., and I hear “Jolene.” Miley Cyrus could’ve sung a less frantically arranged “Jolene.”

8:58 pm. A Dolly Parton kicks off with “Here You Come Again, sung by Katy Perry and Kacey Musgraves, a song given new life by a commercial. Perry treats”Here You Come Again” as if it were meat sauce. Then Parton, giving the pair the closest Dolly approximation to a withering glare, takes over, indifferent to harmonizing.

8:55 p.m. To continue: this makes me the The Weeknd of bloggers, impressing you with my ardor in the hopes that you’ll love me. Oh, right — that’s Alicia Keys.

8:53 p.m. I’m certain that my students, for whom these byzantine legal agreements about performances are made, are watching Russian Doll.

8:50 p.m. Don’t these people know that hopping on your bare feet or in flat shoes is bad for your arches?

8:49 p.m. At last, the Chili Peppers transform into the Eagles.

8:47 p.m. Post-Malone performing “Rockstar” is the kind of post-modernism that consumes solar systems.

8:45 p.m. Of course I don’t object to the Malone/Chili Peppers pairing. Malone and “Under the Bridge” are natural mates. And this kind of tattooed sincerity will always have a place in Grammy lore.

8:43 p.m. Brandi Carlisle in this category defines “dissonance.” It’s like trout at a slaughterhouse. Childish Gambino’s “This is America” wins.

8:42 p.m. However, John Mayer, Song of the Year winner for “Daughters,” deserves fifteen Grammys for his hair.

8:41 p.m. Alicia Keys: “I have been super impressed to win 15 Grammys.” Humility, I saw it fly out the window once.

8:38 p.m. “Post-Malone and Red Hot Chili Peppers are about to share the Grammys stage.” I may return to reading about the Pullman Strike of 1894.

8:29 p.m. Costumed in a fabulous jet vinyl space outfit with models out of a Robert Palmer video, Janelle Monáe does discrete upstrokes on her guitar for “To Make Me Feel.” The size of the stage — are they on a battleship? — dilutes her power, though. Again, we’re down to Solid Gold routines, complete with smoke machines. MIKE DROP.

8:25 p.m. “A songwriter whose songs radiate a light of their own,” Kacey Musgraves appears on stage to sing “Rainbow.” She’s nervous, disarmingly; also, to my ears, flat. Yet these developments turn this performance into a triumph. Not the most original song on the nominated Golden Hour — a “Yesterday” killer to which voters succumb.

8:20 “I’m so proud to be part of a movie that deals with mental health issues.” Is that how Gaga and Coop sold A Star is Born to producers? This is like saying Grand Hotel is a movie that deals with hospitality issues.

8:19 p.m. Best Pop Duo/Group, the evening’s first award, goes to “Shallow,” Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper’s duet for A Star is (Re)Born. One of the losers is Justin Timberlake and Chris Stapleton’s “Say Something.” Remember it? Do I? Do they?

8:17 p.m. I’m on board with Mendes reviving the Elvis style of vestigial-guitar-around-left shoulder if it means he doesn’t get to play it.

8:15 p.m. Never on God’s earth have I seen boots on legs as thin as Shawn Mendes’.

8:13 pm. So who follows these powerful women of color? Shawn Mendes again, playing “In My Blood” — on piano. His alabaster arms are tattoo-proof.

8:09 p.m. “They said I was weird,” Lady Gaga announces in a lineup that looks like a firing squad. Who said she was weird? “Music is the one place where we all can feel truly free,” Jennifer Lopez adds. Michelle Obama, however, overpowers them, with her simplicity of gesture, a high priestess of piety. It’s 2019, and the audience — we — need it, I suppose.

8:07 p.m. “I will always love you, Dolly,” Alicia Keys says, highlighting my Alicia Keys problem. She reminds everyone that she’s quoting Dolly Parton and also being sententious about it.

8:05 p.m. Never mind: Ricky Martin is here. Martin, from whom irony dribbles off like scandal to Reagan. I should mention that Martin is poignant as Versace’s lover in the FX series.

8:03 p.m. I’m watching this West Side Story revival and thinking, do watches 18-24 care? It’s like watching a Dean Martin roast in 1974 and wanting to kill everyone for being so old and smug.

8:00 p.m. Camila Cabello does a dollhouse routine, is not singing, and descends a fire escape. This is talent.

7:58 p.m. Shawn Mendes weighs more than his music.

7:55 p.m. I dislike Alicia Keys. She breaths falsity like lamprey eat plankton. I look forward to the ceremony.