Grammies and grandpas

Tonight was the first time I’ve watched the Grammies in quite awhile. It was kind of a geriatric affair, wasn’t it? Tony Bennett and Glenn Campbell and Brian Wilson and Paul McCartney. There was Diana Ross. And get a load of Reba McEntire, a caricature of herself with some new facial surgery. Sheesh, attack of the oldsters. Next thing you know they’ll have Mick Jagger on there.

I do like that Taylor Swift, especially when she plays a banjo and her backup folks wear ’40s dresses. Adele is refreshingly authentic, with retro hair and a frumpy frock, relying solely on voice and songwriting skill. Not sure why she had to chew gum all night — the Cockney accent isn’t lowbrow enough? But from what I was able to deduce, she deserved that pickup load of trophies she took home. Don’t get me started on Chris Brown. Does the taint of domestic abuse really expire in just three years? It’s not like the guy’s sheer musical genius obviates his police record.

I didn’t really get that Nicki Minaj number: What the hell was that? We’re doing short films at the Grammies now? And why The Exorcist? See, this is what happens Madonna and Lady Gaga seem to prove that anything goes — sometimes artists of lesser talent think that anything goes, and things do not cohere.

I joke about all the senior citizens on stage, but Paul McCartney’s medley from Abbey Road was the highlight of the evening for me. How convenient that it was the finale. And how great to get a finale, after what seemed like 14 straight hours of viewing.

What else did I miss?