Back from the Grammys. It was a nice getaway. Short, and not very relaxing, but a vacation nonetheless. Seeing my uncle, Danny, aunt, Kendall, and cousins, Leah and Charlie, is always refreshing. (I hate that word, but it was.) With all due love to said family members, Charlie remains the most refreshing factor of our trips out there. There’s nothing like a one-year-old to shove aside teenage doom. Look at this video of him opening a gift from my family last Chanukah:
I needed a lot of angst-shoving, especially after Foo Fighters beat Wilco to a dad-rock pulp during their five-Grammy rampage. Our hopes were high, because after we found out that Wilco’s nomination, Best Rock Album, was no longer going to be televised, we figured that could only mean Wilco won and they didn’t want to televise it because they’re not famous enough. I guess it actually meant that Foo Fighters won and they didn’t want Dave Grohl to have to make too many appearances. I don’t mean to sound snarky, but he showed up on screen so many times, they might as well have just thrown Best Rock Album in, too. After they performed twice, and Dave Grohl got to solo-duel with Paul McCartney, it really felt like they were the centerpiece of the whole thing. Maybe that’s just the loser’s sensitivity talking.
We were thankful just to be there as the lowly posse of interlopers, but you can be thankful and annoyed. It was annoying that Jack Black introduced Foo Fighters as the only band retaining their “indie cred” that night, especially now that Wilco is literally indie. But none of it really matters. I think I’m the first person that ever said that about award shows.
My highlight was that at a party after the show, Paul McCartney told John (Stirratt) that he stayed up to watch Wilco on Austin City Limits the other night and loved it. That was insane and, in all the Wilco-ites’ eyes, I think, more meaningful and encouraging than a Grammy.
Back to school.