A phrase you will never see as part of a chyron on any other awards show: “All unworn undergarments will be donated to survivors of domestic violence through I SUPPORT THE GIRLS.”
That notification flashed, so to speak, across the screen at the end of Charli XCX’s performance late in Sunday night’s 67th Annual Grammy Awards.
Charlie XCX had just made her way from the loading dock at the Arena Formerly Known as Staples in Los Angeles, paraded out onto the stage in an absurdly high-energy maelstrom of sweaty limbs, thrusting groins, raining confetti and, yes, veritable plumes of pantaloons — most presumably unworn, but who can say for sure?
It was a moment that captured the wild versatility of the Grammys in general and this year’s in particular, conducted in the recent aftermath of the disastrous Los Angeles fires and in the midst of growing uncertainty about the United States’ position on the world stage and the entertainment industry’s position on the American stage. It all came together in a 225-minute telecast that mined emotions ranging from somber to delirious, reverential to iconoclastic.
As Grammys telecasts so often do, it felt a tiny bit endless and the presentation of the handful of actual awards felt mostly anticlimactic. But just when you thought that you might forget every bauble presented on Sunday night, Beyoncé won album of the year for Cowboy Carter, ending a snubbing streak that already felt unfathomable and could very possibly have culminated in rioting if she hadn’t won this one.
Having already contributed what is sure to become an eternally popular GIF with her surprise at winning country album of the year — handed to her with minimal flourish by Taylor Swift — Beyoncé’s response to the overdue top prize was a little understated and muted. Perhaps she knew better than to try to upstage the Los Angeles firefighters who handed her this trophy. Maintaining composure, she reflected on how it had been “many, many years” and wrapped the show. Her win will be remembered for a long time, but her speech may not be.
I think one or two men won Grammys on Sunday — native son Kendrick Lamar, fittingly for an evening dedicated to Los Angeles, took home record and song of the year — but one after another, it was the women who took the Formerly Known as Staples stage and held the spotlight.
Chappell Roan, moments after performing “Pink Pony Club” accompanied by dancing radio clowns and, of course, a pink pony, received her best new artist Grammy. After fumbling her princess hennin hat, she took out a diary and made a carefully considered plea for record studios to support up-and-coming artists with healthcare, referencing her own struggles without that necessity during COVID. Other people made political statements during the show, but those were directed out into the ether, into society at large. Roan’s advocacy directly addressed music bigwigs sitting on the arena floor and in luxury boxes.
In other speeches, Alicia Keys argued, “DEI is not a threat, it’s a gift,” Shakira made a call on behalf of immigrants, Lady Gaga made a call on behalf of trans visibility and Lamar made a call on behalf of Mustard.
We’re early in the 2025 awards cycle, but after the largely tepid sentiments at the largely tepid Golden Globes ceremony last month, this was a more topically pointed telecast, though most of its sentiment was directed toward traumatized residents of fire-ravaged Los Angeles.
The show started with an irony-stripped rewrite of Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.” by local boys Dawes and a backing band featuring John Legend, Sheryl Crow, Brad Paisley and Brittany Howard. The City of Angels was visually represented in the backdrop for Billie Eilish’s performance of “Birds of a Feather” and exhaustively referenced in Bruno Mars and Lady Gaga’s duet of “California Dreaming.” Several ad breaks included commercials for local businesses rebuilding after getting lost in the flames, there was an extended montage of horrifying fire images and host Trevor Noah repeatedly urged people in the arena and at home to make donations through MusiCares in partnership with Direct Relief, the California Community Foundation and the Pasadena Community Foundation. I did, did you?
Noah, a veteran emcee who previously took on the difficult task of handling the socially distanced COVID Grammys, offered smooth bridges between the emotional tributes, bursts of musical abandon and attempted comic bits that were never sharp, but never belabored either. Working mostly from the audience — the better to make sure that Swift was in the background of every other shot — Noah kept things moving along and kept the mood light. He’s never my favorite awards show host but, especially when spikes of sentiment could have made things clumsy, he’s a pro.
Noah mentioned early on that winners were entitled to speak as long as they wanted, but anything over 90 seconds would cost them $1000 per second in donations. I doubt that will be enforced and I’m not sure who would face the penalty anyway, but it was mostly a joke since the Grammys never care about running on time. There were so many little pieces of business in the telecast, like the interviews and clip packages introducing several performers, the long tribute to Alicia Keys, the longer tribute to the late Quincy Jones.
And there was, of course, one great performance after another, whether you knew the artists coming in or made discoveries as the show went along.
The back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back new artist performances by Khruangbin, Benson Boone, Doechii, Teddy Swims, Shaboozey and Raye were among the most astounding thing I’ve ever seen on an awards show. Each one had a different scale, tone and set, and a couple of them — Doechii and Raye stood out for me — were simply remarkable.
Truly, there was so much variety in what the evening offered. Whether it was the glamour humor of Carpenter’s “Espresso,” the queer Western fantasia of Roan’s “Pink Pony Club,” the Dante’s Inferno/Tower of Abel nightmare of the surprise appearance by The Weeknd, the intimate bellydancing done by Shakira or the aforementioned unworn undergarments of Charli XCX, there was close to something for everybody. And that’s without getting to Stevie Wonder duetting with Herbie Hancock on “We Are the World” or Janelle Monae’s chaotic yet delightful cover of “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” or Cynthia Erivo’s showstopping “Fly Me to the Moon.”
There will always be some room for quibbles or personal preferences. I thought some of the tributes to the city paled in comparison to the FireAid concert earlier in the week, and several of the artists who did that telethon were missed onstage here. I didn’t think Chris Martin sounded great on the In Memoriam-accompanying “All My Love,” although, as regular readers will know, I’m almost never a fan of how that obligatory segment is executed at awards shows. The sound mix on a few of the earlier performances put the vocals so far in the background that they were almost inaudible. If I were the director of the telecast, I’d have put some effort into capturing how epic the venue and some of the performances were, since otherwise, why bother holding the event at What Was Once Staples?
In general, though, the Grammys delivered on most important levels. I found a few artists I’ve never heard of whom I’ll be listening to after finishing this review. Millions of dollars were raised for fire charities. Beyoncé will never again need to hear about her album of the year curse. And there were undergarments. So many undergarments!
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