Live From The 2009 Grammy Awards!
Well, kind of.
It’s been three years since I last walked the Grammy red carpet.
Of course, truth is that I walked the carpet (which was Heineken green, as I recall) well in advance of the actual celebrities. The rest of the night, I was working across the street in a corrugated aluminum trailer.
We have a small crew at The Staples Center tonight. Most of us, however, are working from our Times Square newsroom. Which is just fine with me. Because it may be a late night, but at least it ends at home with Abbi.
Anyway, here are some real-time random musings on tonight’s show…
8:01 – U2 as Grammy’s opening act? Thought it was Radiohead for a second. Dig Edge’s “Get On Your Boots” hook, and Bono in silhouette against that crazy but not crazy about the whole “sexy boots” thing. Lyrics feel like nonsensical, third-tier Dylanesque pastiche.
8:04 – Whitney Houston is BACK! (Yawn.)
8:07 – J Hud takes the sympathy vote.
8:08 – “Ladies and gentlemen, the star of “Escape To Witch Mountain…” I love Duane “The Rock” Johnson. But… um, huh?
8:16 – Abbi texts me, “I love you!” prompting me to call and ask her what inspired the random missive. “Al Green and Justin Timberlake! Aren’t you watching!?!” Thanks, guys.
8:21 – The star of “The Mentalist” introducing Coldplay!?! Dude, if they trot out Katie Couric, I’m outa’ here.
8:25 – Best as I can tell, Jay cleared his throat in the middle of Coldplay’s “Lost.”
8:40 – Coldplay thanks Sir Paul McCartney for “blatantly ripping off his ‘Sergeant Pepper’s outfit.” Well done.
8:55 – Coupla’ flat notes, but Taylor and Miley are awfully cute (and awfully young, nineteen and sixteen, respectively). Awkward how they went right into the Best Pop Collabo category…
8:58 – Taylor Swift hugging Robert Plant! Wow, I think I’ve seen it all. And I think we’ll be seeing a lot more of Mr. Plant and Miss Krauss. (And did I mention that Jamie Leonhart and I covered Robert Plant and Allison Krauss’ “Killing The Blues”!?!)
9:09 – First of all, I never thought we’d see Jason Mraz again, let alone on the Grammy stage. Second of all, Stevie Wonder with The Jonas Brothers!?!
9:15 – BLINK-182 IS BACK! I never thought I’d see these TRL staples on the Grammy stage, let alone reuniting there. Weird. The older I get, the less surprised I am by anything at all…
9:16 – Like, for example, Coldplay’s “Best Rock Album” win. That’s rock? “A little softer but just as charming.” Nicely said, Mr. Martin.
9:23 – Katy Parry, tearing a page from U2′s PopMart Tour, descends onto the Grammy stage in a banana (that looks alarmingly like a coffin).
9:31 – Last time we’ll see Adele.
9:38 – First, what the f–k happened to Morgan Freeman’s hand? Second, who knew he and Kenny Chesney were friends!?!
9:48 – Queen Latifah could make the back of a cereal box sound compelling.
9:49 – Do you think all those amplifiers are bad for MIA’s baby? Or, for that matter, that bikini?
9:52 – Swagga, huh? Forget Jay, Kanye, Wayne, TI (who, of the four, wore his tux best), Sir Paul McCartney owns the night. (Great hair for a 67-year-old.) And Grohl makes him sound even better.
9:59 – Wait, the show’s not over!?! Oh jeez.
10:19 – Radiohead, tearing a page from Fleetwood Mac’s “Tusk,” rocks the USC Marching Band shtick. (Also, great hair, Thom Yorke.)
10:32 – Were I at home, I would have been watching “Storytellers: Bruce Springsteen” and “Classic Albums: Phil Collins” on DVR hours ago.
10:35 – Grammy Neil Portnow overdoes the “Yes We Can,” but follows Mrs. Rogers’ lead with the suggestion that Barack Obama appoints a Secretary of the Arts. Nice!
11:04 – Meanwhile, teen pop sensation Chris Brown turns himself in to Los Angeles police for questioning surrounding a domestic violence felony battery report.
11:24 – And Album of the Year goes to …
11:24 – Did I mention that did I mention that Jamie Leonhart and I covered Robert Plant and Allison Krauss’ “Killing The Blues”!?!
When I Look At The Stars
The trick to growing up, I think, is retaining enthusiasm.
I’m not talking about relinquishing one’s critical faculties, I’m talking about retaining an appreciation of all things.
We live in a soundbite-fueled, 24-hour, wide-screen, Technicolor Gotcha! Culture.
Mean girls, hipsters, red carpet takedowns, partisan bickering, magazine snarking — it all adds up to something awful. It’s a wonder anyone has anything enthusiastic to say at all. It’s as if showing joy makes us vulnerable.
Example. Yesterday morning, I sat in the Sherry Lansing Theatre on the Paramount Pictures lot in Hollywood, California, where JJ Abrams introduced an advanced screening of Star Trek. Which is all I can tell you because I signed an NDA.
Totally, unbelievably cool.
It was at least the tenth time I’ve been on the historic movie lot, including a full week of nearly-unfettered access last summer’s Video Music Awards.
Many of my colleagues seemed nonplussed. But I was still geeked driving through those famed arches, parking in “B-Tank” (where, when flooded, scenes from “Jaws,” “The Perfect Storm” were shot), and walking the same ivy and cobblestone campus as Hitchcock and Spielberg.
Example. I took some heat recently for a piece of content created by a member of my team. Now, it’s my job to stand behind their work no matter what. But this particular thing wasn’t journalism, it was a half-assed, ill-willed, vitriol-fueled, third-tier blog rant.
On any given Thursday, one can wander the hallways of any major media organizations, and hear all sorts of odd things, like an audience referred to as “targets,” or that “The asses are masses.”
I’m in Fred Rogers’ camp, though: We have to remember that the airwaves belong the audience. I work for them. I may not personally like what they do, or agree with every value, but I respect them. I respect their enthusiasm.
Maybe it’s just a like Mister Rogers said: If we don’t see the beauty in ourselves, how can we see it in each other? If consumerism constantly tells us we need more, new stuff to be complete, how will we ever feel whole?
I’m flying home now, somewhere in the night sky high over America. Judging by the amount of time we’ve spent airborne, I’m betting we’re somewhere over Iowa. A dozen cities — clusters of orange-lit grids from here — dot the black and white earth below. A single white light at the end of our wing marks the horizon where a gauzy-gray haze ends and inky-black space begins. It’s precisely the kind of vista bi-coastal executives tend to take for granted or, worse, miss entirely.
America is beautiful from here. It makes me want to walk the whole thing, give everyone a hug, and say, “It’s alright. Believe in your better history. It’s yours to create, after all.”
I Am A Leaver
I’m a knucklehead.
I flew to Los Angeles Monday morning for a series of movie studio meetings.
No, I’m not going to be in a major motion picture, or contribute a song to a soundtrack. And no, I haven’t found financial backing for “Mister Rogers & Me.”
Nah, it’s a work thing. As in, The Day Job.
It was supposed to be an in-and-out, hit-and-run thing: thirty-six hours. So I packed light: my laptop, a toothbrush, an extra dress shirt, t-shirt, socks and undies.
Still, there was an outside chance I’d get stuck here a day or two longer. Which I told Abbi.
“Why don’t you just plan on staying longer,” she suggested. “Yunno, be prepared.”
“I like going light,” I replied. “Besides, I need some new t-shirts.”
Which is how I think. Go light. And if you need it, buy it.
Which is exactly how I was thinking when I left my tux at home for inauguration weekend. And explains why I spent three hours scrambling around Washington, DC, for tuxedo parts and barely made it to The Youth Ball in time for President Obama’s speech.
Fast forward to this morning. I wake to a sweeping vista of the L.A. Basin clear north to Malibu, and an email from The Man.
The bad news is I’m stuck here ’til Thursday afternoon.
The good news is, there’s a J Crew just a few blocks from my hotel.
And yes, Abbi did say, “I told ya’ so.” But she was kidding.
Mostly.
Working On A Dream
Every morning, I walk to work swaddled in headphones.
At worst, headphones protect me from the bombast of New York City: horns, sirens, jets and helicopters.
At best, though, they deliver me effortlessly to my corporate doorstep.
On Friday, those headphones were blaring Bruce Springsteen’s latest title track, “Working On A Dream.”
I’m not quite sure when it happened, or, for that matter, how or why. But my musical tastes have suddenly become remarkably and unapologetically staid: U2, REM and Bruce Springsteen. I’m glad for The Hold Steady. I appreciate Fleet Foxes. But give me the pros.
Bruce’s new record (which I was looking forward to only slightly less than U2′s) picks up where “Girls In Their Summer Clothes” left off. It’s lush, layered and textured. It’s Phil Spector and Brian Wilson run through Studs Terkel, Bob Dylan and Jack Kerouac.
Friday morning, then, found me tucked deep inside my pea coat braced against the winter chill. A short week’s worth of slush-strewn, budget-slashed twelve-hour days had me feeling pretty defeated. Bruce, though, helped me stand up straighter.
Now the cards I’ve drawn’s a rough hand, darlin’
I straighten my back and I’m working on a dream
I’m working on a dream
I passed through the building’s shadows with goosebumps. This was my song, I thought. Leadership, adulthood, fatherhood, I thought; these are my dreams. I slid through the revolving doors, climbed the stairs, and finished the week.
* * *
I love beer, but I’m not much for football. The big draw for Super Bowl Sunday, then, was The Boss. And so, as the two-minute warning sounded, I scrambled for the the remote. Not only was Bruce due to perform, and not only had The Nadas sent me their latest single, “Bitter Love,” but my pal, Chris Abad, had hand-delivered rough mixes from his forthcoming LP.
Bruce delivered.
The Nadas soared.
And with new keyboards, layers and harmonies, Chris took his live performances to new, richer places.
* * *
In a few hours, I’ll kiss Abbi before she wakes, take a car to JFK, and board American Airlines #10 bound for Los Angeles. Thirty-six hours later, I’ll return.
The entire enterprise would be jarring, disorienting a just a little bit heartbreaking were it not for the knowledge that, in my own little way, I’m working on a dream.
Sunrise come, I climb the ladder
The new day breaks and I’m working on a dream
I’m working on a dream
Goosebumps, harmonies, amplifiers or not, we work on our dream. Song by song, mile by mile, day by day, we find our way through the bombast.
Stay Tuned
Well, that didn’t take long. Or did it?
Two weeks ago, my brother handed off a hard drive loaded with “Mister Rogers & Me” footage, and taught me how Avid Editing 101.
After a fifteen-day period that included ten of travel (and one marathon), I sat down in front of the computer to get started.
You’ll recall that I first met Mister Rogers in September, 2001. Principle photography for our little, DIY documentary began in June, 2006. We’ve been steadily chipping away ever since, including weekend shoots in Washington, DC, Durham, NC, Fredericksburgh, VA, Pittsburgh, PA, and Nantucket, MA.
We’ve interviewed Tim Russert, Susan Stamberg, Bo Lozoff, Amy Hollingsworth, Tim Madigan, Marc Brown, and Linda Ellerbee.
Please visit “Making ‘Mister Rogers & Me’” for the rest of this blog post.
