Back to the Grammys: the Chili Peppers, God love 'em, are on stage playing a song so weak and anemic it makes me wonder if Freaky Styley really only ever happened in my head. Guys, c'mon. You've turned into the Aerosmith of funk rock, releasing what sounds like the same song over and over again (and even swiping the Beantown band's penchant for re-using the same song titles, to boot). I think it's great that you've been clean a while now, but damn.
And how big a mindfuck is it for a child of the '80s like yours truly to see Al Gore, of all people, onstage to present the Grammy to one of the most-censored bands in the history of rock? Answer: a big one. Wow.
Check the moment of stunned recognition between Anthony Kiedis and the ex-Veep: "Um. Dude. Your wife, she..." "Yeah, about that... Different times, y'know?" "Yeah." "Here." [hands over the award] "Thanks!" Four words: "Party On Your Pussy."
Labels: Entertainobabble, Musical Crapgaijin || Link || E-mail || 0 comments
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