The Taylor Swift Massacre

Does it matter that a mainstream cheese-factory like the Grammy Awards so obviously blew it in awarding Album of the Year to Taylor Swift? I think it clearly does as it reflects our society’s increasing fetish for settling on the safety of possible options even if that choice is the worst of the possible options. We may not agree on which one of Beyonce Knowles, The Black Eyed, Peas, Lady GaGa, or The Dave Mathews Band is the best choice, but surely we should all be able to agree that Taylor Swift was the worst. It’s not a coincidence that in the same month providing Health Care Reform went from inevitable to impossible (in the eyes of pundits at least) because of the loss of a single Senate seat, that the Album of the Year gets awarded to the choice that is most fully denuded of soul, passion, or sexuality. Congratulations Taylor Swift, you were the least offensive. Enjoy your Grammy.

Even if Beyonce and/or the Black Eyed Peas trigger a race panic in you and Lady GaGa makes you feel ‘a little funny’ down there, why pick Taylor Swift over Dave Mathews? Because he’s weed smoker? That used to be a feature not a bug in rock performers. It just doesn’t make sense. Not that the Dave Mathews Band hits my favorites list on my iPod, and obviously I think any choice of Beyonce Knowles, Lady GaGa, or the Black Eyed Peas would be a better choice, but at least the dude has an extended track record, can flat out play, and has a little bit of soul to him.

Yes, I am weirdly finding myself playing the part of Kanye West. How the hell did that happen? But does anyone out there think ‘She Wears Short Skirts, I wear T-shirts’ represents some type of landmark achievement, or even that it’s going to light up throwback stations 30 years from now? There is something wrong with a world in which Stevie Nicks is forced to stand second fiddle while she listens to a girl wanly trying to find the key of her classic ‘Rhiannon’. Gen Y, don’t be a hater here, listen to what that song actually sounds like yourself and tell me if your Tween pop-tartlet lives up to the standard. Yeah . . . I know! That’s the point.