Ah, the Gammys. Or should I say, the Grammy Awards of 2025, where the music industry awards itself with the kind of pomp and circumstance usually reserved for coronations in some minor European duchy. Here, in the heart of Los Angeles, the air was thick with smog as the atmosphere was with self-congratulation, but unfortunately for all the wrong reasons.
The festivities were hosted once again by Trevor Noah, who must have signed a contract in blood to host this thing every year until the sun goes supernova. His wit, as sharp as ever, managed to make the evening's proceedings somewhat bearable, though one couldn't help but wonder if he was considering the comedic equivalent of a mercy killing halfway through the show.
This year's Grammy show kicked off with a tribute to Los Angeles, not because of its cultural richness, mind you, but because of the recent fires that made everyone momentarily forget about the city's traffic. Dawes, with John Legend, Sheryl Crow, and others, performed a version of Randy Newman's "I Love L.A." that was about as ironic as a vegan at a Texas barbecue.
Beyoncé, our queen of nominations, finally snagged that elusive Album of the Year award, proving that persistence pays, even if it means you have to break the nomination record to do it. One could almost hear the collective sigh of relief from her fandom, who must have been holding their breath since the dawn of time. Yet, the moment was less about the music and more about the narrative of 'finally,' which has become as much a part of the Grammy lore as the gold-plated gramophones themselves.
The performances were a cavalcade of the usual suspects. Sabrina Carpenter and Chappell Roan, young and fresh, reminded us that pop music is still capable of being both catchy and slightly less insufferable than a root canal. However, Miss Carpenter's performance was the talk of the night, not for her music but for her health and safety crew's apparent decision to take a last-minute holiday. It seems the stage was either designed by the Chuckle Brothers, or by someone who thought 'malfunction' was a built-in feature rather than a bug, causing the whole set to collapse more spectacularly than the Labour Party's credibility. As Sabrina was rescued from the fray by a burly stage hand, one could only imagine the frantic behind-the-scenes scramble, which must have resembled a scene from a silent comedy, if only it weren't so audibly embarrassing.
The French duo Justice and the metal band Gojira brought a touch of international flair, or should I say, a reminder that there's life beyond the Anglosphere, although their wins seemed more like a nod to cultural diversity than a genuine celebration of musical excellence. Charli XCX, with her performance, brought a new meaning to 'undergarment donation,' turning the stage into what could only be described as a post-apocalyptic Victoria's Secret parade. It was a spectacle that left one pondering whether the Grammys had morphed into a bizarre charity drive.
And then, there was Kanye West and Bianca Censori. Mr. West, never one to shy away from the spotlight, decided this year's Grammys would be remembered for more than just the music. His wife, Bianca, made an entrance that would have made Lady Godiva blush. She arrived cloaked in what I can only describe as a furry straitjacket before shedding it like a snake in a very public, very naked moulting ritual. This 'stunt,' if one can call it that, was less an artistic statement and more a test of the public's indecency laws. The couple was promptly escorted out, surprisingly not for a lack of talent, but for a surplus of skin. It was as if they were trying to make the Grammys not just a musical event but a performance art piece on the boundaries of taste and legal exposure that would have had Tracy Emin calling it out for being too over-the-top.
Then there was the palpable discomfort of the crowd during moments of political or social commentary, where awards shows try to be both entertainment and sermon. It’s like watching a duck attempt to waltz – the intention is noble, but the execution leaves much to be desired. And let’s not forget the tech behind the show. The streaming on Paramount+ was as smooth as one could expect, which is to say, it didn't crash, thus avoiding the usual digital apocalypse that accompanies these events.
In conclusion, the 2025 Grammys were much like watching a very expensive, very well-produced infomercial for the music industry. It was a night where the stars shone bright, the speeches were too long, and the undergarments, apparently, were either for a good cause or for none at all. One left not with a sense of musical enlightenment but with the vague feeling that one had witnessed the world's most elaborate self-esteem booster session combined with a very public lesson on what not to wear.
It was all so grand, it made one nostalgic for the raucous, chaotic music award shows of the 1990s, days when awards shows were just about the music, as well the occasional bout of fighting. But those halcyon days, much like music itself, are now just a memory, fading gently into the smoggy Los Angeles night.
Speaking of which, it's the BRIT Awards next month. Fingers crossed Sabrina Carpenter finds herself a better one to build her set next time.