February 27, 2003


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I wish I were Ravi Shankar’s daughter. Then I could spend my life in a recording studio, perfecting my dozen tracks so I could have the perfect album with the perfect song and get five perfect little gold gramaphone statues last Sunday night. I wish I were Norah Jones. It’s not that I want to sing like her, tickle the ivories with ease, or look like her (not that those things would be bad). As a senior with less than three months of school and guaranteed health insurance left, I just wish that I had her job security.

I mean, the girl’s set for life now … unless she buys a mansion, a few dozen rides to go in the 20-car garage, some bling-blings, and gifts to all those people who “helped along the way” … well let’s not jump to conclusions lest she become just one more VH1 Behind the Music story. But that would never happen to the progeny of such a widely respected and successful artist as Ravi Shankar, right?

Hey Norah, milk it now. Yeah, I like the album, I bought it with a Christmas-Hannukah gift certificate to Sam Goody instead of just burning myself a CD. “Don’t Know Why” — it’s a good song with a catchy tune. Let’s just hope that the radio stations don’t ruin it like every other good song that got one of those statues. Next thing you know, you’ll just be fodder for Eminem on his next album.

As for Mr. Mathers, I don’t know whether to be happy or upset at him only getting Rap Album of the Year, that highly esteemed and always anticipated category. It would have been fun to see the quintessential anti-establishment figure be embraced by the establishment with an award for Album of the Year — maybe Em’s head would explode, or Rod Serling would step out of the curtains, or he’d pull off his face to reveal that he is Vanilla Ice and start bashing everything in sight with a baseball bat. “No Vanilla!”

But because he was denied the Grammy, he has new material for his next CD where he will talk about the awards voters’ transgressive sex lives. Oooh, I can’t wait. Then he can talk about how he is still from the ghetto and how his life is sooo hard with his multi-platinum, movie-star, million billion dollar lifestyle. Sorry Slim Shady, but somehow as a 21-year-old philosophy major looking for a job in a recession, war-time economy, I don’t feel too bad for you. By the way, do you need an extra publicist?

All I could think about on Sunday night was that some of these outfits are worth as much as I hope to make next year, and yet they’re still ugly! I can’t believe that people are paid to “help” these celebrities become fashion victims. Hey, maybe I could do that, anyone in need of a personal stylist?

Not even a Fox reality series could rival the Grammys in the sheer collection of untalented pretty people, in fashion faux-pas, making politically incorrect comments, that is when they aren’t spouting pedantries about trivialities, interrupted with the plethora of uninspired, nonsensical ads pushing stupid products. At least one of the companies responsible for one of those subsects of this overemphasized, underachieving awards show could use someone like me to perpetuate their ever growing sense of self-importance.

But alas, the only organization recruiting me to do anything was daze, asking me to write this rant. And of course I was nice enough to accept. It’s just too bad that they don’t pay.

Archived article by Amanda Angel