Tuesday, February 13, 2007

music's greatest night

You can't just tell them to shut up and sing, especially if they've got themselves five Grammys. The girls from Dixie Chicks bagged the major awars -- Record of the Year, Album of the Year and Song of the Year. The sweep was a sweet redemption for the Chicks who experienced a backlash even from their country music roots fueling from Anti-Bush statements. Personally, I don't think singers should be punished for making political statements. After all, they're artists and music is their expression. (See related article.) Now I've got to go find a copy of that docu.

Click here for the main story.

And Al Gore! Al Gore gives the Best Rock Album to Red Hot Chili Peppers for Stadium Arcadium.

Christina Aguilera again shows why Britney is nothing but pfft. Although there was something wrong with the pitch at one point, the fact that everybody stood after she finished belting out was proof she nailed it.

Three of my fave artists got together in one perf -- John Legend, John Mayer and Corrine Bailey Rae.

Carrie Underwood looks startlingly like Reese Witherspoon. I can't believe that bombshell was the one who sang Jesus, Take The Wheel.

This year's theme was obviously cross-generational with performances predominantly a collaboration of both old and new. It's such a sore to watch though the show was made a promotional stunt by those whose movies are coming soon. It ruins the 'sanctity' of what's suppose to be purely a celebration of music's greatest night.

Click here for the full list of winners.

photo courtesy of nytimes.com

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Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting