They wouldn’t have simulcast it on VH1 if they didn’t think I’d be watching.
The Video Music Awards, now in its mid-twenties and older than the majority of MTV’s viewing audience, sucked me in again. Those clever bastards knew that Madonna, giving an excellent speech honoring the life of Michael Jackson, would grab me from the beginning. They knew I’d sit in awe through the dancers paying homage to videos I remember clearly from my younger years. But somewhere after the familiar images of these early MTV icons, I was thrown into a whirlwind of sounds and sights that was weird, new, maybe a little frightening and definitely mockable. Perhaps it was when Katy Perry appeared. Even one of my favorite guitarists, Joe “No Relation” Perry rocking out at her side couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling I had coming on.
I remember the humble beginnings of the VMAs. I remember staying up way too late on a school night to watch them year after year. I remember INXS sweeping (1988). I remember Chris Novoselic getting clocked in the head by his bass (1993), and I remember the Poison “Talk Dirty to Me” disaster (1991). I remember Madonna freaking my mother out on several occasions, and I remember when the words “Video Music Awards” were synonymous with “loud outfits worn by Arsenio Hall.” It was all entertaining, from beginning to end.
But what the hell was I watching last night? What was that red plastic mess sitting where Lady Gaga was supposed to be? How can a person named Flo be male? Why does Jay-Z need seventeen Cadillacs to get from one side of Manhattan to the other? All of a sudden, the familiar and appealing became twisted and appalling. I knew virtually none of the songs whose videos were up for awards, and I couldn’t help but notice that all the Best Male Performance nominees’ voices were drenched in Auto-Tune, that device that has been abused a million times over since that Cher atrocity called “Believe.” As steroids is to baseball, the use of Auto-Tune is cheating and should raise serious questions about eligibility.
Wow, I sound like an angry old person, don’t I?
I think there is some sort of sick genius at work here. I think that as much as the show is designed to appeal to the teen crowd, it is also designed to appall the 24-35 audience. This may sound paranoid, but I think the writers and producers delight in horrifying people like me who relish the memories of the “good old days” when Madonna writhed around the floor in a wedding dress, or when Kurt Loder interviewed her years later, only to be interrupted by Courtney Love throwing things at them from below.
The MTV masterminds know that although the music scene and its major players have changed, the shock philosophy is exactly the same. And they know that through VH1, some of us old-timers are still going to casually tune in and endlessly bitch, just like I am now, thus giving them the attention they’ve craved since the early days. After the show, Sway (accompanied as always by his enormous hat) encouraged viewers, “Don’t stop talking about it.” Ah. You win again, MTV. You win again.
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disappointed
excited
old
contemplative