The Grammys Have One Assignment
Two hands (mine) to heaven.
The faintest white fog creeps in from both sides of a pitch-black stage. Centerstage, under one spotlight, is a guitar player, seated in a wooden chair, the kind you’d sit in on a porch in the country to badmouth the neighbors. The guitarist is dressed simply, her cowboy hat largely obscures her face. She sits in focused concentration, playing whatever the fuck notes because though I have many talents, reading sheet music is not one of them.
“Know we're juuumpin' the gun, but we're both still young…” A spotlight turns on, revealing Miley Cyrus, stage left. “One day, we won't be.” She’s wearing some kind of leather Celine by Hedi Slimane thing … leather … cutouts, like a chap situation … maybe a little scarf. But it’s just her, loose waves under a cowboy hat, and a mic stand.
Another spotlight: stage left. Beyoncé, in a white suite, grills, 40-inch caramel center part buss down because today there are no games to play. “Didn't know what I want 'til I saw your face…” She extends one hand as if she’s caressing the cameras. “Said goodbye to the old me…”
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