MY FABULOUS NIGHT
WITH BRITNEY SPEARS

by TERRY SCOTT TAYLOR

Okay kids, now that I've got your attention, I'll proceed. As many of you are aware, Deb and I had the distinct pleasure and privilege of attending The American Music Awards at the Shrine Auditorium last Sunday night, courtesy of Fred Martin and Jeff James of the Dick Clark production staff. Fred and Jeff are two long time fans, as well as two of the most gracious and thoughtful gentlemen I've ever had the fortune of knowing. They knew I'd been on a long, arduous tour and were kind enough to offer the invitation as a gift to two people who don't often get the chance to paint the town in such high falootin' fashion! We had the pleasure of meeting Fred's wife and parents at the pre-party and we chatted over steak-kabobs and designer water until time for the show. What delightful and down to earth people they all are.

After learning of the invite, I immediately went to the web to see who was on the bill. A few names in particular caught my eye: Sheryl Crow, Outcast ("Hey Ya," I love this song!), Metallica (a guilty pleasure), and Fleetwood Mac (they along with Justin Timberlake were on delay from Europe. The Mac looked tired and bored and we were treated to a pre-recorded performance of one of the songs off of their new semi-interesting album). Britney Spears opened the show, and prior to this the buzz consisted of whether or not she'd gone as far as she could with the scant clothing routine and was in fact going to perform an "all nude" review this time out. Of course I exaggerate. She didn't, but give her time. Where else can she go? Instead, she badly lip-synced her ho hum number and did a typical Madonna inspired Bump and Grind with her dancers, eventually leaving the stage unceremoniously via an ascending rope. The applause was somewhat lackluster, and only the most rabid fans appeared impressed.


The AMA's are a populist's music forum leaning toward the celebration of Pop, Country, and Hip Hop with little regard for alternative rock or alt-country. I went in knowing this, and consciously cut the whole thing a lot of slack, which resulted in a high level of enjoyment. When you go in knowing that you're never ever likely to see Wilco or Lucinda Williams on this show, not in a million years, you can basically relax and enjoy the good stuff they do offer. Face it, the roller coaster at Disney's California adventure doesn't hold a candle to the Grizzly at Great America, but it's still a pretty exciting ride. The AMA's gave us a number of good to great performances, and surprisingly among the best was Pink's minimalist's rendition of "Bad News," which she sang seated and solo, only a lone acoustic guitarist accompanying her. This girl, with her ragged, pitch perfect rock n' roll voice, proved that she's likely going to have a musical life after Pop, and that much of her recorded music fails to accentuate this particular dynamic. Her performance was especially impressive and nervy after the mushy pre-recorded sonic bombast of much of what had preceded it up to this point in the program. I'd like to see Britney do that!

Metallica was unbelievably loud and managed to kick our collective hiennies, and they weren't backed by prerecorded music or light on their feet dancers who simply adore Broadway musicals and Bette Midler. The same for Kid Rock. Sheryl Crow didn't exactly knock me out, but she did sing live and with a real band, and this in and of itself transcended, in an almost quasi-religious way, the forgettable, disposable pre-fab Pop schlock of Britney, Ashanti, and that other Teen Dream Madonna wannabe, whoever she is. Are we loosing track here folks? How many more of these semi-nude, auto-tuned, reverb drenched, triple vocal tracked, sex obsessed...Dancers, with belly buttons more impressive than vocal ability, do we have to put up with before the whole thing implodes? It's demise can't come too soon for my money. It's like those Band Nerds that made up the horn sections of ten thousand white-boy ska bands back a few short years ago. One day, against all odds, they were somehow cool, the next day they were back home trying to hack government web sites and dreaming of the day the rock trombone will make a big comeback. I hope Spears and those of her ilk very soon go the way of big hair arena rock bands like White Snake, Loverboy, and Styx, who never dreamed we'd be looking at their videos one day and thinking, this is even funnier than leg warmers and platform boots.

I often kid my daughter by asking her how it feels to have a Dad hipper than most of her friends. I'm being facetious when I ask this, because she and her friends are admirably eclectic in their musical tastes and like a lot of real good stuff. The point is, I'm into Flaming Lips and Queens of the Stone age, bands most Pop fans would think weren't very cute, find completely loud and obnoxious, and who sing vocals you can't even understand. It's sort like my grandparent's reaction to the Rolling Stones when they first appeared on the scene, or modern musical tastes becoming the equivalent of the Johnny Bravo episode of the Brady bunch.

Trouble is, were not talking here about elderly people who thought Perry Como got a tad wild when he recorded "Hot Diggity Dog Diggity, Boom What You Do to Me", We are speaking of 17 and 18 year old girls who absolutely swoon at the mere mention of the names Celine Dion and Justin Guarini. Something's really wrong when our supposed rebellious teens dig middle of the road muzak Popsters, while their doddering old parents are having visions of confining them to their rooms for a 24/7 intervention employing hand and feet restraints, old Sex Pistols and Ramones records, and enough stereo wattage to cause them to immerge a normal teenager, exorcised of the demons of Clay Aiken and Ruben Studdard. Anyway, I loved Sheryl Crow for the breath of fresh air, and speaking of American Idol, Justin Guarini, et al., I didn't not like Clay Aiken and Ruben Studdard's rousing duet on the AMA stage. I believe, along with Metallica, that they received the loudest applause of the evening. The performance of the night however goes to Outcast with their infectious and idiosyncratic "Hey Ya," the late 60's early 70's chic airport fashions, and the fun and funny choreography. Andre 3000 is a delightful and talented performer. I'm watching this guy because he seems capable of great things, like plowing through the bleak landscape of shop worn, predictable wave your hand in the air hip hop with a fresh, slightly eschewed creative edge. He's another guy who can actually sing.

One interesting "behind the scenes" bit of slight of hand is that the AMA's apparently employ a large group of 'seat squatters' on the main floor. When various seats are temporarily vacant because their former occupants are either up performing or presenting, or are out back using the John, these grimly dutiful squatters march in and perform their assigned task, making it appear on camera that the audience is at all times full to capacity. Empty seats leave a bad impression on television, but on the other hand, if you look closely you might wonder why whiter than white Glen Campbell has suddenly turned into a black woman named Lakeesha. Dick Clark, our beloved "world's oldest teenager," made one very brief appearance before the cameras rolled to instruct us on certain audience etiquette and expectations. We never saw him again, but the disembodied, distinctive voice, which for me never fails to conjure up pleasant adolescent and teenage memories, was heard booming over the loud speakers between commercial breaks, chasing people down the isles and into their seats when air time was at hand, and counting us down to back on the air applause.

Mr. Clark runs a tight ship. Acts and presentations run to the minute, breaks are fairly short, and two stages kept the pace lively and the action coming. It was never boring even when the performances were less than sterling. Between rubbernecking the stars, (who were constantly passing within a few feet of us), the great food at the pre-show and after party (where the only two stars in attendance I saw up close and personal were Jimmy Kemmil and Adam Corolla), Deb and I had an extremely enjoyable time. My beautiful wife had her hair up and was dressed elegantly in a long flowing Victorian dress, and despite Britney's scantily clad form, Pam Anderson's saline fakery, and innumerable bes and wannabes strutting their stuff like peacocks in heat, I thought my girl put them to shame. Our only disappointment, as well as my daughters, is that we didn't get any autographs. I don't think anyone did. Dozens of stars passed within our reach on their way to the backstage area, but a couple of lame fans stopping them for autographs or pictures would have hardly been tolerated by security. I really wanted an autograph for my mother from Dennis Franz (the great NYPD Blue actor, and one of the presenters that evening), but although he was a few feet away, it was not to be. Tommy Smothers, of Smothers Brothers fame, warmly smiled at Deb and I when we nodded towards him. He was probably just relieved to see that at least two people there remembered who he was. His brother Dick looked grim and preoccupied as though contemplating the darker aspects of life, as indeed he may have been. It was publicized recently that his son is involved in the porn industry and that Dickey isn't handling it well.

During one break, Rob Watson came by to say hi, and I chided him for having a cheap seat located in the balcony with the commoners and the riff raff. In our section we had a number of country music fans that screamed every time one of their idols passed by. Tim McGraw acknowledged our group with a wave and a smile, as did Clay Aikens when the supremely excited Japanese girl seated in the row in front of us let loose an ear shattering "We love you Clay!" which is about as an original disgorge of fan adulation as your likely to here at such an event. I was fascinated throughout the show by this young girl's rather wild and unpredictable musical affinities. For instance, she screamed all night long for every country star and song mentioned, but when 50 Cent came up in a category, she went absolutely ballistic with adulation. Go figure. Anyway, we weren't seated where we originally thought we were going to be, and it put a little damper on some of my fantasy plans to make a little AMA history, like tackling Metalica's Lars from behind, or reading a copy of War and Peace as the camera scanned the audience. My friend Brian had suggested that I should rush the stage and french kiss Kid Rock. Oh well, maybe next year.

There was one twilight Zone moment however. We kept seeing this one group of guys going up and down our isle all night long, and I thought I recognized a couple of them. When they took the stage to make a presentation (thank God they didn't do a tune), my guess as to their identity was confirmed. They were the knuckleheads from the quasi-country music band "Rascal Flats," which is a group name I absolutely detest, so corporately geared as it is to appeal to the young female Country Music enthusiast. With deepest apologies to my wonderful Southern friends, you can almost hear it: "Yeah, I know that he cheats and plays around, and he's had a baby with his cousin, but shucks Pa he's such a cute little Rascal!" As I said, we were seeing these guys all night long, and then after the show when Deb and I made a side-door exit onto an all but empty walk-way, there they were again talking graciously to a couple of fans. Look, I don't hold anything personally against these guys. They're probably nice and decent young men, but they just happen to represent everything that is vile, repugnant, and just plain wrong with this so-called New Country movement, which is hardly more than really bad 70's light rock with a southern twang.

These guys had moussed and spiked short hair and wore what looked like just off the rack quasi-alternative rock clothes from J.C. Pennys, replete with carefully arranged over-sized safety pins holding together manufactured rips and tears... Nashville's version of really groovy threads. Apparently there are a good number of young female country music fans who actually find the slightly pudgy, butter-faced lead singing "Rascal" to be an irresistible heartthrob. Rascal Flat's current video features all the scantily clad, undulating females, and R-rated sexual encounters of a bad Journey video from the 80's. Leave it to Nashville to set the cutting edge standards for the rest of the nation. Pardon my dis, but I truly hate this vapid crap, and I think we can thank Shania Twain and especially Garth Brooks for it. Don't get me wrong; both are gifted and talented musicians who have performed their share of excellent songs. But let's face it, Garth utilized a dated Van Halen "fly over the audience" routine, and less than spectacular "been there/ done that" flash pot explosions, to absolutely bedazzle his wide-eyed fans, long after rock had essentially tired of it. Most Country fans apparently haven't witnessed a major rock show as auditory and visual medium since the inception of the concept in the late 60's. "Gee whiz, is that there a laser beam? Well, butter my grits! Yeeeeeeehaaaaaaa!!!!" (Again, my deepest apologies to my many southern friends. I'm being inordinately fasetious and stringent here to make a point, but consider the source; like y'all say, I'm from the land of Fruits and Nuts). Back to Rascal Flats; they looked like a cross between a Country version of Coldplay and the Partridge Family, or maybe the Brady Bunch wearing Halloween rock costumes. Okay, enough of this rant. It's just that I miss Johnny Cash now more than ever. And while we're on the subject of Country Music, let me say that Toby Keith was very cool without trying too hard and that Alan Jackson's performance was clear, clean and live. His song was lovely and earnestly sentimental, devoid of the manipulative saccharine-sweet bull pucky that so many of these types of country tunes wallow around in. In other words, when Jackson sang his song, I didn't launch my pre-show lunch all over the 14th row.


Oh by the way, speaking of Award Shows, I learned recently that Daniel Amos has the honor of being the first band inducted into CCM Music Magazine's Hall of Fame. Who'd a thunk it, huh? There's even a rumor of a Dove Award following on it's heals, but it's only a rumor, so don't hold your breath. I've had fantasies in the past about getting a Dove; Me and the guys accepting our award in giant Dove outfits, or giving the "academy" something indelible to remember me by, visa vi Johnny Cash's famously angry salutary photo. Of course I wouldn't dare, any more than would a good Christian act upon the bizarre impulses he might occasionally entertain, such as that fantasy where you run screaming and naked down the center isle of your church on Sunday morning. I admit these are amusing thoughts about the Doves and all, but they are nothing more. I'm really very honored and deeply touched by CCM Magazines gesture, and if per chance the Dove thing happens, I promise to walk the straight and narrow and do my utmost to gush with the best of em. Besides' one day when I stand before the Lord, if nothing else maybe I'll be able to impress Him with my Dove award.

So there you have it; yours truly amid the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. Again my deepest thanks to Dick Clark, Fred Martin, and Jeff James and to the artists of the AMA for making a night out on the town with my lovely wife a truly exciting and memorable experience.

God's Best,
Terry Scott Taylor