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Why did I bother watching the Grammys? It wasn't that the show was outright horrible; instead, it was stiflingly boring, with only a couple of exceptions, from start to finish. I suppose it didn't help that, as with the Village Voice critics' poll, the results were so easy to predict. Yes, there were a few bizarre, out-of-nowhere choices-- John Mayer for Best Pop Album, when both Christina Aguilera and Justin Timberlake were nominated? (On another note, as much as I love Elvis Costello, why was The River In Reverse even in that category? It's far from his strongest album, and it's more a blues album than a pop album.) But the Dixie Chicks' victories were as easy to foresee as they were ideologically based. Let's face it, Taking The Long Way was a damp squib of a record, musically anemic and lacking even the Chicks' old vocal spark; if it hadn't been for the controversy about their anti-Bush remarks, no one would have bothered with it. It didn't win Album of the Year because it was a genuinely great record-- nothing is ever even nominated for that reason. It won because the Grammy voters felt bad about how the Dixie Chicks had been treated over the past few years, and they wanted to make up for it. I suppose that's a laudable sentiment, but it has no place in a music awards show, even one that's rarely been able to keep up the pretense of having anything to do with musical quality.

But usually, there are at least a few performances with some sort of life to them; this year, the only standout was Christina Aguilera's manic channeling of James Brown, which was so detailed down to the last mannerism I kept expecting someone to rush from the side of the stage and drape a cape over her shoulders. But even her performance stood out mostly because its crazed energy eclipsed the more tedious moments around it; as far as vocals go, it wasn't her best (there were a few too many detours into high-pitched screeching for that). There were other solid but uninspired numbers from performers capable of much better-- Mary J. Blige, for instance, is never bad, but anyone who remembers her powerhouse rendition of "No More Drama" from a few years back couldn't help but be a little disappointed by this performance. Similarly, Justin Timberlake was adequate but not especially engaging, and Gnarls Barkley got by mostly on visual style-- was Cee-Lo supposed to be dressed as an airline pilot, or Idi Amin? I never quite figured it out.

The rest was sheer tedium. Forget sleeping pills; the perfect cure for insomnia is watching Corrine Bailey Rae and John Mayer snooze their way through their already soporific material. (John Legend threatened to briefly make that segment worthwhile, but he didn't sing long enough to be much help.) The much-touted Police reunion that kicked things off wasn't much better-- I never enjoy it when bands try to revisit past glories way too long after the fact, and it was obvious they hadn't played together for many years. Then we've got the Red Hot Chili Peppers, who are way past being the high-energy c**k-sock-wearing goofballs of old and now take themselves way too seriously (except for Flea, who desperately tried to inject some life into the proceedings by jumping up and down constantly); and the less said about Carrie Underwood and Rascal Flatts, the better. (Much less Chris Brown, who should never be allowed on the same stage with Smokey Robinson and Lionel Richie.)

And yet, I watched the whole damn thing, even though it ran until 11:30 and I had to get up early this morning for a training class. I guess I was hoping against all reason that something interesting would actually happen. The executives at CBS always seem puzzled by the annual drop in the Grammys' Nielsen ratings; all they have to do is watch the tape of this year's show to see why people are fleeing in droves.