The Grammy Garage

Adventures at the awards show, and afterward

by Joanna Cazden

FOLKWORKS, May-June 2005

I'm married to a gearhead. Huggable, laundry-gifted homebody as he is, the Spouse of Voice spends most of his time in intricate journalistic relationships with digital entertainment gear. Two days before the Grammy Awards he joined a press posse 'backstage' at the Staples Center to view the miles and coils of audio cabling, the multiple digital rear-projection screens, and other technological wizardry arranged for this annual music industry extravaganza.

Did I mention that hubby-the-gearhead is also a gifted and tenacious schmoozer? After assuring his insider contact that this behind-the-scenes tour would yield good coverage, he asked about getting tickets to the show. Nope, sorry. Out of the question, he was repeatedly told. Nevertheless, Sunday around noon his cell phone rang: if we could get downtown by 3:30, appropriately gussied up, we were IN.

Folksy ladies take note: if you've thus far resisted buying a long velvety-fringy shawl-jacket thingy, consider one or equivalent boho-style finery as insurance for the odd, unexpected 'black tie' event. Throw it gratefully over plain black slacks and shirt, add earrings, and stir. The Successful Schmoozer gleefully dug out a tux he keeps handy for chamber music gigs, and off we went to the ball.

Staples Center was surrounded by chaotic choreography of road blocks, security guards, and limousines of all colors and sizes. We parked on a secluded side street and hoofed in our hasty finery past the warehouses, small shops, and impoverished houses of the mixed Korean-Latino neighborhood. A young reporter for People magazine, bemoaning the blocks to be traversed in her slippery spike heels, skittered along beside us.

Our tickets were delivered to the pre-arranged street corner, then scrutinized and stamped by relaxed but watchful guards. Once inside the security perimeter, we dodged satellite-topped TV vans, eighteen-wheeler staging trucks and of course, more limos.

Event staff directed us to the inside, off-camera edge of the 'red carpet,' (which was actually green, matching the logo of a sponsoring beer company.) Small bleachers on the media side held clusters of fans who cheered for late-arriving celebrities, most of whom we were too old or folky-fogey to recognize.

The Awards show itself, from rocker Gwen Stafani's opening pirate-costumed cover of Fiddler on the Roof to Bonnie Raitt's closing slide-guitar tribute to Ray Charles'was essentially a slick TV production with a stadium-sized studio audience. First-time winners thanked God and family; experienced artists played odd-couple duets. Music and speeches paused frequently for commercial breaks.

Label executives and harried bartenders slipped in and out of private sky-boxes; young girls in fancy dress sneaked cigarettes in the ladie's room. A dozen diversity-balanced stars raised Tsunami-relief funds with George Harrison's 'Across the Universe' but, to our ears, got the harmony wrong. Finally it was over and we walked back towards the car, past set-pieces and instrument cases already being loaded back into the waiting trucks.

The neighborhood was Sunday-night quiet. One small building remained brightly lit, and as we walked by we peeked through its metal-grill doors. A dozen cars were parked inside. Two middle aged men in work clothes, one Latino-looking with short grey hair and the other probably Korean, kept casual watch. On the dull steel desk between them sat a large keyboard accordian.

The men saw our intrigued, eager faces at the door and invited us in, offering me the one remaining chair. Incongruous in our dress-up, we tried to explain that we too were musicians and loved all instruments. The older man teased his co-worker to play something.

Shy and apologetic, speaking almost no English, the Korean man shook his head. Thirty years since he had touched it, his friend translated. We gestured reassurance. Please, my father played accordion. Play anything, we will like it!

He considered the situation for another long moment. Then he bowed, strapped the instrument on, unsnapped top and bottom, and closed his eyes. A slow melody with minor chords murmured to life under his fingers and the bare light of the garage, his intense concentration more than compensating for occasional fumbled notes.

Never mind record sales, download royalties, and industry parties, I thought! This is REAL music. I was finally, truly, enjoying the night.

After several minutes the accordion player ended his tune, bowed slightly, and placed the instrument back on the battered desk. We applauded heartily. My sweet gearhead produced a 'Thank you' in Korean (having recently toured TV factories over there), which elicited a bigger grin. I gave him my Grammy T-shirt, still in its package, not sure that he understood the logo, but figuring that his children could explain it. We all bowed again.