Grannies hijack music award show, turn Detroit rapper into ‘punk ho’

Unless they’re specifically for me, I’m not much one for award shows. Avoid ‘em like those Argentinean soap operas dubbed into Indonesian on SCTV.
Tony, Oscar, Grammy: add a cop, soldier and construction worker and you’ve got a seminal Disco band.
But TV viewing habits here in the Cat House have changed and I’m all for that – s if I have any say, lone male in a house with six females – and so now instead of Rugby League championships we’ve got the Grammys.
Fascinating celebration of mediocrity. I mean, this flaccid Norah Jones chick with her eight awards? Word to the fans: just suck the pipe now and do us all a favor. Last year it was that potty-mouthed dumpster diver from Detroit. This year, Ravishankar’s illegitimate daughter? What’s next, one of Bob Marley’s mob doing a reggae/bluegrass makeover of Supertramp classics?
And speaking of washed up bands of yore, what is up with the pop – don’t whinge, if it makes it to award season, trust me, it’s all pop music - demographic? I loved The Clash back in the day and Springsteen, Costello, Van Zant, and that dude from Foo Fighters kicked their version of London Calling. But the past couple of years have seen Bruce, the friggin Steely Dan, The Eagles and a dozen other toothless wonders trooping up to pick up their awards.
And what about Peter Gabriel, looking like he walked off the set of Golden Girls? Cindy Lauper? Simon n Garfunkle? Paul Shaffer? Have they no shame? Keep the Grannies out of the Grammys, I say, even if it means handing the reins over to Fred Durst, God’s gift to articulation, and that vanilla rapper with the Band-aid on his face.
Dumbass stuff.
Word here the past week has been about this sexy new dangdut singer who has taken the country by storm. (The genre, for the uninitiated, is screeching Indian-pop layered with Arabic rhythms sung in Bahasa, Hindi, Javanese or Arabic. Imagine the sound of a litter of feral cats in a cloth bag set to Norah Jones’ dad’s choice of dance music.)
Typically a swivel-hipped nubile of indeterminate age fronts the ensemble but chickypoos “drilling” dance technique – and a widely distributed pic n vid of her being groped by our very own Jabba The Hutt, Taufik Keimas, the husband of the Mighty Meganaut, Queen of Java – has got tongues wagging. I’ve yet to see her, though given the amount of ink she’s been getting in the gutter press and the fact her appearance on a local variety show last Thursday sent viewer numbers into the stratosphere, suggests we’re only into the first 30 seconds of her 15 minutes.
Assuring even higher profile in the short term, the national Ulema’s (Mossie Preacher) association has turned their hooded gaze upon her and suggested she tone it down a bit as her gyrations threaten to drive the male population of Indonesia into a rape frenzy. And here I thought it was only East Timorese and Acehnese farmers’ wives that could provoke that kind of reaction.
Peace