The big night.
The red carpet. A whirling sea of confusion. Over the years, the Grammys had evolved from a music in-crowd thing into a hip version of the Oscars. Ten years ago, even five, it would have been unheard of to ask someone at the Grammys who had designed her gown. Now it was the de rigueur question. There was an eclectic mix of styles, from jeans and t-shirts to Dior originals. It went from beautiful to bizarre. The major difference between the Grammys and the Oscars was that there was a lot less material used to outfit the women at the Grammys.
Mel stayed behind Nick as much as she could. The sun was shining brightly, reflecting off cameras and microphones. The ceremony was to start at 8:00 EST, so that meant 5:00 on the West Coast. The red carpet nonsense got under way around 4:00. They had been given the order of arrival. Their limousine was to pull up in front of the auditorium at the exact minute of 4:13.
They were helped from the car and escorted along the carpet. Screams from the fans greeted their exit from the car. Nick turned and waved, and that caused even more screaming. They were shuffled along from one microphone to the next. There was so much noise, so many people talking at once, that Mel wondered how any of it could be used on television. She kept one hand lightly on Nick’s back, so that she wouldn’t lose him in the crowd. None of the reporters was interested in her, much to her relief.
The only person who spoke to her was someone’s date who was being similarly ignored by the media. She didn’t seem as relieved by it as Mel.
“Are you with the band?” she asked, nodding at a group of scruffy musicians who were accompanied by some rather interesting women.
“I’m in the band,” replied Mel tartly, nodding at Nick.
Inside the arena, the chaos and crush disappeared to be replaced by the hum of anticipation and the cold sweat of fear. Nick and Mel were escorted to their seats. They spoke to the other people around them. Nick went over to Michael Stipe and introduced himself.
“I’ve been a fan forever,” said Nick, extending his hand.
“Well, I haven’t been a fan of yours forever,” replied the talented leader of REM. “But I am now. It’s a great album…and a great song.” The two musicians shook hands.
It wasn’t long before an assistant director came out on stage and called for quiet. He gave some last-minute instructions and told them there were only a couple of minutes, so please, people, would you please take your seats!
Mel had been assured that someone would come to get them in lots of time for her to change. She had had nightmares for the last three nights. Either she was playing naked, or she was playing in the long dress, or…the worst one, she couldn’t find the stage. She wakened from that one sweating and gasping for breath. And when she went back to sleep, she fell right back into it…running from place to place and person to person, trying to find the band, trying to find Nick. She would be so glad when this night was over.
Nick found himself strangely relaxed. He was sitting in the front row at the Grammys. He was nominated for three awards…for a song, for an album and for writing a song. It didn’t get any better than that. And the best part was…he wasn’t expected to win. So there was no pressure. He could relax and have a good time. He thought how awful it would be to be the favorite and then not win.
He remembered when they had been nominated for Millennium. They hadn’t been the favorite, but they had still allowed themselves to get their hopes up. And it had been very disappointing for them all when they lost. Kevin was philosophic about it, as he always was, but Nick could tell he was disappointed. And AJ got drunker than Nick had ever seen him. They actually put him on a suicide watch that night. AJ was not very good at handling rejection.
But Nick didn’t see tonight as either a loss or a rejection. He saw it as an acceptance, and he was thrilled to be there. And he had the woman he loved by his side. He had used every opportunity to touch Mel while they made their way up that endless red carpet. He had “guided” her forward or “moved” her sideways, with a hand under her elbow or in the small of her back. She kept trying to get behind Nick, but the comforting feel of her small hand on his back made that okay too.
Nick couldn’t believe the utter inanity of the reporters’ questions. Who gave a rat’s ass what he was wearing? Wasn’t it supposed to be about the music? He answered the question, “Who are you wearing?” with a blank stare. The reporter rephrased. “What are you wearing?”
“Oh,” said Nick, as comprehension dawned. “Jacket, pants, shirt…oh, and a tie. Do you want to know about my underwear?” And then he flashed that grin! Take that and make it a sound byte, he thought.
Mel was completely invisible to the reporters. They sized her up, didn’t recognize her and moved on to the next one. Which was fine by her. And fine by Nick. But somehow, Nick didn’t think it should be fine by him. And he decided yet again that, given the opportunity, the world was going to discover how he felt about her.
Suddenly, the lights dimmed. A rise in the noise level was followed immediately by a hush. The Staples Center was large enough to accommodate all the musicians and lots of fans! And there were lots of fans there.
The opening music sounded, and a disembodied voice intoned, “And now…live from the Staples Center in Los Angeles, it’s the 46th Annual Grammy Awards, featuring appearances by…” and the voice went on to list every performer and presenter in alphabetical order. When Nick’s name was mentioned, Mel moved her leg against his for a moment. He wished she had some kind of scarf thing with her dress so that they could hold hands under it.
“…and now, your host for the evening, Chris Rock!!!!”
There was loud applause from the audience and a little shifting in seats. Chris Rock was known for saying what he thought. Nothing was sacred. He would go after anything. If you were a public figure, your life was his open book.
Rafe had gone over it all with Nick…the things that Rock might say about him. There was the whole Backstreet Boy thing, of course. There had to be some mention of that. Backstreet Boy was such an obvious punchline.
And his parents’ problems. A look from Nick stopped Rafe from going too far down that road…just be ready for it, he said, and then moved on to the next item. Except that there weren’t too many ‘next items’. Nick had kept his head down. He’d recorded and toured…no scandal…nothing worthy of scathing sarcasm.
“Not like Justin,” said Rafe. “He’s going to get killed.”
Nick changed the subject.
Chris Rock had a daunting task ahead of him. He had to mention all of the major nominees in his opening monologue…and he had to strike a balance between the caustic wit that was expected of him as a comedian and the realization that these were icons he was going to be jabbing at, these were the people they were here to celebrate and that going too far would be a big mistake. Chris Rock was an artist. He knew he could do it.
He opened with a few jokes about the political situation…nailing the ineptitude of the President would go over big with this crowd, he knew. He said that he hoped President Bush had better luck this year trying to contact the big winners. Last year, every time he tried to dial a Grammy winner, his grandfather told him to ‘grow up, George. We lost Grandma in 1994.’
Chris Rock didn’t have a set monologue. It wasn’t a linear thing, but more of a spider web. One of the very best things about him was that he could feel the audience. He could sense when they wanted more of something and less of something. They were mildly interested in the political stuff, so he did a couple more of those.
Then he pulled his focus into the crowd in front of him. “Man, oh, man, look at the booty beauty we got in front of us tonight. Beyonceeeeeeee…” He drew out the last syllable. “Did you know that Beyonce is being sued by the United Textile Workers of America? 845 women have lost their jobs because there’s just not enough material in her outfits. But on the other hand, she’s the calendar girl for the Sequin Manufacturers.”
He moved back and forth across the stage, picking out people, blending compliments and insults. And he seemed to have a theme.
“Ashton Kutcher was going to be here tonight, but Demi grounded him for not finishing his homework.”
“I see Justin Timberlake brought his mom. Isn’t that sweet?” A sideways glance into the wings. “What?” Then a squinting look down into the audience. “Oh! Sorry, Cameron. I didn’t recognize you.”
“J. Lo and Ben…isn’t that sad? And there was one we all thought was going to last. Oh well, they’ve healed and moved on. I think…did I hear right?...is she now engaged to Lil Bow Wow?”
“And here’s Nick Carter.”
Chris nodded at Nick in the front row. There were a few squeals from the upper decks. Melody pressed her knee against Nick’s leg. Careful!
Chris turned to the camera. “For the two of you on the planet who don’t know, Nick is a Backstreet Boy.” He shimmied his shoulders on each syllable. “Yep…a Back…street…boy… He’s the baby.” Chris paused and looked thoughtful. “Man, from kiddie pop to being nominated for Best Rock Album. You’ve had quite a year, Nicky!”
He nodded his homage to Nick, while the audience applauded enthusiastically.
Nick knew it wasn’t the teens in the cheap seats this time. It was his peers. He nodded back at Chris, and a sweet smile crossed his face.
A look of mock horror appeared on Rock’s face, and he threw his hands over his mouth. “I mean, Nick…Jeez, did I say ‘Nicky’? Man, that’s not allowed. Sorry!”
The comedian backed away with his hands in front of him defensively. Then he turned to the audience on the other side. “But hey, what’s up with the bossy title? Don’t Call Me Nicky. Is that what you get now? Fourteen tracks of music and a sermon.” He walked to the other side of the stage, muttering under his breath, “Don’t call me Nicky.” Then he looked back at Nick. “What are you going to do if I do, send your father over to beat me up?”
There was an audible gasp from the upper decks and silence from the crowd below. Nick kept his face perfectly straight, knowing that the camera would be on him. Rock recognized that the joke had fallen flat and moved on quickly.
“Or your brother…Aaron?”
Rock looked at the audience again and kept moving to the far side of the stage. “I can take him.” He strutted and made boxing moves. “I can take him with one of his hands tied behind him. Blondes. I can beat up any blonde. I used to be able to beat up Christina Aguillera, but then she dyed her hair and shoved her weight up to 65 pounds. Yeah…blondes…I can take ‘em. Send Britney out here. I’ll show you. And speaking of Britney…” and he was off on another riff.
Nick and Melody exhaled at the same time and then both realized that they had been holding their breath. They wanted to look at each other, but they could both hear Rafe. “The camera is on you.” So they paid attention to Chris Rock’s monologue and laughed in the appropriate spots along with the audience. Neither one of them heard one word he said.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~“…and the Grammy for Best Rock Album goes to…REM for Back With a Vengeance.”
Nick was out of his seat almost as fast as Michael Stipe and the rest of his group. He applauded enthusiastically and even whistled, putting two fingers in his mouth and scaring the daylights out of Mel. Let the cameras get a load of that, he thought. Nick was genuinely pleased for the winners, and he wanted it to show.
The show went on. Chris Rock came back again and again to the theme of younger man/older woman. He said that he wanted to jump on that gravy train too, but the only older woman he could find who wanted him was his own grandmother, and she only wanted him to clean up her yard.
For the most part, the musicians behaved themselves. Eminem was positively sedate when he accepted his award. He did a mini-rant about free music downloads from the Internet, but it was nothing new and not particularly scathing.
They came for Mel and Nick about halfway through the show. They escorted them backstage during a commercial break. Mel slipped into the dressing room. Gus followed her. He unzipped her dress and then turned his back.
“Okay, Gus, hand me my bra.”
There was silence.
“Gus?”
“Um…”
Melody whipped around, holding the dress up in front of her. Gus turned from the bag with her clothes. His face was ashen.
“I don’t want to hear this, do I, Gus?”
“We never actually thought about a bra. I guess maybe we should have, what with…” He motioned to the top of her dress.”
“Good thing I got nice firm ones, then,” said Mel. “Hand me the vest.”
Gus handed over the vest and turned his back. He then handed over each piece of clothing until Mel said, “Okay, how do I look?”
Gus’ eyes went right to her chest. He didn’t want to, tried not to, but he couldn’t help it. “They look good…I mean, you look good…I mean…” Gus’ face was no longer grey. It was now beet red.”
Melody laughed. “Okay, let’s do this!” She walked out of the dressing room. The feel of the suede brushing her bare nipples was highly erotic, and they hardened. She crossed her arms over her chest while they waited for their cue. Every time she and Gus made eye contact, they giggled.
A rather harried-looking assistant director came over to tell them to take the stage. They would be up right after the next commercial. They made their way to their spot. They gathered in a little huddle and said their ‘good luck’ prayer, just as they did before every performance.
“Don’t forget…just like on the album,” said the assistant director, who had hovered in the background while they did their prayer. Then he left the stage.
Tofu looked at Nick. “Is that what we’re going to do?”
“Hell, no,” said Nick. “We’re the musicians. The suits can go…” He looked at Mel. “Just like on tour, Baby! Just like that!”
It was only the director and his minions who were put out by the stage performance of Alias Me. It brought the rest of the house down.
