(2013)

So last nite I flipped on the TV and it was the BAFTA Awards so I watched a while, searching the crowd, looking for John Altman, who was there with the Queen or the surviving Beatles or the Prime Minister or some Sri Lankan cricketers or somebody, he always is. I thought I kept seeing him but there was always a mustache or beard. After watching a series of Englishmen hand out awards to people from Hollywood, I gave up and switched on The Producers. The original, funny one. John Altman wasn’t in that either, but he could have been. Some guys are like that. And some guys take their wives to Philippe’s on Valentine’s Day, which isn’t quite the same,but it was less crowded than the BAFTA awards, and I imagine the parking was easier. Plus we got to keep the beer glasses, which was almost like getting an award.

The only Awards ceremony I can ever remember attending were the Grammy’s, but not those Grammy’s, the famous ones, but the Jazz Grammy’s, which is kind of like going to the Academy Awards, but not those Academy Awards, but the Educational Film Academy Awards. The first one was the best, it was at the Biltmore and was dull but the Indians were throwing a victory bash across the hall for the proposition that let them build casinos up the wazoo and you have never seen such perks. Food in vast piles. Drinks to the brim with good whiskey. I followed the TV crews–they always know where the free grub and booze is–and soon most of the other reporters were there too (you can always make up shit in your review, no one will know the difference) and then half the players. They’d get their grammy, thank Bill Cosby (who wasn’t even supposed to be on stage half the time) and then hightail over to the Indians to celebrate, since the Grammy’s were so cheap with the drinks. I came back in time to see an unfortunate scene involving a world famous and infinitely patient jazz player not getting the treatment he deserved, and wondering if some famous people drink too much. It pissed me off so bad I split for Mr T’s Bowl in Highland Park to watch Joe Baiza.

I think I went to another Jazz Grammy or two, but they’d moved them to the Nokia, a venue I hate, actually. There’s something profoundly wrong about the place. I can’t put my finger on it, but I can step in it. The mainstage was room was packed with people, none of whom I had ever seen at any jazz event anywhere, and whose notion of jazz I suspect was somewhere between Kenny G and the Tijuana Brass. I had press perks, of course, and wandered up to the exalted Green Room several floors up, past several lines of bouncers. Drinks were free. The buffet was pathetic. The crowd was show biz–they are everywhere in this town–and there were booths with curtains and plush pillows reserved for jazz royalty, there really being such a thing. Herbie et al. They looked like movie stars which, considering the state of jazz, verged on surreal. There were gorgeous dames everywhere, leggy, decked out, bejeweled, eyes aglow. Scarcely anybody I recognized from the scene, though. Clubs laid empty, yet the jazz grammy’s were like a small but overcrowded and vaguely hip city. Bored to tears I wanted to split. The grammy press rep caught me and introduced me to other grammy press reps. I politely broke away to head back to the mainstage to see Chalie Haden get his lifetime achievement award. The crowd was too busy yammering away to notice. Somebody gave Charlie Haden a quick introduction and handed him an award. He began to thank people, but thirty seconds into his brief remarks a couple suits come out and bum rush him off the stage. The curtain opens and some shitty contemporary jazz band starts up a dance tune. The crowd cheered and danced. Charlie stood offstage, looking bewildered, angry, disgusted. At that moment my inchoate distaste for the grammys crystalized into pure hatred.

Back to last night, during a commercial break I switched back to the BAFTAs. How much respect those awardees were being given, by the crowd, the staff, the television cameras. Poor jazz, I thought. It can be the most amazing music, a room full of perfect improvisation, sheer beauty, delight, heartbreak…and it gets the bum’s rush every time.

Actually I do remember attending the LA Weekly Music Awards. I had no intention of being there but my editor insisted. We went. It was packed, but the crowd seemed hipper than the jazz grammy’s, and it wasn’t quite so bogus. I hung around till they gave the jazz award. I’d had inside information that it was to be a very hip player from Detroit. I dug the guy. They announced his name. Announced it again. Apparently he was a no-show. So they put the award aside and went on to the next category. But actually he wasn’t quite a no show. He was actually outside but the bouncers wouldn’t let him in. Your name is not on the list, they said. But I’m winning an award, he told them. I can’t do anything about that the door guy said, now please leave. So he left.

Funny how I’ve never been to a jazz awards ceremony that wasn’t fucked up.