Die, Fledermaus!

As much as I believe the undead should be given equal opportunity in the entertainment industry, Nosferatu must leave American Idol. Did you see him last night? There's just no place for a cold, bloodless vampire on prime-time television (except for Rosie O'Donnell, of course). If you're gonna allow Nosferatu (also known, in shape-shifting form, as Phil Stacey) to perform, at least flash a parental-advisory warning before each show. Fer crissakes, my daughter, 3-year-old Kid Lulu, woke up screaming last night. I asked what was wrong and she said, "Nosferatu is coming to get me!" I'm with ya, kid. I'm with ya.

(Avert your eyes, or be damned forever.)
(I'm serious, look away.)
(Sharpen your stakes.)
(Prepare the garlic.)
(Cover your neck.)
(Nosferatu is in da house.)

Antonella Barba: Handle Your Scandal

As you've no doubt heard by now, American Idol's talent-free Top 24 contestant Antonella Barba has herself a scandal. Saucy pictures of the witchy woman are currently swirling about cyberspace. Her annoying pal Amanda Coluccio (who tried out for the show but failed, probably because she was really evil) says the racier pictures are of someone else. That seems to be the case. But Antonella has admitted that a few of the pix are of her. She had them made for her boyfriend, including presumably this feel-good Halloween snapshot. Idol shouldn't kick her off the show for this. No, Idol should kick her off the show because she sucks and she's mean. If you want more of Antonella, you're on your own.

Love Her, Too: Sunny Sweeney

SUNNY SWEENEY

Album: Heartbreaker’s Hall of Fame (Big Machine)

In stores: March 6

Why we care: Country newcomer Sweeney has a Loretta Lynn crush and an East Texas accent strong enough to knock your Stetson off. This is the most refreshing honky-tonk album we’ve heard in a while — delivered by a looker with no interest in crossover cash.

Why we like it: Her high, lonesome twang has a bittersweet edge, but rest assured, this cowgirl likes kicking up her boots as much as crying in her beer. When she’s not writing her own tunes, Sweeney has smart taste in songwriters, including Iris Dement and Jim Lauderdale, the latter of whom joins her for a duet. If you’re always lamenting the current state of country music, this old-school debut is for you.

Reminds us of: $1 Bud Night at Gilley’s

Download these: East Texas Pines and Ten Years Pass

Grade: B+

I Love This Band: Prosser

PROSSER

Album: Prosser (Clickpop)

In stores: Now

Why we care: Along with such groups as Death Cab for Cutie and the Trucks, Prosser is yet another hot band born from the waters of Bellingham, Wash. (Must be something in Lake Whatcom.) The spacey alt-country outfit is the brainchild of Eric Woodruff, formerly of the band Delay — and currently one of the coolest talents of the year.

Why we like it: Woodruff has this mesmerizing ability to blend cinematic grandeur (think a modern-day Western) with the intimate wanderings of a troubled mind (think a moody indie band). Just when you the gauzy blanket of cello and organ is ready to rock you to sleep, Woodruff cuts in with a stalking guitar line perfect for Clint Eastwood.

Reminds us of: Wilco, before they started thinking too much.

Download these: I Met a Girl and The Time Has Come

Grade: A

Oscars...So Boring...Can't Move

Say what you will about the Grammy Awards (no one watches them, they're irrelevant, etc.), but "music's biggest night" is a helluva lot more fun than the Academy Awards. Jesus, the Oscars were dull last night. No, I mean record-setting dull, even more record-setting dull than last year and the year before that. Was there one moment worth remembering? Maybe when Beyonce and Jennifer Hudson were singing side by side. That was pretty good. Beyonce so wanted to one-up her Dreamgirls costar (who had earlier won a nice shiny trophy), it reminded me of Daffy Duck versus Bugs Bunny. I totally expected Beyonce to hit Hudson with a cymbal.

The Grammys long ago realized that the actual awards were meaningless, so they just lined up the microphones and had people sing for three hours. Not a bad idea. Viewership is still pretty ragged, but the Grammys are at least listenable. But the Oscars? Lord, what a mess. It seemed like they gave out 350 awards last night, and there wasn't one memorable acceptance speech to be heard. What happened to giving out Best Supporting Actor/Actress early in the night? By my watch, the first significant (read: somewhat interesting) award wasn't handed out until 9:45.

Justin-Sinatra HATE MAIL

For the dozens of people who called and emailed yesterday, berating me for my essay comparing Timberlake and Sinatra, you'll be happy to know my computer's hard drive exploded while reviewing JT's show last night. I still managed to get a review into the paper, but it's a little rough. Well done, naysayers. Well done.

Anyway, here's some select hate mail regarding yesterday's story...

****
I have always liked your columns and reviews, but the comparison of Justin Timberlake to Frank Sinatra was the worst thing you have ever written. Mr. Timberlake’s talent is microscopic compared to Frank’s talent. What a bad idea the entire piece was, and a waste of paper too. There is no comparison to be made.

Unfortunately, I will not be able to read any more of your writings because that was such an adolescent piece of journalistic crap. Sorry to break the truth to you, but I’m sure you’ll be hearing that from everyone about that article.

Good Luck, and try to use your brain next time.

****
Sean, I respect your knowledge of music, so I'm going to -- with difficulty --get past the fact that you compared Justin Timberlake to Frank Sinatra. That's like comparing The Rock to Robert Dinero as actors. JT may be the biggest star around, but Duran Duran was once the biggest band in the world. JT can't sing, and his 'bumpin' boogie ttrack as you call it doesn't come from him at all, it comes from his producer Timbland. The guy defines the word 'mediocre, and that's being kind.

****
You do good work as a rule but todays column??? Whatever were you thinking? Justin and the chairman??? You are doubtless young but not everything can be attributed to immaturity. There is no one comparable to Frank...likely there will not be anyone in this era so regain your perspective and we'll overlook this one.

****
The comparison is a bit preposterous, maybe even blasphemous ... but I love that you have the balls to make the case. Nice work.

The New Ol' Blue Eyes?

Here's an essay I wrote for our Weekend mag, in honor of Justin Timberlake's Feb. 22 show at the St. Pete Times Forum. I'm expecting a barrage of hate mail -- all typed on Underwood No.5s.

IT ALL STARTS WITH THOSE PEEPERS, OF COURSE: sometimes flirty, sometimes intense, but always aware, of the cameras, of the crowds, of the cool. Frank Sinatra and Justin Timberlake, Ol' Blue Eyes and New Blue Eyes, singin' joes with the world on a ring-a-ding string.

Then there's this: Frank and JT both started in cheeky boy bands (the Hoboken Four, 'N Sync) and silly variety shows (Major Bowes, The Mickey Mouse Club). Sooner, rather than later, these scrawny, winter-born white boys from humble origins went solo, relying on African-American maestros -- Quincy Jones, Count Basie, Pharrell, Timbaland -- to inject crossover soul into their sound.

And don't forget: They both famously hooked up with femmes fatales -- Ava Gardner, Britney Spears -- and used well-publicized breakups (whether they were the dumper or the dumpee) to make their best music: In the Wee Small Hours, Cry Me a River. Those chart-topping tears would, in turn, help these incurable lady-killers attract even more bombshells.

On the surface, comparing Justin Randall Timberlake, who plays the St. Pete Times Forum in Tampa tonight, to Francis Albert Sinatra sounds preposterous, silly, downright dangerous, considering Frank's clout.

But think about it for a minute, and the similarities are unmistakable. Heck, even Justin seems to know he's chasing Frank's ghost, the young pop stud dressing in Rat Pack ties, fedoras and carefully rumpled suits that beg comparison.

****

Take away those fedoras, the women, the stage lights, and things really get interesting. Two seemingly regular guys, Frank and Justin became larger than life by reading the vagaries of pop culture and using their talent in the right way at the right time: ditching youth-oriented bands, embracing muscular pop, daring to be arrogant, unafraid to be vulnerable, bringing sexy back (in the '60s, in the '00s) when we needed it most.

Madonna reinvents herself. Frank and Justin, two Grammy winners fully aware of their strengths and limitations, redirect themselves, deftly altering their approach without sacrificing who they are.

And because they're so good at manipulating and convincing, Timberlake and Sinatra found acting to be a natural extension of their talents. Sinatra won an Academy Award for his role as Maggio in From Here to Eternity; Timberlake, a critical fave as genial thug Frankie in Alpha Dog, might get a shiny statue someday, too.

In a way, they even sing the same kind of songs. Sure, JT isn't crooning big-band swing, and Sinatra didn't go hip-hop. But put a young Frank in 2007, or Justin in 1942, and maybe you'd see Sinatra cooing Senorita and Timberlake nailing Night and Day. After all, these two are pop stars through and through.

****

As for the major differences? Well, there's really only one glaring difference worth mentioning. Frank Sinatra is the greatest pop vocalist of all time, male or female. Timberlake wasn't even the best singer on the Grammys last week.

But Timberlake certainly has skills: His pillow-talk falsetto is a marvel. He can put together a bumpin' boogie track. And for a skinny punk from Memphis, the kid's one heck of a dancer. Frank was the ultimate showman, but Justin is already getting props for being the most complete young star stomping the boards today.

Besides, Timberlake just turned 26. Sinatra died in 1998 at the age of 82 after a career that lasted six decades and featured myriad comebacks; Timberlake started recording in 1998 and he has cleared one professional hurdle, the boy band curse. The kid's got a lot of living to do.

Is Timberlake the new Sinatra?

Maybe, maybe not. But the fact we're even discussing it tells you just how good Justin could be -- and just how much the world needs another Frank to brighten things up around here.

Clay Aiken's Mystery Swirl

Edy's Ice Cream is launching a line of American Idol-themed flavors, including Hollywood Cheesecake, Soulful Sundae Cone and Choc 'N Roll Caramel. Normally, I wholly approve of Edy's "Slow Churned" attempts, but they dropped the ball on this one. Those flavor names blow. Just think of the better possibilities:

Berry Underwood
Crandisa!
Ruben's Big Tub of Goo
Brain Freeze (official dessert of Kellie Pickler)
Guarini's Tears
And I Am Telling You I'm Not Fudgy
Snow Bice
Dumb Raisin (OK, Pickler gets two)
Randy Apple
Marshmaroulis

Anybody got a flavor for Taylor Hicks? Bucky Covington? Kat McPhee?

UPDATE! Gotta say, I tried Edy's American Idol "Take the Cake" flavor last night, and it was damn delicious. Like a strawberry sundae with moist chunks of brown-sugar crust. Mmm, I can just feel myself getting fatter.

That said, the show itself was a disaster. Get ready for a ratings drop. There's a bad vibe to this year's show. And the Jack Osbourne clone -- Chris Sligh -- is turning out to be a creep. He forced a couple bad jokes last night, including awkwardly insulting Simon at the end, and made himself look like a jerk. Just sing and be pudgy, dude. Stop with the zingers.

Will Dave Sing Sammy's Songs?

I heard Hot for Teacher on the way to work and started wondering: If Van Halen gets their sh-- together and tours with David Lee Roth this summer, will the '80s party boys play any of the Van Hagar catalogue? When Sammy toured with the band, he played a few DLR-era cuts, including Panama and Jump. But Hagar is more reasonable, more secure. I really can't hear Roth half-assedly trying to croon Dreams or Poundcake, and I'm not sure I want to. Whattaya think? Will Dave sing Sammy songs?

I also started fantasizing about a setlist. Here's what I envision...

Intro -- Eddie/Alex guitar-drums vamp
Runnin' With the Devil
Unchained
Jamie's Cryin'
Drop Dead Legs
Mean Street
Alex Drum Solo (leads into...)
Everybody Wants Some!!!
Dance the Night Away
I'll Wait
Beautiful Girls
Hear About It Later
I'm the One
Wolfgang Van Halen Bass Shenanigans (leads into...)
Eddie Van Halen Guitar Theatrics/Eruption (leads into...)
You Really Got Me
...And the Cradle Will Rock
Ain't Talkin' Bout Love
Panama
ENCORE
Jump
Hot for Teacher
Happy Trails

What's In Sean's Mailbox: Pete's Reply

So I fired off seven rambling, detailed questions to Pete Townshend on Tuesday -- and he had answered them by Wednesday morning. Funny, profane, equally rambling responses, too (plus an invite to come meet-and-greet him at his March 13 Tampa show). I'm saving most of the good stuff for a story that'll run in the next few weeks, but here's a snippet. I asked him about the biopic Mike Myers is making about Who drummer Keith Moon. Bad idea? And did he have any advice for Myers? Here's Pete's curt, clear response: "Mike will be good. I'll give advice to whoever plays me. Get it right, make me look good, or I'll cut your f------ b---- off."

Here's this week's CD haul...

Dokken -- From Conception: Live 1981
Lucinda Williams -- West
Natasha Bedingfield, Lindsay Lohan -- The Hills Soundtrack
Patty Griffin -- Children Running Through
Richie Spice -- In the Streets to Africa
Shaw-Blades -- Influence
Van Morrison -- At the Movies
Molly Hatchet, Canned Heat -- An All-Star Tribute to Lynyrd Skynyrd

Fat Guys Rule

American Idol looks pretty weak on talent and charisma this year, but I'm loving that fat dude with Jack Osbourne's face and Julius Erving's hair. That guy rocks. Everyone else is awful and mean, including those conniving talent-averse girls at the end, who totally torpedoed the country bumpkin ("Because God likes good people"). Anyway, here's a few other notebook ramblings from last night's show:

That Zit Nosed Kid annoys me. Stop crying dude. Stop calling your mother. No wonder she never says she loves you...Perla, the Shakira wannabe, needs to buy a bigger bra....Sundance Head? That sounds like something they teach in Bangkok...That Domino's commercial featuring men with elephantiasis is terrifying....Sundance Head also needs to buy a bigger bra....That said, if fat guys become vogue, I'm so in....Anyone associated with the U.S. Military is getting humiliated. I blame that sniveling Brit Simon Cowell.

Monster of a Video

MICHAEL JACKSON: I have something I want to tell you.
OLA RAY: Yes, Michael.
MICHAEL: I'm not like other guys.
OLA: Of course not. That's why I love you.
MICHAEL: No, I mean I'm different.
-- from the Thriller video (1983)

Oh, he was different all right. Graceful, incandescent, but definitely different. Soul Kid No. 1, Motown's Fred Astaire, spinning like a top in Chess King red leather. Michael Jackson: werewolf, zombie, the first black artist to crack MTV's white stranglehold. And we loved him.

In 1983, Jackson and director John Landis made the music video for Thriller: a 14-minute, $800,000 musical chock-full of dancing zombies, Vincent Price's cackle and Playboy Playmate Ola Ray, her saucer eyes signaling that she, too, was smitten with the Boy Who Would Be King.

A year earlier, a 24-year-old Jackson released the album Thriller, not only the bestselling pop album of all time, but the best pop album period. Billie Jean, Beat It, P.Y.T.: pure boogie-down goodness.

Twenty-five years after the album's release, we still love Michael Jackson. But hoo boy, has this become a tricky relationship.

And it's just getting trickier.

On Oct. 12, 2005, iTunes, Apple's online music store, started selling videos for $1.99 per clip. Since then, Jackson's Thriller has been a phenomenal seller, either topping the charts or hovering within striking distance, beating out videos old and new. Last week, it was the fourth most-purchased video, between Fergie's Fergalicious and Beyonce's Irreplaceable. Apple would not release Thriller's download numbers, but the company did allow that MJ's crowning achievement has been "clearly a popular video."

Apple has always been tight-lipped about sales figures, but in this case, not fully commenting on Thriller's resurrection makes sense. After all, no one ever wants to praise Michael Jackson in public anymore. Not after the child molestation allegations, the trial, his disappearance into the sands of Bahrain.

Our love for Michael Jackson is now strictly a private affair, making Thriller's popularity on iTunes even more understandable. Our iPods are inherently intimate devices. They contain our songs, our playlists, our memories, our secret pleasures.

In these days of intense pop-culture overload, the least cynical place to process Michael Jackson -- taking his good, leaving his bad -- is in our iPods. We've compartmentalized Michael. We've split him in two. In my mind, the Michael Jackson in Thriller has absolutely no relation to the Michael Jackson whose nose now looks like an electrical outlet.

Thriller was the essence of MJ, before the real world broke in. For many of us who grew up in the MTV age, Thriller represents our innocence as much as his. Anyone responsible for such a wonderful pop-culture moment can't be all bad, right?

Heck, if I had been on Michael Jackson's defense team, I would have played the Thriller video for the jury. As soon as Juror No. 8 lost control and giddily moonwalked out of the courtroom, I would have motioned for a dismissal. When it comes to Thriller, we choose to believe what we're seeing -- not what we've heard, read, believed.

The video's subtext has sadly become as subtle as a white-gloved slap to the face. There's Michael, the smiling, childlike good guy, comforting a scared innocent. Then, just when all seems peaceful and sweet, MJ morphs into a werewolf, a zombie, hungry for flesh, a severe about-face. And so on and on, until the final frame, when a seemingly normal Michael, taking Ola Ray's arm, turns back to the camera, eyes aglow, a ghoul in MTV's clothing.

And yet, while watching Thriller recently, I was instantly swept up not in scandal, but in how incredibly good those 14 minutes make you feel, especially when Michael and Ola come bounding out of the Palace theater, that funky, loping beat, those handclaps, Michael singing: "It's close to midnight, and something evil's lurking in the dark." Cute, curvy Ola uses that sexy little stutter-step to keep up with MJ as he dances around her. How could you not root for him?

My favorite part of Thriller has never changed, from 1983 to 2007. After he has been zombified, Michael dances around with the undead, all those spectacularly silly monster-disco moves. He turns away from the camera, shuffling down the street, before spinning back and boom: " 'Cause this is thriller, thriller night!"

He's not a monster anymore. The makeup is gone. He's just MJ, dancing his butt off, finally getting to the song's whopper, synth-washed chorus. There he is, the sweet-faced kid who lives on our iPods, the sweet-faced kid with no relation to the sad man he became. All is right in the world. Everything is okay. 'Cause this is Thriller. And that's what we tell ourselves as we push to play it again and again.

Bad Threads: Grammy Edition

As the Grammy supastars gamboled down the red carpet last night, Times fashion diva Sharon Fink and I snarked back and forth about the plethora of bad duds. For the record, I was wearing vintage Target and ratty Stan Smiths, so I know of what I speak. Feel free to snark along.

  JOHN MAYER
Sean: He looks like a schlubby high school senior monkey-suited for the prom. He could also use a trip to Supercuts.
Sharon: That's an insult to schlubby high school seniors. And Supercuts.

OK GO
Sharon: Some people get paid $5.75 an hour to dress like that and stand on a street corner advertising rug stores.
Sean: Come on, Sharon. Haven't you ever seen The Shining? That's the haunted-hotel-tapestry look. Very hot, very redrum.

DIXIE CHICKS
Sean: Natalie Maines, middle, looks like she's covered in seaweed. Plus, I don't like the dark hair at all. She looks like evil Bizarro Natalie.
Sharon: Speaking of bizarro, Emily Robison, left, is this year's winner of the Wednesday Addams Lookalike Contest.

JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE
Sharon: I didn't know he had an endorsement deal with Brooks Brothers.
Sean: He looks too dressed-down, doesn't he? I mean, it's the guy's big night and he's dressed for his First Communion.

It's Ladies Night at Grammys

For one loud, brash night filled with Mary J. Blige’s tears, Shakira’s shimmy and Sting’s age-defying studliness, the music industry was able to pretend that album sales aren’t in the toilet and its future isn’t a mess.

Instead, the 49th annual Grammy Awards, held Sunday at the Staples Center in Los Angeles, were flush with optimism, swagger and more hot performances than dopey acceptance speeches, including a killer kick start by the Police, which disbanded decades ago but used the Grammys to announce a reunion.

Even the trophy-trading made for good drama. Country outcasts the Dixie Chicks, persecuted in 2003 for speaking out against President Bush, won a leading five awards, including song and record of the year for Not Ready to Make Nice and, in a tasty take-that to their Nashville naysayers, both album of the year and best country album for Taking the Long Way.

"To quote the great Simpsons: Ha-ha!" zinged lead singer Natalie Maines. "A lot of people just turned their TVs off right now." Better watch your back, cowgirl.

Nominated for a leading eight awards, Blige won four, including best R&B album for The Breakthrough and best female R&B vocal performance for Be Without You. She also performed twice, which (almost) made up for the fact that The Breakthrough wasn't nominated album of the year.

Despite a drool-inducing dud of a performance that put a screeching halt to the night, punk-funks the Red Hot Chili Peppers won four awards, including best rock album for the double-disc Stadium Arcadium and best rock performance by a duo or group for Dani California. The likably confident Ludacris won best rap album for Release Therapy.

And lest country fans feel slighted by those feisty Chicks, former American Idol champ Carrie Underwood won for best new artist and best female country vocal performance for Jesus Take the Wheel. The blonde hottie also uncorked a hubba-hubba version of the Eagles’ Desperado.

Over the past few years, the Grammys (and the peer-based recording academy in charge of them) have learned that the best way to showcase new music is to simply let the talent shine. And that it did, making this one of the most entertaining Grammy broadcasts in memory.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are the Police, and we’re back!" hollered Sting as the Fountain of Youth coursed through his ruggedly handsome veins. The trio kicked into Roxanne, a robust promise that an upcoming tour will be worth the ticket price.

Most energetic performance of the night? That’s easy. Shakira, Wyclef, and, um, Shakira’s abs teamed up for the dance smash Hips Don’t Lie. Wyclef wisely got out of the way once the Colombian songstress started shaking her groove thang — that’s a good way to lose an eye.

Although there’s much concern about the future of the music business, talent shouldn’t be a problem. Dressed like airline pilots, Gnarls Barkley’s Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse gave a subdued, vaguely militaristic version of their hit single Crazy. Christina Aguilera honored the late James Brown with a hair-raising It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World.

And the night’s most subtle performance was also its most lovely: a rhythm-and-bluesy collaboration between Brit newcomer Corinne Bailey Rae, soul prince John Legend and guitar whiz John Mayer, who won two early awards, including best pop vocal album for Continuum.

Not all the performances killed. Prince’s comically brief "One word: Beyonce" introduction was far more interesting than the performance that followed, a sloppy version of Ms. Knowles' Dreamgirls showstopper, Listen. And Justin Timberlake, who won two trophies in the nontelevised awards portion, seemed out of it the whole night.

And in a final note, here’s a shout-out to Wolfmother, the Aussie hairballs who took home best hard rock performance for the song Woman. If you’ve learn anything from this column, let it be that Wolfmother RULES.

Grammy Picks/Gratuitous Underwood Shot

You probably haven’t noticed — and you’re certainly not alone — but the Grammy Awards have been damn good fun the past few years. Although the ratings for "music’s biggest night" have been lousy at best, the Grammys have been one of the smartest awards shows around, mainly because the peer-based Recording Academy is getting increasingly cooler, with older, Victrola-spinning members dying off and boomer rockers and rappers voting for hipper acts.

Also, with the music biz in disarray (CD sales are down, digital sales are up, the future is murky), the Grammy folks consider selling product more important than honoring it. So Sunday’s 49th annual Grammy broadcast will be overloaded with loud, brash live sets, including a reunion gig by the Police, and performances by Beyonce, Christina Aguilera, Shakira, John Legend and Ludacris, to name a few.

The awards given out, and the dopey acceptance speeches that come with them, will number fewer than 10. (More than 100 awards will be given out in an earlier, nontelevised event.) But even during the trophy trading, the drama will be juicy. Here are the nominees and predictions for the biggest awards, plus pointers for maximum Grammy enjoyment.

ALBUM OF THE YEAR: Taking the Long Way, Dixie Chicks; St. Elsewhere, Gnarls Barkley; Continuum, John Mayer; Stadium Arcadium, Red Hot Chili Peppers; FutureSex/LoveSounds, Justin Timberlake.

The Recording Academy is sooo proud of itself with this category, especially the Gnarls Barkley nomination. The hip-hop duo of roly-souly singer Cee-Lo and beat-making DJ Danger Mouse is the hippest, hottest band on the planet, and the most deserving of the night’s biggest award. Unfortunately, the eclectic, eccentric Gnarls won’t take home the hardware (the Grammys aren’t that cool), but the academy will get points by letting the guys play live, which should be a hoot.

So who wins album of the year? The Recording Academy will make a show-closing, long-live-liberals statement and give the award to the Dixie Chicks, for the utterly lackluster Taking the Long Way, most of which was about being persecuted by Nashville peers for speaking out against George W. Bush. The Grammys are famous for barely tolerating country music, so the Chicks will win for best country album, too, which is a sneaky dig at Music Row. Oh, and you better believe frontwoman Natalie Maines will zing Dubya one more time, so set your TiVo for10:55 p.m.

RECORD OF THE YEAR: Be Without You, Mary J. Blige; You’re Beautiful, James Blunt; Not Ready to Make Nice, Dixie Chicks; Crazy, Gnarls Barkley; Put Your Records On, Corinne Bailey Rae.

Queen of Hip-Hop Soul Mary J. Blige led all artists this year with eight nominations. But for some head-scratching reason, her album The Breakthrough didn’t get a nod for album of the year (the Grammys aren’t that smart). So expect Mary to kill in other categories, including record of the year (an artist and producer’s award) and song of the year (a songwriter’s award) for the hit Be Without You. She’ll also win best R&B album for The Breakthrough.

BEST NEW ARTIST: James Blunt, Chris Brown, Imogen Heap, Corinne Bailey Rae, Carrie Underwood.

In a perfect pop world, soul-kissed British chanteuse Rae would walk away with the best new artist title. But this one’s like high school — a popularity contest among pretty bubbleheads. That means it’ll be Brit hunk Blunt, whose You’re Beautiful was a sappy smash, against Underwood, the former American Idol champ who has sold more than 4-million copies of her debut album. If you’re wondering who has the edge, Google “Underwood + legs.” She’s the hotter hottie. She wins.

BEST ROCK ALBUM: Try!, John Mayer Trio; Highway Companion, Tom Petty; Broken Boy Soldiers, the Raconteurs; Stadium Arcadium, Red Hot Chili Peppers; Living With War, Neil Young.

Petty and Jack White’s Raconteurs made two of the best albums of ’06, but neither sold particularly well, and that’ll hurt. And although the Recording Academy loves faux-blues schmo Mayer and crusty gadfly Young, those guys probably won’t win, either.

Nope, this one’s going to the Chili Peppers, the SoCal punk-funk quartet who got their lives together and uncorked an ambitious double album of solid fun. Don’t expect bassist Flea to wear a shirt (or pants) at the podium.

BEST RAP ALBUM: Food & Liquor, Lupe Fiasco; Release Therapy, Ludacris; In My Mind, Pharrell; Game Theory, the Roots; King, T.I.

It has been a while since Kanye West wasn’t nominated in this category, and for that reason alone, the best rap album battle will lack big-ego drama. There’s no Jay-Z or Eminem or 50 Cent, either. Still, this is a talented group. Neptunes/N.E.R.D. brainiac Pharrell is due some industry love, but his album underperformed in the stores, so he’ll have to wait. The Roots are hipster faves but commercial duds. T.I. is a sales giant, but he’s not quite there artistically.

So it all comes down to the prodigious Lupe Fiasco, whose Food & Liquor was one of the best albums in any genre, vs. Ludacris, the loud/brash rapper/actor. Luda’s star is rising to super status, plus buddy Pharrell will no doubt help him work out infectious bumper Money Maker, giving the Grammys two-for-one recognition. Feel free to shake it at home when Ludacris takes the prize.

Questions for Pete Townshend?

THE GOOD NEWS: Looks like I'm gonna get an interview with Pete Townshend, who's bringing half-a-Who to Tampa's Ford Amphitheatre on March 13. THE BAD NEWS: Looks like I'm gonna get an email interview -- all text, no human contact. Normally I'd say screw that, but this is Pete Townshend, so I'll probably bend. (That said, it could be Larry Townshend typing out answers, and I'd have no idea.)

So: Any Who fans out there? Someone who's been dying to bend Pete's ear? GIMME SOME QUESTIONS, and I'll make sure to send them along.

It's a Numbers Game

In lieu of a legitimate blog posting, here's a comprehensive list of all the songs on my iPod that begin with a number. Yes, I'm a total iDork. I'm obsessed with this sort of crap. So sue me.

#1 Crush -- Garbage
$100 Dollar Bill Y'all -- Ice Cube
1,2,3,4 (Sumpin' New) -- Coolio
3 AM -- Matchbox Twenty
4 in the Morning -- Gwen Stefani
4th of July -- Shooter Jennings
4th Time Around -- Bob Dylan
5:15 -- The Who
6'1" -- Liz Phair
6th Avenue Heartache -- Wallflowers
7 -- Prince
9 to 5 -- Dolly Parton
10 -- M.I.A.
22 Days -- 22-20s
29 Palms -- Robert Plant
78 Stone Wobble -- Gomez
99 Problems -- Jay-Z
911 -- Mary J. Blige & Wyclef Jean
1999 -- Prince
3121 -- Prince

Prince: "While My Guitar Gently Weeps"

Thanks to my friend and colleague Josh Korr, here's a mind-blowing clip of Prince (plus Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne, Dhani Harrison and more) honoring George Harrison with a cover of While My Guitar Gently Weeps. It's from the 2004 Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame induction. Prince uncorks his solo around the 3:20 mark. Hold onto your 'do rags. It's a killer.

Need a Laugh? Here's Bucky...

"Any song that I pick, I have to feel, because if I can feel it, I can make you feel it."
-- Bucky Covington
2006 American Idol dope

On April 17, AI huckleberry Bucky Covington (not to be confused with twin bro Rocky) will release his self-titled debut. I received the first single, A Different World, in the mail yesterday. It's a midtempo shuffle about being an old man (he's 30) growing up in ye olden days (the late '70s). It's so bad it's close to brilliant. Bucky didn't write the song -- he chose it because it spoke to him. If "Weird Al" covers this song, he won't have to change a thing. Here are the lyrics (AND NO, I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP):

We were born to mothers who smoked and drank
Our cribs were covered in lead-based paint
No child proof lids, no seat belts in cars
Rode bikes with no helmets and still here we are
Still here we are

It was a different life
When we were boys and girls
Not just a different time
It was a different world

School always started the same every day
The pledge of allegiance, then someone would pray
Not every kid made the team when they tried
We got disappointed but that was alright
We turned out all right

No bottled water, we'd drink from a hose
And every Sunday, all the stores were closed

It was a different world

Best Halftime Show EVER

Raw, wet, unpredictable -- and he left the lip-syncing to the suckers. Prince absolutely ROCKED the Super Bowl last night. In fact, seeing as how I lost money on the game, I'm willing to say His Royal Badness (aka the Purple One) was by far the most exciting thing about Super Bowl XLI. His set mixed hits, bizarro covers (the Foos?) and those phenomenal licks of Hendrixian axemanship. The tone that guy gets out of his guitar is just sick. And while Prince is hellzapoppin' in dry conditions, the rain added such drama, such peril, it gave the entire spectacle some epic edge, especially the funky, to-hell-with-formations marching band and, of course, the Purple Rain finale. Hell, I even liked his 'do rag. After years of dealing with phoned-in Super crap from McCartney, the Stones and Aerosmith, Prince's performance will go down as the best halftime set ever. 

Just Call Me Cupid: Woo Music

Is there anything more romantic, or potentially disastrous, than a lovey-dovey mix CD? You're putting the future of your relationship in the hands of your favorite, entirely suspect musicians. Do you really want to use Lita Ford's Kiss Me Deadly to say you care? Allow me to help.

Spanning decades and bridging relationships, here's SEAN DALY'S CAN'T-MISS KISS-KISS PLAYLIST, 14 songs that say I love you, I need you, I wanna see your pajama collection:

1. Tell It Like It Is, the Neville Brothers (from The Very Best of the Neville Brothers) Best slow-dance song ever. Period.

2. Run to Me, Raul Malo (from You're Only Lonely) Can't type . . . too busy . . . crying . . . and hugging myself.

3. I Go Crazy, Flesh for Lulu (from Some Kind of Wonderful) Here's your to-do list: 1) Find Goth hottie, 2) play this song, 3) fall in love, 4) buy more eyeliner.

4. Space Age Love Song, A Flock of Seagulls (from Platinum & Gold Collection) Underrated '80s love song, about aliens or otherwise.

5. Something, the Beatles (from Abbey Road) Most honest love song ever. Period.

6. After the Lovin', Engelbert Humperdinck (from Behind Closed Doors: '70s Swingers) One word: Humperdinck.

7. I'll Be There for You/You're All I Need to Get By, Mary J. Blige & Method Man (from the I'll Be There for You EP) Tough MC and the Queen of Hip-Hop Soul swoon on rare romantic rap duet.

8. The Right Man, Christina Aguilera (from Back to Basics) Xtina uncorks bombastic wedding-night thank-you note.

9. Here We Go Again, Ray Charles and Norah Jones (from Genius Loves Company) May-December pairing shouldn't work but does -- really well.

10. Crying, Roy Orbison and K.D. Lang (from King of Hearts) A tutorial in crooning with a big weepy finish.

11. Always on Your Side, Sheryl Crow and Sting (from the Always on Your Side single) Originally just a Crow song, now devastating as a duet.

12. This Is Us, Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris (from All the Roadrunning) A sweet travelogue of a modern marriage. Bring Kleenex.

13. Make You Feel My Love, Bob Dylan (from Time Out of Mind) Even Dylan haters dig this unabashed come-on.

14. Let's Get It On, Marvin Gaye (from Let's Get It On) My job here is done.