I don’t remember the last time I watched an awards show (and I’ll bet you can’t remember either). Like most people now, I don’t trust an Academy or Guild to tell me who has talent, especially when the top prizes are often given to industry plants or agenda-pushing artists.
Long ago, you might have been able to appreciate the glamorous celebrities, or the red-carpet moments, but even so-called fashion has taken a turn towards contra-art.
Now, you might say to me, What’s the point? Ignore the out-of-touch elites who shove trophies in each other’s faces every few months for producing politically edgy mediocrity. And I’d say, I usually do. And the overnight TV ratings indicate that most Americans do, too.
But when your 5-year-old could waltz into the family room last Sunday night and flip on CBS to witness demonic appropriation on live TV, it’s time we address the palpable degeneration of our “best” and “brightest.”
Sam Smith, who has recently adopted “they/them” pronouns, partnered up with German singer-songwriter Kim Petras, notable for being the world’s youngest “male-to-female” transsexual. Kim had begun a medical transitioning process at age 13 and underwent surgery at age 16—presumably before “she” got “her” driver’s license.
Petras now presents as a woman and, I concede, appeared more feminine than a certain Eighties female pop icon Sunday night.
Previous hits from Petras include “Do Me,” “Throat Goat,” and “Treat Me Like a Slut.”
Recently, Smith and Petras partnered up to write “Unholy,” the song which took home a Grammy for Best Pop Duo/Group Performance.
While its lyrics aren’t what won an award, and while I’d categorize the tune as neither poetry nor art, I figured I’d decipher the meaning of the song for you to understand the inspiration behind the controversial production.
There aren’t too many unique words in the song—lots of “dropping” and “popping” something “unholy.” I needed to employ the assistance of Genius Lyrics to determine the reference to a nude strip club in Los Angeles.
The “Unholy” lyrics also mention Balenciaga, the high-end fashion house under fire this past December for its campaign featuring children surrounded by obscene bondage devices.
Basically, the song concerns a married man who spends his free time at a brothel, unbeknownst to his wife and children. But again, the lyrics and music didn’t win the Grammy. So let’s talk what did—the performance.
Picture this: lights shine redder than those at President Biden’s infamous “Soul of the Nation” speech. Actual flames encircle the stage and every Grammys attendee. Several men in drag emerge from life-size cages dressed as cartoonish demons.
Petras arrives dressed in—well, not much. Smith leads the pack wearing all red from his platformed heels to the horns protruding from his top hat. His gaze for the entire duration gives off “possessed,” but to give the situation any benefit of the doubt we’ll assume it was either part of the performance or because his latex tights were wreaking havoc on his circulation.
Beyond a handful of years in pee-wee ballet, I’m no dancer. But even I can sense that the moves these characters were making weren’t particularly impressive.
Of course, the “Unholy” performance wasn’t meant to be impressive. It was meant to be important. After all, it’s not art that can be appreciated. It’s power for which they demand praise. What do I mean by power, exactly?
The professional ballerina will never see a Grammys stage. The Mexican folk dancer will never get a primetime spot. The cellist won’t have #Bennifer in her audience, the opera singer won’t sign with Sony, and the clothes that cover everything won’t trend on Twitter.
Instead, the vulgar, the off-putting, and the perverse are televised for all to see. They are celebrated, at least by the ever-dwindling number of viewers who show up every year by more of the same, only worse.
One final note regarding Smith’s “performance.” In between various poppings and droppings, the gang made the Sign of the Cross in unison. Really, guys? At best, it’s a mockery of Christianity. At worst, well, the normal people on the Internet had that one covered.
It’s getting harder and harder to refute the increasingly held notion that Hollywood is—again, giving the benefit of the doubt—sympathetic towards Satanism.
Oh, and I would be remiss not to mention that the Grammys was sponsored by Pfizer—yes, that Pfizer—and Jill Biden was there to hand out an award. That’s “Dr.” Jill to you, by the way.