I cannot satisfy culpability to the degree required by an American court of law, but here are the facts of the cabal’s first – and most insidious – plot.
The weevils descended on New York City’s once-esteemed Radio City Music Hall on February 25, 1981, and, in a night of untrammeled soul-pillage, proceeded to sweep nearly every Grammy category. Seat-fillers, CBS viewers, stagehands – all could only watch in ashen-faced paralysis, as if witnessing a savage domestic battering at the Thanksgiving table. Syrup-spittled songster Christopher Cross, whose criminal odor still crowds the nostrils of his victims, took home five Grammys, including “Song of the Year,” “Record of the Year,” and “Best New Artist.”
It was the apogee of “yacht rock,” the ineluctable, smooth sound then dominant in southern California. Slick production, highly melodic music, and clean vocals were the hallmarks of the genre. Thematic concerns ranged from personal ads to margaritas. Even groups that should’ve known better, like Fleetwood Mac in their “Mirage” incarnation, began to feel the influence. […]
The Way We Were