Dateline Los Angeles: Feb. 22, 2001
We slip into Los Angeles the weekend before the Grammys with the firm intention of enjoying, on behalf of our fans, as much of the gracious hospitality offered by our sponsors at Giant/Warner for as long as we possibly can. Because, like ourselves, our fans have lived through a lot, including (depending on their age) most if not all of the following: The Sixties; Bossa Nova; The death of jazz; The New Thing; The end of the Sixties; One and one-half Nixon administrations; The War; The Disco Inferno; The Jonestown Massacre; The Rise and Fall of Soul Music; the Death of Underground Radio/advent of the Gordon Liddy talk show; Eight years of Bedtime For Bonzo; The rise of MTV; All those books with the word "Postmodern" in the title; The Drug Wars; The New Wave; More MTV; The War; More drugs; The Mt. Hood Jazz Festival; The Apotheosis of Pro Wrestling; The Fall of '92; Wynton Marsalis; and you know the rest. We understood that our people NEED us to occupy these grand-a-night suites, empty out these posh mini-bars, noisily entertain whatever fellows and fillies that can be rounded up for the occasion in the most raucous manner possible, zoom around town in hired mid-engine roadsters, top down in the sweet-as-Jesus evening drizzle, and generally do what we can to commemorate the tears and the years of the above-cited indignities, plus more.
So -- confident that we need only show up at The Staples Center on Wednesday evening to fulfill our mission, we zip up our monkey suits, crawl into one of the 2,000 stretch limos on the street at that date and time, and tumble out onto a red carpet whereupon, with the rude collective pop of 300 flashbulbs, commences a dreamlike procession of events some 7 hours in duration.
At the conclusion of said hazy interval, we find ourselves with: Sore feet; Full bladders; A renewal of our appreciation for the soul-stirring potential of the female anatomy; Four Grammys; and a dim and somewhat nightmarish recollection of what inanities we may possibly have uttered on stage before an audience of some 26 million astonished entertainees.
So today, we recover; we reflect; we rehydrate; and, oh yes, we extend our booking at this posh hotel so as to accommodate the ongoing celebrations. All in the service of the commensurately greater glory of the illustrious fandom. Here's to y'all -- you are the best.
Walter Becker and Donald Fagen