Everyone’s jumping back into limos and Rolls Royces and Porsches to attend after-parties in secret locations. Not much of a story for the newsies at the Shrine. Everyone thought Mariah would be the big sweep – and she ended up going home alone with one trophy of her four nominations.
Sometimes leg and thigh isn’t enough.
The secret’s out – everyone smokes. Outside the old theater where the American Music Awards plodded along, throngs partied in billowing clouds of Camel Lights. Agents, producers, musicians, arm candy, husbands and lawyers banded to together in every dark space, lighting each other up and inhaling to the heavens.
No cigars, though. Those are for the real nonsmokers.
Sean Paul is from Jamaica and he never lets you forget it. The dancehall rapper, who probably went to Harvard med, puts on a street rasta act for the fans.
Every sentence is punctuated with “ya na wha mean?”
Yes, Sean, we na wha mean. Na go ‘way.
Everything’s going all pear-shaped for Missy. After some sort of back surgery, the performer is zooming around backstage on a scooter, telling everyone that this “male-dominated world” is tough on female rappers.
“It was about sex and stuff. Coz I’m turning over a new leaf. I’m goin’ raunchy with it,” Smith says backstage, referring to a song? Not sure. A movie? Not sure? A trip to the bank? Maybe. Looking like a millions bucks, Smith blathers on about his pal Curtis Jackson, a rapper who we can’t bring ourselves to call 50 Cent. “He’s brilliant. We talk for hours and hours.”
Smith announces that “rap music in general is in a renaissance period.” Whatever that’s supposed to mean.
In the press room, everything’s peachy. The food is flowing (there’s no alcohol, but the night’s still young), the show is blaring from three Sonys and a couple of people are actually working. What a difference from the Latin Grammys last month….
I’m an observer on the edge of the red carpet at the American Music Awards tonight downtown at the Shrine and dizzy from the procession of tan, well-tended, tight, carefully manicured flesh – or was that just Lance Armstrong? As the sign said on the KFC joint down the block: “Leg and Thigh.”