It was during the chit-chat preceding a work call that I tried to figure out just why last night’s Grammy telecast was actually both watchable and, at times, utterly compelling. I mean, it’s an awards show. For anyone who’s endured the Golden Globes or the Emmys or the Oscars or the Grammys at any point this century, declaring the usual cavalcade of celebrity self-promotion as half decent is like hell freezing over.
Of course, there was still a fair slice of celebrity self-promotion, led by the ever-commercially-savvy Taylor Swift taking a break from dancing awkwardly to use an acceptance speech to announce the release of her new album. But aside from those glimpses of awards show normalcy, the Grammys were great and it really came down to one factor: the celebration and veneration of older performers, who in the process elevated the art form that is music. And music, after all, is supposed to be what the Grammys honor.
All art is miraculous, in its way. A blank canvas becomes the Mona Lisa. A roll of film becomes Afghan Girl. A reel of celluloid is transformed into Citizen Kane. Empty pages become Macbeth. I’ll celebrate them all, but nothing seems so utterly amazing to me as the ability of one person—or two or three or a whole orchestra—to pierce silence with music that seems to burst from nowhere, generating joy and melancholy and anger and everything in between. I’d venture to say everyone has been moved by a melody at some point in our lives, and most of us can measure our lives by song.
Last night, that’s what it was all about. Yes, there’s an element of relief in actually recognizing some of the performers—I mean, I am 50. But much more than that was the sheer joy of Stevie Wonder paying tribute to Tony Bennett. To hear Annie Lennox reinterpret Sinéad O’Connor. For Tracy Chapman to revisit the 35-year-old (!) Fast Car. We even had a new song from Billy Joel.
And then, of course, there was Joni Mitchell.
Anyone tuning in from another planet may have wondered who this 80-year-old woman was, sitting in a lounge chair at times almost talking, her voice distinctive but the effects of aging clear and presented without apology. For the rest of us, it was poignant and astonishing: the woman who by her mid 20s had become one of the greatest and most influential songwriters in history, now performing one of her most famous songs just years after a brain aneurysm threatened both her life and her gift. Each word of “I really don’t know life at all” seemed to capture a decade of love, loss, triumph, tragedy, and musical immortality, leaving her fellow performers both transfixed and in tears. So, yeah, I thought Mitchell was remarkable: for her courage and resilience; her genius and generosity.
And it was just so refreshing to see her and the host of fellow, er, older performers peel back society’s veneration of youth to remind us how much we still have to learn from those who have walked this same path to the same destination (for all of us—sorry immortality tech dudes).
I kinda get the feeling we’re generally starting to both understand, appreciate, and celebrate the wisdom of older people. My incessantly-reading mum last month insisted I try Richard Osman’s The Thursday Murder Club, knowing I don’t mind an easy read with a bit of humor. It was all that—I’ve since read two more in Osman’s series—but what makes the books so lovely is the way they celebrate age. In short, the plot revolves around four people living in a retirement community who meet weekly to discuss cold murder cases. Of course, they immediately become involved in very hot murder cases, but the joy is in how they use their years and experience. I’d argue their ages and where they live are far more than convenient plot devices; they’re essential to what they do and how they do it.
As a society, it hasn’t always been this way. And it’s not really society’s fault—life expectancy has vastly out-accelerated our collective ability to rethink what older age should look like. After all, the average US lifespan in 1860 was just 39. By 1900, it was 48 years, it jumped to 67 by 1950, and to 76 by 2000 (much still needs to be done to close racial and ethnic gaps). About half of all five years olds today are forecast to live to 100 and, by some estimates, that will be the norm for kids born in 2050. At that point, suggesting someone aged 65 stop working means they’ll have another 35-plus years to do … what, exactly?
One of the benefits of writing is you never really have to retire. But I’m in the minority: we need to figure out how life should be structured in the super-aging era. That applies to people individually (Stanford’s Center on Longevity has created The New Map of Life as a guide) and to companies, many of whom stick to mandatory retirement ages and seem wholly clueless about how to harness and take advantage of the institutional knowledge and experience of older people (Nancy Meyers even made a movie about it).
Here’s a radical idea: celebrate them as the Grammys did last night. Joni Mitchell may not have thought about performing “Both Sides Now” in 2024 when she penned it 57 years ago. But you can bet that, somewhere, a 23-year-old today wrote a song and thought about what it would feel like to perform it at the age of 80. That’s priceless, and the kind of inspiration you can’t get from Instagram or anyone vaguely close to your own age. You get it from someone who’s walked the walk or, more to the point, sung it softly in her Grammy performance debut.
A note about whatever this is …
After writing a few thousand articles for newspapers and magazines, I spent a long time trying a bunch of other stuff. I guess I figured what came (relatively) easily must by definition be less valuable, so I wandered in the corporate wilderness, becoming increasingly frustrated and doing work that felt increasingly lousy.
Sometimes with age comes wisdom, and I’ve realized finding something (relatively) easy ain’t a bad thing. So, this is a space where I’m resurrecting writing for myself, on topics weird and wild and wonderful.
Posts will appear when the mood takes me, but I do try to be consistently inconsistent—sometimes it’ll be a couple of days between drinks; sometimes a week. But if you subscribe, you’ll get a email letting you know I’m ranting. Again.