Rock of Ages: Satanic Panic and Excessive Nipples

When I was young, I loved award shows. I’d make a whole night of it: popcorn, blanket, glued to the TV, stupidly excited when my favorites won and appalled when they didn’t.

Especially music awards.

In the days before algorithms, most of us heard pretty much the same songs. We didn't agree on politics, religion, or whether Coke was better than Pepsi (it definitely is).

But the right song would have us all with our hands in the air, like we just didn't care.

Except for the people complaining that it wasn't real music.

We'll always have those people.

I recently watched the Grammys with my family, and my biggest thrill came from recognizing half the artists without the kids having to tell me.

I get the same rush when I find my reading glasses by myself.

I’m not old-old, but I can see it from here. I watched the show through my very middle-aged eyes, fully aware that I'm no longer the target audience and trying very hard not to judge the outfits, the dancing, or whatever the hell some of that was.

Which means I'm dangerously close to becoming one of those people.

Which is frustratingly inconvenient, because my entire schtick depends on not ending up like that.

There were some interesting outfits that night.

There were even more interesting dance moves.

Felt like a lot of ass and cheeks all over my TV. Several men had no shirts, and Bieber performed just in socks and underpants.

Just too many nipples for an awards show.

Which, okay, it's performance; I get shock value is part of it. JLo walked so Chappell Roan could run, although running in that dress seemed an excellent way to lose a nipple.

Someone asked if Sabrina Carpenter was singing live. “Yeah”, I said. “You can see the microphone pack on her back.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Look up, dear."

I’m not a prude. If I had Sabrina Carpenter’s ass, I would be absolutely insufferable.

But there are some things you don't really want to see while sitting with your family, nipples and chafing among them.

Later, the Ozzy tribute with Post Malone, Slash, Duff McKagan, and Chad Smith warmed and broke my little metalhead heart. Sharon and the kids crying in the front row was rough to watch. Whatever else was true about their lives, he was still their whole world.

That wasn't the emotional ambush I expected from a show displaying that many exposed buttocks.

My Gen Z daughter saw the same show very differently. (Of course she did.)

She gets wildly excited about artists that I frankly don’t get. I watch with her, but in my head I’m thinking, this is what’s cool now? Seriously?

Which is probably what my mother thought when I was listening to Alice in Chains.

My daughter and I don’t agree on everything: trends, social issues, what “five minutes” means. But we usually agree on great music.

Except for most K-pop. I said what I said.

Thanks to Stranger Things, her love of '80s rock has been reignited to the point that she is convinced she was born in the wrong decade.

She blames me for her unfortunate timing, but as I constantly remind her, I was eight years old in 1983. I wasn't backstage with Mötley Crüe; I was playing with Cabbage Patch dolls and watching He-Man.

But clearly, I evolved.

One of her prized possessions is a reproduction Mötley Crüe 1987 tour shirt. She wears it like she was there.

Honestly, I love that.

When I was young, hard rock and heavy metal were heavily frowned upon in my neck of the woods. The Satanic Panic was real.

Parents were actually worried that Ozzy Osbourne and Judas Priest were leading us straight to hell. Looking back, most of the danger was too much hairspray, eyeliner, and weird scarves.

Some rebellion. I see the same problem at PTA meetings.

For me, it was Bon Jovi and Def Leppard blasting from boomboxes in school hallways. It was Guns N’Roses feeling dark and dangerous to a teenager who thought Axl Rose was sex on a stick.

It was Metallica and Motörhead, and definitely Ozzy.

Now, my daughter does the dinner dishes with her AirPods in, headbanging to songs that were already getting old when I was young.

Which paradoxically makes me feel both old and yet young again.

Meanwhile, she plays me newer songs, and I’m Googling lyrics and asking things like “But why gnarly? That used to mean something bad. Why the hell are they singing about boba tea and fried chicken?

She gives me the same look I used to give to my mother.

At the Grammys, Yungblud accepted his first award by declaring that "rock music's fucking coming back."

I like him, but kiddo, rock never fucking left.

Every generation thinks they created the pinnacle of music. Mine does. My daughter's does, and my mother's absolutely did.

So my daughter pretends to listen to my lectures on what ‘real music’ is, and I humor her when she shows me TikToks of artists named things like Lil' Nebula Pajamas.

Someday she'll be sitting on a couch complaining that the Grammys don't make sense anymore. I hope I'm there to see it.

Preferably without seeing Lil' Nebula Pajamas' nipples.

Heather Papovich is the voice behind Unfinished Business. She's seen some things. She'll tell you about them.