Strength Down the Homestretch

Where was Pat Boone when you needed him? Better yet, where was Patrick Ewing?

The New York Knicks were forced from Madison Square Garden to accommodate Wednesday night’s 39th annual Grammy Awards. Only a few minutes into the CBS telecast, however, you were on your feet calling for the Knicks and their veteran center Ewing--or anyone else with a thunder dunk--to return. Talk about dull.

Relocated by the National Academy of Recording Arts & Sciences to New York’s Garden from the much smaller Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles, the Grammys at times seemed swallowed by the sheer size of the place, with the light show, cosmic speakers and all the rest of that high-tech staging getting mostly squandered.

The 12,000-seat venue just seemed too vast and cavernous for the show, and seeing the audience so distant from the performers--most of the camera shots from afar simply didn’t work--increased your own distance from them. It was disconcerting, like looking through a telescope from the wrong end. You could get as involved watching halftime during the Super Bowl.

The performers were dead men walking. And burdened by perfunctory empty banter, the presenters seemed to be having out-of-body experiences.

Usually playful host Ellen DeGeneres appeared to experience her own disconnection from the Garden crowd. That detachment transferred to the TV screen. And what a revelation. After years of masquerading as a very funny comic--including her performance on her ABC sitcom, “Ellen,” and good work at last year’s Grammys--she finally came out of the closet Wednesday night as . . .

Lethargic.

Yes, it was shocking. But midway through this show that appeared to be beyond rescue, a surprising thing happened. Almost as if executive producer Pierre Cossette had delivered an inspirational halftime talk that revved up his team, things got better.

It began with a sparkling production package starring the exciting casts of “Bring In ‘Da Noise, Bring In ‘Da Funk” and “Riverdance” that had the audience cheering. And that seemed to energize the rest of the telecast and its performers.

Tracy Chapman’s bluesy intimacy contrasted strikingly with the aloofness of much that had come earlier. The Smashing Pumpkins were pumped. Springsteen sprang. A jazz homage to the late Ella Fitzgerald, featuring silky Natalie Cole, was one of the night’s highlights. The Fugees were, well, the Fugees. And Whitney Houston, Brandy, CeCe Winans, Mary J. Blige and Aretha Franklin lit up the scoreboard.

All of this was contagious, of course. You felt it. And apparently so did the comic formerly known as funny, who got funny again as the evening wore on, all those hints about DeGeneres being lethargic appearing to have been just another one of her mischievous ruses to attract attention.

“This is incredible,” exclaimed best album winner Celine Dion near the end of the three-hour telecast. Well, not incredible, but all in all, very, very nice, despite the sputtering start and the hugeness of the surroundings.

It remains to be seen, however, whether the Grammys will ever be able to put together two good halves in the Garden.