Likely a fractional audience watched this, because it is so deliberately in yo' face, and covered with pustules of profanity barely bodiced.  But overall, vulgarity of a high order goes out to the participants, who, of course, don't give a farthing for either propriety or civility — one bedecked glittery adiposity slipped and let out a four-letter slur, and feigned embarrassment any number of pretend times.

Production values, as they say in the biz, were as glitzy as were the frou-frowsy skin-tight dresses of most of the female awardees.  Lights, backgrounds, highlights, settings to try to out-bling the gyrations and vulgar preenings of the backup "singers" almost dressed to provoke the Good Housekeeping Seal of Disapproval. 

Cancel Disney, Dr. Seuss, and Pepé, but let these torrid pretend seducers writhe suggestively all over the stage?

My tweet:

El 63rd #Grammy profanity is a gaudy,tawdry,mostly black-artist overfed feast of vulgarity, helmed by non-funny,frenetic TrevorNoah, w/all the crude lyrix+personae U cd wish4 if U don't have impressionable kids. Inarticulate artists in speech, lavishly vernacular in pre-arrest bling; rank it low on substance

A exception to the rhyming nonsense of most of the artists, in both lyricism and apparel — a medieval dress with glistening gold and colorful pastiche, to the ground — performing in a pergola hut of sorts set in a bucolic, forested glen of some misty sort, Taylor Swift, who comes by her many awards, at least, honestly. 

Harry Styles was more than tolerable.  Billie Eilish was also melodic.  Bad Bunny, most downloaded of all artists last year, we are told, was appropriately oafish and entirely en español, running through a series of giant-sized metallic rib-struts.  And memorials to the famed departed.

It really came together toward the end of the presentation, with the memorial segment of the evening, as the gorgeous strains of beloved classics were sung or replayed.  Little Richie and his like were paid necessary and welcome obeisance to the enduring progenitors of country music as well as rock and hip-hop.  Kenny Rogers in a touching tribute, as well as a medley of famed oldies by Eddie Van Halen, John Prine, Chick Corea, Bill Withers, Charlie Daniels...so many greats died this past year, no doubt hastened in their leave-taking by exposure to the China virus.  At least a few of them.

Taylor Swift and Billie Eilish took top honors (my faves, too), and Beyoncé beat the rest, and herself, with 28 wins notched.  The most of any female artist.

Intriguing irony: The sponsor of these 63rd Grammy awards was a product few of the current crop of participants are adult or sophisticated enough, or down-home enough (considering their preferred avocation — drugs, off-label) to consume: Rémy Martin. 

A cognac fine champagne founded in the 18th century — 1724, to be exact — whose history would hardly be known to the majority of the artistes in this Grammy marathon, not because they would not like its golden liqueur sliding down their pricey, gilded throats, but because with schools teaching nothing of moment, and certainly not history, they have an understanding of just last week, almost today, maybe tomorrow, but hardly anything that occurred before the killing of Notorious B.I.G., say. 

Host Trevor Noah mocked the idea of knowledge when he urged the audience seated on the dais in matchy-matchy masks to applaud more feverishly for Beyoncé's 28 Grammy wins, the most for a female singer, ever: "C'mon, people, this is history!  It's history!  Beyoncé is making history."

Sure, yeah.

At least politics was nowhere.  No slams against our previous president, no praise for the sleeper-in-chief currently in residence chez 1600 Pennsylvania.

No matter.  At a "Grande Crus" of a Brobdingnagian three and a half hours, who really cares about what they would savor after this epic gaud-fest?  We could have used a snifter or three to last through this Herculean task.