Unforgettable

My most memorable day of the decade was easy to pick. I'd like to say it was the morning I met my younger daughter in a Manila orphanage. But that day is still a haze in my mind. I'd like to say it was the morning my older daughter overcame years of disability and struggle and ate her first meal, a cup of yogurt, after 7 years of tube-feeding. But that wasn't just a day, it was a long and ongoing process. No, for me, the most vividly memorable day of the aughts is February 11, 2007, the night I won the Grammy Award for Song of the Year.

The Song of the Year Grammy is given to the songwriters of the winning song, and I had written the winner, "Not Ready to Make Nice," with the blacklisted country group The Dixie Chicks. Many of us have heard the story behind the song many times: in March of 2003, the lead singer of the trio, Natalie Maines, remarked at a concert in London that the band opposed the upcoming war in Iraq, and they were "ashamed that the president of the United States is from Texas" (their home state). In response, country radio stations, acting in concert, removed the Chicks' records from their playlists, and the biggest-selling female group in the world was suddenly off the radio entirely.

I myself had been vocal in my opposition to the Iraq War, and I had experienced the shock of having some of my own fans tell me in e-mails, comments to my blog, and at shows, that artists should not voice their opinions about wars and politics, and that in fact I should just "shut up and sing." I have to admit I was stunned at this reaction. I don't mind disagreement, but I have always been interested to hear what artists and musicians have to say about the events of the day, and I, maybe foolishly, assumed that my own fans would feel the same way.

So in late 2005 when I heard that the Dixie Chicks were working on a new album with producer Rick Rubin and that they wanted to write some songs with me, I said yes immediately. Over the next year, the three Chicks and I met many times and wrote 7 songs together, six of which they recorded on their controversial and high-profile - but still radio-blacklisted - new album, "Taking the Long Way."

Now, to our joy and amazement, we were all at the Grammy Awards, with "Taking the Long Way" up for five top awards and "Not Ready to Make Nice," our effort to create a personal song about the dismay and defiance of being told to "shut up and sing," nominated for Song of the Year.

As I sat with my wife Diane at the 2007 Grammys, surrounded by legends (Jackson Browne to our left, Prince across the aisle,) I kept thinking back to eight years before, when we were at the 1999 Grammy Awards with my Semisonic bandmates. I had been nominated for Rock Song of the Year for writing the song "Closing Time." When my song lost to Alanis Morrisette's "Uninvited," I heard heckling men's voices calling out from the seats several rows back: "Welcome to the loser section, Semisonic! How does it feel to be a loser?" It was the Canadian band Barenaked Ladies, who had also just lost in their category, heckling us in solidarity. Even though it was a little disappointing to lose back then, I didn't take it too hard; the event mainly felt like a big fun party to me.

During my formative music-making years, my indie-rock snobbery led me to hold the Grammys in low esteem; I saw them as symbolic of everything I disliked and disrespected in music. I didn't understand then how the Grammys usually worked: in the same way that nerve impulses traveled ever-so-slowly from the extremities of a mighty brontosaur to its brain, the Grammys noticed and rewarded excellence, but often many years later. In those early days, I never thought about being nominated for a Grammy, much less winning one.

But this year felt different. Despite the controversy surrounding them, the Chicks' album had been nominated for all the top Grammy awards that year, a strong and undeniable message of solidarity from our musical peers in direct contrast to the lighthearted joking one I received in 1997. This time around, I cared very much about whether I won.

Attending the Grammy Awards in person is a lot like going to a professional football game - every time the action reaches a crescendo of violence, the game is suddenly suspended for a long stretch of aimless moseying and huddled discussion amidst the teams, so that the broadcast network can air a series of TV commercials. These gaps for commercials in the Grammy Awards are similar; one moment the stage is the sole focus of millions of dollars worth of lighting and talent, and the performers and crew are in a state of terrified monomania, concentrating on their dance steps, their singing, their humor. Then suddenly, the performance is over, everything goes slack, the house lights come halfway up, crew members in black ball caps and headsets stroll casually across the stage, and the audience lapses back into murmuring chatter for ten minutes or so.

This is no problem, really, unless you are a songwriting nominee nervously awaiting the announcement of the winner in your category. In which case the lurching rhythm of the show is like riding in a car with an uncle who hits the brake slightly every time he finishes speaking.

FInally, though, the moment arrived, and the unthinkable happened, and my name was read after the three Dixie Chicks' names, and we had won. As the names echoed in my own head and I double-checked that one of those names was actually mine, I turned to Diane, looked in her smiling eyes and gave her a kiss. Then my peripheral vision completely shut down. It was like I was suddenly looking through a small circular window out at reality. I stood up and made for the center aisle, noting how strange it was that time had seemed to slow down. The famous people seated between me and the aisle also stood, making way for me. I remember reminding myself not to hurry, that even though time had seemed to slow down, there was a good chance I was actually running towards Burt Bacharach and Seal, who were presenting us with the award. (Burt Bacharach!)

Luckily, I converged in the aisle with the obviously surprised Chicks, and more to steady myself than anything, I offered Emily Robison my arm, and we proceeded at their pace.

Up the stairs and onto the stage and sure enough the iconic songwriter Burt Bacharach, one of my heroes, was there to meet us and somehow the Chicks decide to let me talk first. I said exactly what I'd prepared earlier, gave the mic to the Chicks and let it all wash over me. Sitting down with Diane afterwards I was in a serious daze, and after a few minutes I said to her, "Am I supposed to be having a coherent experience here?"

"I think you're just supposed to enjoy it," she said.

Yes, I managed to do that. The Chicks' album swept all the top awards that night, and I went back up on the stage one more time with the gang when they won "Record of the Year." The rest of the night was devoted to Los Angeles-style party-going, where I was whisked into, through, and out of one party after another, ending the night at the Beverly Hills Hotel celebrating happily with the Chicks and a few hundred of their friends in large cabanas set up by the pool.

One of the most enjoyable aspects of the night was watching my phone's Instant Message and e-mail light up continuously with congratulatory messages from friends and music collaborators, most of whom said that they had been contacted by other friends with the news that I had won. It seemed like everyone I knew was communicating with each other about my big night, and it was especially true of my Twin Cities circle, now widening to include even well-wishing strangers.

The after-effects have settled down now, but my memorable night stretched itself out for a couple extra years here in my hometown, where every time I encountered a friend or fan who had been watching the Grammys that night in 2007, I was given the chance to relive the moment from yet another point of view.