After, say, his last seven forgettable albums, journeyman acting career, and lip-licking public image that signified little more than a willingness to party with Jeremy Piven, LL Cool J has not distinguished himself as a man of particular show-business gravitas. So when it fell to the former self-proclaimed "baddest rapper in the history of rap itself" to address the sudden, tragic demise of Whitney Houston, one wondered if we were in the right hands. But, then, LL strode forward and spoke with reassuring force: "There's no way around it, we've had a death in our family. For me, the only thing that feels right is to begin with a prayer for a woman who we love, for our fallen sister, Whitney Houston." For this one night, James Todd Smith indeed possessed a wealth of cool. CHARLES AARON

After, say, his last seven forgettable albums, journeyman acting career, and lip-licking public image that signified little more than a willingness to party with Jeremy Piven, LL Cool J has not distinguished himself as a man of particular show-business gravitas. So when it fell to the former self-proclaimed "baddest rapper in the history of rap itself" to address the sudden, tragic demise of Whitney Houston, one wondered if we were in the right hands. But, then, LL strode forward and spoke with reassuring force: "There's no way around it, we've had a death in our family. For me, the only thing that feels right is to begin with a prayer for a woman who we love, for our fallen sister, Whitney Houston." For this one night, James Todd Smith indeed possessed a wealth of cool. CHARLES AARON

Despite the perverse Rave Nightmare Writ Large featuring David "Fuck Me I'm Famous" Guetta and Chris "Forgive Me I'm Famous" Brown, the only truly ecstatically dance-worthy moment of the night was Rihanna’s furious floor show for her smash "We Found Love." Though she sang shakily at first, her midriff-baring presentation never wavered a bit: As ricocheting lasers and synthesized bass thumped and crescendoed, Ri-Ri skipped across the stage and shouted, "Make some noise for Whitney!" thus eliciting the most convincingly enthusiastic crowd response of the night. C.A.

Proving that you can say anything and seem cute if you carry it off with the right unpretentious-sounding accent, a teary Adele put hand to nose and blurted, "Oh, I got a bit of snot," during her speech to accept the Album of the Year award. Even when dripping mucus as millions of people watched, she was absolutely adorable. DAVID MARCHESE

How great is Stevie Wonder? Introducing Paul McCartney, the pop-music genius took a harmonica and blew a few swingin’ lines of the Beatles' "Love Me Do," then added, "I just want to say to Whitney up in heaven, we all love you." There's such a lovely spirit and sense of benevolence to the man — he instantly turned a ho-hum interstitial moment into a little grace note of warmth and humility. A treasure. D.M.

After receiving a clutch of nominations, including Best New Artist, Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon found a few old quotes about his ambivalence towards the Grammys thrown back at him, instantly turning,“Ooh, what if he has to make a speech?” into one of the evening’s most anticipated (pre-Whitney) subplots. So when he did indeed win for Best New Artist, you could almost hear him sigh from outside the Staples Center. Vernon proudly ambled to the podium, but maybe scared more than a little shitless, not so much wearing a suit as being worn by one, somehow looking both 50 and 15 at the same time. He graciously, stumblingly accepted, using the moment to acknowledge the influential artists who will remain forever under the unstable Grammy radar and take a tongue-in-cheek shot at online scolds. (See: Jack Black's needling Foo Fighters intro.) And then, almost under his breath, said, “I’m sorry,” which is more than Chris Brown was able to utter when he had the chance. STEVE KANDELL

It was hard not to wonder how Adele would sound in her first performance after surgery on her vocal cords. Would her world-beating voice still have all the same power and passion? Well, some watchers thought they detected a slight change in Adele's tone, but her performance of "Rolling In the Deep" was a total win. So strong, so fierce, so Adele. And it let the world know: She's gonna be fine. D.M.

Tasked with perhaps the toughest spot of the evening — performing a tribute to Whitney Houston — Jennifer Hudson delivered a deeply heartfelt rendition of the late singer's iconic "I Will Always Love You." She didn't belt it with quite as much vocal gusto as Houston (who could?), and there was a time or two when it looked like she might have to stop herself due to tears, but Hudson gave a dignified and powerful effort. D.M.

It's hard to sound maudlin when you’re getting an arena full of music-biz fatcats to belt out the all-time AM-camp line, "Riding out on a horse in a star-spangled rodeo." In a night marked by solemnity and reminders of mortality, even the Lifetime Achievement nod to Campbell — who is being forced into retirement after his most recent album and tour due to Alzheimer’s at age 75 — had the potential to be overly sentimental. Instead, it felt celebratory and lighthearted. Swell that the audience liked it, but the satisfied, grateful expression on Campbell's face as he took one last bow is what tributes are supposed to be about. S.K.

If there was one performance that straddled the line between high and low, it was Nicki Minaj's awesomely outlandish phantasmagoria for her new single, "Roman Holiday," which was introduced with a pre-filmed skit that aped a key scene from The Exorcist. Thankfully, there was no projectile vomiting, but there was just about everything else: levitating while rapping, a creepy choir singing "Come All Ye Faithful," shooting flames, lascivious encounters with a Pope-like figure. Whether you thought this was a high or low might entirely depend on how high you were. D.M.

Accepting her sixth award of the night, Album of the Year for 21, Adele explained: "This record is inspired by something that is really normal and everyone's been through it: A rubbish relationship." What is not really normal: Turning a rubbish relationship into a music industry-saving, personal and professional triumph. That's one hell of a rebound. D.M.

Grohl was a legendary drummer with Nirvana and is an undeniably successful singer-guitarist with Foo Fighters, but his recent awards show plaints about how real music speaks from the heart and not from a computer (or some such coded bullshit) are starting to sound unnervingly like a nascent “Disco Sucks” campaign. And if we didn’t know any better, we’d think the old-fogey Grammy committee had kidnapped Grohl and brainwashed him into serving as their anti-hip hop/EDM Manchurian Candidate, repeatedly inserting him into every conceivable setting, from Deadmau5 to Paul McCartney, as if to reassert that old Botoxed white dudes with beards and t-shirts were still breathing and kicking butt in their custom-built, soundproofed, air conditioned, fully-stocked garages, banging out those essential building blocks, blahblahblah. C.A.

For every glimmer of forward-thinking, or at least present-thinking behavior — Skrillex being nominated for major awards, Deadmau5 performing — the Grammys exhibited a dozen blind spots. And none more egregious than the continued insistence that the current state of rock music is best and solely embodied by Foo Fighters and Coldplay. Look no further than the show’s finale: Despite the fact that Paul McCartney performed Beatles songs at the Grammys a couple years ago, an awards gala meant to showcase the best of 2012 ended not just with the "Golden Slumbers"/"Carry That Weight"/"The End" medley from Abbey Road, for no discernible contextual reason, but a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame-style shred-off jam featuring Dave Grohl, Bruce Springsteen, and Joe Walsh, trading tasty licks and squinchy guitar-faces. A year ago in this spot? Arcade Fire. We will always love you, Whitney, at least in part because it's so dang hard to learn to love anything new. S.K.

For the second year in a row it was not fully explained why this nondescript, milquetoast trio whose name sounds like a slavery-era, softcore porn star is such a crucial musical force, or more pertinently, why they seem to have been chosen to represent the the pop-music industry’s reflexive desire to legislate inoffensive mediocrity. Whatever the reason, they continue to win and present awards with their meticulously melodic, assembly-line songs and bland personalities and shiny skin and $300 haircuts and shirts unbuttoned just a little too far and drawls polished just a little too unctuously. Captain & Tennille were the MC5 by comparison. C.A.

From Taylor Swift to the Band Perry to Civil Wars, white people were once again pushing the vintage, acoustic hokiness meter this year, after Mumford & Sons broke down the gates last year and let the suspendered, straw-chewing, hobohemians come hamboning down the Rock Island Line. Swift walked the red carpet in a stunningly composed dress by celebrity designer Zuhair Murad, yet she inexplicably donned a Dust Bowl frock to perform her excellent bad boyfriend song “Mean” like she was a greeter in a PoFolks restaurant waiting area. Certainly, one could make the argument that these Depression-era duds are a comment on our recent economic woes, but that case would be a lot easier to make if the music played by any of the acts wearing these get-ups spoke to, in any real way, the lives of this country’s actual dirt poor. Sadly, they only offer a monochromatic, shabby-chic makeover. C.A.

This was a mess. The David Guetta, Lil Wayne, Chris Brown collabo, "I Can Only Imagine," clearly wasn't designed for a live performance. All-time bozo Brown donned Run-DMC gear and danced around halfheartedly, Guetta did that stilted, peaking-on-Ecstasy French pogo that he always does behind his decks, and Lil Wayne spat his verse in a weirdly aggrieved voice — he sounded rough. The best thing about this performance, by far, was the sparkly lights. D.M.

It's hard to say which was more awkward: the forever shellshocked Brian Wilson reuniting onstage with the Beach Boys, or the hammy covers perpetrated by well-groomed lightweights Maroon 5 and Foster the People immediately preceding it. Actually, not that hard at all. The John Stamos-free Beach Boys, fronted by Mike Love (looking, as always, like a cross between John McCain and Captain Steubing from The Love Boat after a visit to Steven Tyler's bauble drawer), are expected to look ossified after four decades on the state-fair circuit. But Adam Levine and Mark Foster’s interpretations were about as wooden as the longboards strewn around the set. S.K.