Weird time to have the Grammys, eh? Thirty-three days into a year that has already seen this country beset by terrorist attacks, harrowing wildfires, deadly plane crashes, a dumbass trade war, a hostile executive campaign against all kinds of vulnerable minorities, and the possible end of American democracy as we know it, the music industry’s power players gathered in a Los Angeles arena named after cryptocurrency platform to hold what has historically been a profoundly wack awards show.

Was this ceremony a silly distraction while Elon Musk transfers trillions in federal dollars to his Martian bank account or whatever? Maybe. Probably. But at a time of extreme distress and uncertainty, the Grammys offered a few hours of normalcy — that is, if you can call the Grammys normal when the performances are mostly entertaining and the winners are largely reasonable.

In some ways this year’s Grammys played out like an apology tour. The whole world knows Beyoncé should’ve won Album Of The Year multiple times by now? Sure, she can have one for her least essential album in years (plus Best Country Album and Best Country Duo/Group Performance for kicks), and we’ll all agree to be happy for her even if our personal fave was denied. Kendrick Lamar has continually been passed over for the Big Four awards and also lost Best Rap Album to Macklemore that one time? Yes, let’s shower his instant-classic diss track with as many awards as possible, and we can all yell “A MINOR!” together. The Recording Academy has gone overboard in its accolades for Taylor Swift and Billie Eilish? Absolutely, let’s film their reactions to every waking moment then send them home empty-handed. Abel Tesfaye wants to drop by to promote his new album four years after calling the Grammys “corrupt”? Here’s a PowerPoint about the many institutional failures the Weeknd illuminated, so he gets to look like a righteous reformer rather than a former zeitgeist-surfer on the brink of legacy artist status, desperate for another hit.

The Recording Academy did not entirely beat the allegations Sunday. The producers began the main show by assembling a semi-random assortment of stars (including the Grammiest of all performers, John Legend) to sing Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.” with Dawes, whose Taylor and Griffin Goldsmith lost so much in the flames — a nice gesture in theory and thoroughly mundane in execution. They chose to honor late legends like Kris Kristofferson, Steve Albini, and Rich Homie Quan by having Chris Martin mewl at a piano. When given the opportunity to survey the storied career of Quincy Jones, they devoted a staggering percentage of the medley to “We Are The World.” Hours earlier, during the afternoon Premiere Ceremony, two of the rock awards went to the goddamn Beatles and Rolling Stones. In 2025!

But if the show occasionally regressed into its ultra-beige fuddy-duddy comfort zone, more often than not these Grammys seemed like the work of people with a functional knowledge of contemporary mainstream music. It’s like they realized their contract with CBS is almost up and they won’t have to cater to NCIS viewers much longer, or they finally figured out Ken Ehrlich retired five years ago. Very little of what came across the screen was surprising, but after decades of Grammy nights that felt like peering into an alternate universe, a show that made sense was refreshing.

Best Rap Album was back on the main telecast where it belongs, and it went to Doechii, whose performance affirmed her stature as one of the most exciting young talents in the genre (and who apparently had her victory anthem locked and loaded). Best New Artist was awarded to Chappell Roan, who wore face paint and a wizard cap to the stage and used her speech to campaign for musicians’ health insurance — this after livening up the show with an ecstatic “Pink Pony Club.” Sabrina Carpenter and Charli XCX, Roan’s fellow Cool Pop Girls Of 2024, each won multiple awards and delivered performances that expertly encapsulated their respective vibes: Carpenter pratfalling and tap-dancing through a “Yoo-hoo!” revue, Charli throwing a flying-underwear rave populated by the Dare and Julia Fox.

More often than not, common sense prevailed. It was eminently reasonable to let the Best New Artist nominees perform in quick succession, resulting in one of the most purely entertaining Grammys sequences I’ve ever seen. It was prudent to let Janelle Monáe do the moonwalk. Coming off a year when accessibly eccentric women led a new pop insurgency, only a fool would have denied them their rightful spotlight on Music’s Biggest Night™. And after decades of withholding the most prestigious awards from the most iconic Black talents of this generation, they finally paid proper respect to Beyoncé and Kendrick Lamar. Even if Kanye West and his nude wife hadn’t departed the premises after walking the red carpet, there wouldn’t have been much for him to make a stink about.

Does it matter that the Grammys got so many things right for once? Not in the grand scheme. We’re hopefully all past the 2010s delusion that career achievements by wealthy celebrities equate to social justice. If you still believe that, Gal Gadot has a video she’d like to show you. But based on the visceral emotion on so many of these artists’ faces when they accepted their awards or nailed their performances, Grammy glory mattered to them. Some were elated; others could barely hold it together. Watching deserving talents’ dreams come true was a nice reprieve from whatever nightmare might be transpiring outside the Grammy bubble. Of all the places to find comfort and coherence in the midst of crisis.