Well, the long-dreaded event finally occurred: Frank Sinatra died, effectively ending the 20th century, and leaving us all to wonder whose world we all live in now. The biggest of the merely awful developments closed the year, namely the merger of the Polygram and Universal labels. Which means Island, Interscope, Def Jam, Motown, Geffen, A&M, Mercury, MCA, Verve, and about two dozen others are all the same company now. Leaving six, count them, six major labels to choose from and more mediocre "sell a million records before the next shareholders' meeting" one-hits and sure shots (expect more Celine, Mariah, and Will Smith). Electronica's touted status as "next big thing" went from in-joke to universal laugh line as it became clear that the genre's most important practitioner was Madonna, for God's sake. (And Madonna who finally got her Grammy nod by employing the favorite strategy of "Best Actress" Oscar hopefuls: Show your age.) Speaking of humping Lenny Kravitz's leg, what was up with that whole Natalie Imbruglia thing? An Australian soap star covers someone else's record, has one big single, and suddenly people are treating her like an artist instead of just lips and a haircut. Kylie Minogue has made records with Nick Cave and they still don't take her seriously!

Courtney Love and Marilyn Manson sucked up all the headlines possible, but somehow the records just didn't shake the earth as expected (either spiritually or financially). La Love was pissed off at her less-then-reverent treatment in "Spin" (the writer was merely awed) and took her act over to "Allure," where at least they appreciate her nose job. La Manson spent the whole year perpetuating desperate pleas for attention (if he was an eight-year-old, they would've put him on Ritalin by May), highlighted by those horrifying blue plastic buttless chaps he sported for the MTV music awards (if the pasty, pimply rear-view wasn't bad enough, there were the pubes hanging out front, making one wonder why a man who'd do all the things he does to himself wouldn't at least wax). Then, of course, once word began to spread that the record just wasn't selling, he promptly trashed a hotel room in Poughkeepsie (hometown of myself, Ed Wood, G. Gordon Liddy, and not one but two serial killers over the past five years, as well as a hotbed of authentic Satanism, not the junior-varsity MM brand). This was swiftly followed by his having two bodyguards rough up a journalist (again, from "Spin") while he shouted threats, but still, no mega-platinum results—hey, if you need to call two ex-bodybuilders to handle one scrawny hack in a Sebadoh T-shirt, not even the Chrsitians are going to be afraid of you anymore! At least when Foxy Brown didn't like her "Vibe" cover, she did her own ass kicking and hair pulling!

The only person really worth his headlines this year was Big Baby Bastard, a.k.a. Ol' Dirty Jesus, who got shot, crashed the stage at the Grammys, got shot again, shot someone else, got robbed, shoplifted a pair of sneakers, saved a child's life, and wrapped it all up by getting in a shootout with the cops. Now there's a man who elevates the phrase "keeping it real," above cliché. Even my favorite hootchie, the Artist Formerly Known as Ginger Spice has incurred my wrath, as her departure from the Spices was eerily simultaneous with the rise of the Backstreet Boys, 'N Sync, and the rest of their chest-waxed brethren. As to the ongoing dominance of the Beastie Boys, well, what can I say that I haven't said (and said again) except that Starbucks just opened its first outpost in China and Ad-Rock is gonna have to decide whether it's gonna be the ethics or the latte. He has until February 15.