Feels like repetition
The image is still seared into my brain. February 2003. An uncomfortable-looking jazz pianist who didn't write the majority of her own material holding two armfuls of Grammy Awards which should have been divided up equally between Bruce Springsteen and Eminem. The pianist in question was none other than the daughter of the greatest sitar player in history, Ravi Shankar, without whom the Indian flourishes which graced late-period Beatles albums would not have existed. His daughter's name is Norah Jones, and I, for one, don't understand the phenomenon.

