by Stephanie Zacharek

You had to do something to stay awake. (Why hadn't I brought a deck of cards, magnetic tic-tac-toe, some string for cat's-cradle?) Awards ceremonies are tedious by their very nature, and as hard as the Boston Music Awards try to be tony and exhilarating, they can't escape that legacy. All the things that were right about the ceremony were immediately clear: the performers had been carefully chosen, ranging from pop-rock glitterati like Letters to Cleo (whose "Here and Now" took the award for Single of the Year) to silky-toned saxophonist Joshua Redman (who won for Outstanding Jazz Act and Outstanding Jazz Instrumentalist) to the cryptic Morphine (who garnered four awards, including Act of the Year) and Ibrahima, Patty Larkin (Outstanding Folk/Acoustic Act winner), and R&B vocal act Subway. Carly Simon showed up to accept three awards, including a Hall of Fame award, and was exceptionally charming and gracious. And alternative bands, both as presenters and winners, were represented in unusually large numbers - a change from past years, which might have led you to believe that Aerosmith were the only band alive.

But by the time the 20,000th sincere, long-haired, flannel-shirted guy had shambled across the stage, you began to understand why God put flashy rock stars on his good green Earth: to keep you awake in times like these. Kay Hanley, of Letters to Cleo, came closest, with her stretchy satin T-shirt and half-blond, half-red 'do. After accepting the award for "Here and Now" - and sounding genuinely pleased and humble, as almost all the winners managed to - she said, "If I hear that song one more time, I'm gonna hang myself." And at the beginning of the show, when members of the band Chucklehead (who received two awards) took the stage to explain how the winners had been chosen, one of them stood center stage, silent and (almost) naked, while others covered him with glitter. It was a device calculated to make you say, "What the...?", but as a bit of goofball theatrical glamor, it offset the event's desperate bid for swankiness.

The seemingly endless list of winners (you mean there isn't actually an award for Outstanding Rock Instrumentalist with a Goatee Who Spent Half a Semester at Berklee in 1979?) included Buffalo Tom (Outstanding Rock Band), Jennifer Trynin (Rising Star), Bell Biv DeVoe (Outstanding R&B Act), G. Love and Special Sauce (Outstanding Rap/Hip-Hop Act - and it don't rain in Indianapolis in the summertime), the Mighty Charge (Outstanding Reggae Band), and Monster Mike Welch (Outstanding Blues Act). The low point of the night was the fatuous Special Recognition Award given to W - "We Played Nirvana Eventually" - BCN.

The Boston Music Awards are, of course, a fine idea. According to the program, they're "a celebration of Boston's thriving scene," and "No gender or style dominates, as everyone gets a fair pat on the back." All this back-patting for hardworking, underappreciated musicians is just so nice: the message is that the awards really are for everyone. But if you were a musician who wanted to bask in all that warm fuzziness firsthand, it'd cost you 50 big ones to get into the theater. And outside the realm of the Orpheum on awards night - when you have to go home to your no-longer-rent-controlled flat in Cambridge, or the place you share with 17 roommates in Allston, to get to sleep so you can wake up in time for your boring job at the copy shop - the Boston Music Awards probably mean about as much as the two-week-old bean salad festering in the back of your fridge.

And have I mentioned that the event itself was just so...boring? A few rows ahead of me with her parents was a little girl, about two, who sat patiently most of the night. She started to lose it about two-thirds of the way through and began beating out a sharp, rhythmic tattoo with her feet on the back of the seat in front of her. I'm not usually big on the idea of having little kids around at adult events, but this time was different. This kid was my soulmate. I didn't have a magazine, or tic-tac-toe, or even gum. I wanted to kick the seat in front of me, too; and more than that, I just wanted it all to be over.

Or, at the very least, I wanted to see the glitter guy from Chucklehead again.