Initially watching the Arsenal vs Bayern Munich Champions League first leg match, Ozil’s pig’s ear penalty was an omen for the missed opportunities I was to see as similar stupid run-ups when I switched over to view the Brit Awards. There are two things I knew thoroughly before I tuned into this industry self-slap-on-the-back: such awards are just opinion and I always honestly argue that this is neither here nor there; and those opinions would be utterly predictable. I was therefore not in the least bit angry or even disappointed at the inevitable outcomes, but I know I will still sound like the Victor Meldrew of music reviewing in making the following observations.
There is some obvious irony in how the bland but precise polish
of this programme’s current and most recent annual production has removed one
of its earlier and traditional elements of existential joy: the disaster of
amateur presenters, most famously manifested in the Mick Fleetwood/Sam Fox
autocue debacle. The only glitch last night was the mildly comic but slightly
embarrassing inability of Lily Allen to remember she had to present the
nominees before announcing the winner of her category. Thankfully Lily wasn’t
too proud to actually ask out loud, and thus admit, she’d forgotten this simple
chronological procedure.
To the core of my critical observations: for British Female
Solo Artist, the winner should have been Laura Marling – within the constraints
of the nominees – but it was Ellie Goulding, the first result entirely predictable
but confirmed as daft to my hearing when she later performed live: Ellie looking
and sounding like she had been snatched at random from a local gym Zumba class,
still in work-out shorts as well as short of breath. International Male Solo
Artist award went to the affable and slick performer Bruno Mars – oh, his
singing is OK - rather than the genuinely and deeply talented John Grant. Ditto
predictability for International Female Solo Artist award going to Lorde who
seems feted currently because of her age [17] and a dearth of competing
‘popular’ female vocalists; and whilst also predictable but generally agreed as deserving,
Bowie’s award of British Male Solo Artist was only tarnished ever-so-slightly
by both Kate Moss’ pretending to understand Bowie’s acceptance message which she
had been asked to read in his absence, and the report that Bowie spoke to Lorde at a recent
performance of hers, telling her she was ‘the voice of the future’ whereas I
would say it is precisely the opposite [and as someone who rather likes retro
music this isn’t a criticism but just an observation that I don’t find Lorde
particularly interesting or new]. Indeed, it was noteworthy that the best
female vocal of the night was Ella Eyre singing not as a solo artist but as a
member of Rudimental.
Other observations are how Kate Perry’s grandiose live
production/performance exemplified the elaborate showiness of such over actual
musical quality, a factor most extravagantly demonstrated on X-Factor which then seems to become the
universal template, but more importantly it made me think of the kind of
criticism levelled at Peter Gabriel in his Genesis days where such Art Pomp is
smirked at and yet by comparison with the embellishments of external production
today does at least reflect individual artistic integrity. Perry’s theatrics reminded
me of Pink’s performance at the recent Grammys, dangling from a high wire and
singing, impressive for her circus skills and ability to still intone whilst
undergoing real physical excursion, compared with Goulding’s schoolgirl's PE
exhaustion last night.
The Arctic Monkeys’ awards seemed deserving to me, and Alex
Turner’s speech about the cyclical and reaffirming nature of Rock struck a chord,
perhaps obviously, though I couldn’t quite work out how much his apparent
self-centredness and arrogance was a total affectation or genuine rudeness, particularly
to his fellow band members. Reports of his after-party comments on the
accolades seemed more generous and humble.
Finally, and the most predictable event of the evening, James
Corden’s lengthy snog with Radio 1 DJ Nick Grimshaw was grim for that very predictability.
Such staging has become the artifice of this programme where an attempt to
shock is so carefully premeditated and orchestrated. Gone are the days of
Jarvis wafting spontaneous and satirical farts at the pomposity that will always exist at such
events, and I think it is a shame that the Brits has lost that wayward element
of Britishness by turning to the gloss and sheen of more Americanised
production values.
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