Rather than actually watching ‘The Brits’ live, as it were, I recorded it and fast-forwarded to the good bits. You can gather from that that I spent more time fast-forwarding than actually watching anything.
It is hard to pick out a highlight because, aside from Madonna falling over, there wasn’t one. The safe, unthreatening musical world of Paloma Faith, Sam Smith and Ed Sheeran now rules and has the same effect of eating a pound of marshmallows whilst drinking cherry brandy. It’s sick-making.
With ratings in free fall, ITV decided to employ two presenters instead of one, with ‘loveable’ Geordie twosome Ant and Dec adding more blandness to the most bland awards occasion of the year. Quite what Ant and Dec bring to the table, I have no idea. Two amiable men, gradually approaching middle age, presenting things. I suppose the best you can say is that at least it wasn’t James Corden.
Royal Blood did try to shake things up with two people supplying more energy than the rest of the show together, although it is hard to suggest they are just another rock band with bang average tunes, rather like the Ting Tings, but not the White Stripes. And the whole show was basically the Music of White Origin awards (MOWOs). Kanye West came along to remind us how great and influential black music has been throughout history, only in that he is neither great nor influential. Levi Stubbs must be turning in his grave.
More than anything, the whole atmosphere of a drunken version of the legendary BBC saturday night show ‘Seaside Special’ (ask your mums and dads, kids). All we needed was the Young Generation to come out and do a dance routine, Rolf Harris to come out and do a large painting and we were back in the 1970s, just before punk came along and saved the world.
The world certainly needs to be saved from the madly distorted vision of British (and world) music that we get from the Brits. It was as cutting edge and unthreatening as Val Doonican’s jumpers. I am not sure we need punk to make a comeback but we certainly need a Beatles, a Clash or even Songhoy Blues and Gaz Coombes.
The Brits isn’t really an awards show. No one will remember by the weekend who won the best video award and certainly no one will care. It’s a glad-handing beano for luvvies and pissed up adult oriented rock ‘stars’ who will spend the summer running through their hits in large arenas and arboretums around the land. It’s meant to be entertaining and I am sure for some it is, just like Big Brother appeals to a certain demographic and ‘Benefits Street’ appeals to people who like poverty porn.
But the Brits represents music as the music ‘industry’ wants it to be seen, a toy for the tedious Simon Cowell to plug his wares in front of an undemanding audience which is happy to watch karaoke in the warmth of their own homes instead of listening for themselves.
