You know, I was tempted to simply repost last year’s
article, seeing as this year’s Brits line-up appears to be little more than a
regurgitated hybrid of the past few years. I haven’t done that, however – I still
respect you, even if the organisers of the Brits don’t.
Last year, I wrote what was effectively a chronological breakdown
(in every sense of the word) of 2015’s audio-visual atrocity. I could easily have done that again, but it’s
kinda self-defeating when you’re trying to criticise the rehashing of old
ideas, so instead I’ve lovingly compiled the highlights (in no sense of the
word whatsoever, in many cases) of this year’s ‘spectacular’ in the form of an
A to Z, for no particular reason.
And yes, some of them are pretty tenuous, but work with me
here…
A is for Adele,
who probably does the most interesting thing of the entire evening by dropping
an F-bomb approximately 85 minutes in after Major Tim Peake announces (from
space and everything!) that she’s won yet another fucking award for her godawful
caterwauling. That said, if you think she sounds bad on record, her speaking
voice is something else entirely – in an alternate universe, she’d be running
the caff in EastEnders or gaining meaningful employment as a human burglar
alarm.
B is for Bieber. The
first artist to simultaneously hold the number one, two and three spots in UK
chart history, apparently, which is odd as it all sounds like number two to me.
He rather predictably wins the International Male Award (which I’m sure had absolutely
nothing to do with the fact he was in attendance) and gives a speech lifted straight
from one of those bullshit pseudo-inspirational memes about life being a
journey and how we’re all on our own individual journeys. That’s true – after
hearing that, I went on my own individual journey to the bathroom to reacquaint
myself with my dinner.
C is for Coldplay,
who demonstrate the truly wretched state of mainstream British music by being
named Best British Group. They also open the show with a performance so
reserved that it may as well have a German beach towel slung across it. Chris
Martin plays his battered old piano whilst rocking back and forth like someone
who swats imaginary pigeons, the drummer looks like he was rudely awoken just
seconds beforehand and the other two decide to alternate between playing their
usual instruments and a set of additional drums, for no apparent reason. I
would wager this is what the producers think passes for an explosive, on-point
show opener these days and yet the end result is probably one of the most
underwhelming, by-numbers performances yet at any Brit Awards ceremony, as
Coldplay slip ever further into predictable self-parody. One question: do you
think the other three members of Coldplay actually know they’re in Coldplay?
D is for Dec and Ant,
also known as Ant and Dec. It’s their third (and thankfully final) year of
hosting and this means we have to endure a whole evening of two excitable
Geordie foreheads in designer suits harping on about “upping their game”. Not
sure what their game was, exactly, or how they think they’ve upped it, but tonight
they could have beamed in a hologram of any Ant and Dec hosting job from the
past decade and no one would have noticed the difference.
E is for ecstacy,
as in something which might make sitting in that audience even vaguely
enjoyable.
F is for fire – and lots
of it. That’s literally all I can remember about Justin Bieber’s
performance. While he’s undoubtedly as popular as ever (maybe even more so), he’s
really not doing anything that Justin Timberlake hasn’t already done a hell of
a lot better.
G is for Gary Oldman,
who comes on to accept the Icon Award for David Bowie. It’s clearly an
emotional occasion and no one can blame one of our nation’s finest actors for
wanting to pay tribute to one of our nation’s finest musical legends, but you
can’t help feeling everyone in that arena is wondering how long Oldman’s speech
is going to go on for…
H is for hairy,
which could be used to describe Jack Garratt, winner of this year’s Critics Choice
Award, who has a rather alarming hair and beard combo, giving him the appearance
of a graphic design student who works part-time in Urban Outfitters. He sits
there taking advice from last year’s winner, James Bay, who tells him to ‘keep
doing what you’re doing’, by which I assume he means keep folding those jeans and
hand in your coursework on time. On paper, he sounds like he should be an
interesting proposition (“brilliantly talented multi-instrumentalist”) but in
reality he sounds exactly as you’d expect someone who’s won both the Brits
Critics Choice and BBC Sound of 2016 accolades to sound: relentlessly
pedestrian.
I is for
International Female, deservedly won by Bjork who has the honour of being the only winner of the night not
to be present at the ceremony (I’m obviously not including Bowie here).
Instead, she sends an acceptance video in which she appears to be wearing melted
plastic over her face. Unlike Lady Gaga, Bjork’s kookiness never feels
contrived. Treasure her.
J is for James Bay.
This year’s George Ezra, I guess – he sounds like every over-ambitious busker
on every city centre street corner and you’d probably struggle to name more
than one song. The only real difference is that Bay looks a bit like Jack
White, if he’d been styled by River Island and the Amish. He wins British Male
Solo Artist and duly accepts his gong from Kylie before rotating on the spot,
apparently unsure which direction to face (a common problem tonight, thanks to
the circular stage in the centre of the arena). To his credit, he seems humble
enough, but there’s no escaping the fact that his win is exactly what’s wrong
with this year’s awards.
K is for K-hole,
as in you’d probably need to be stuck in one to enjoy much of tonight’s
ceremony.
L is for Lorde. The
rumours about who would be taking part in tonight’s Bowie tribute hadn’t been
promising – Noel Gallagher and Chris Martin (with whom Bowie had famously
refused to work) were among the names touted. In the end, it was Lorde who
stepped up to perform ‘Life On Mars’, accompanied by Bowie’s own backing band.
A beautiful, subtle and, above all, fitting tribute.
M is for Mark Ronson,
who still irritates the living shit out of me for reasons which have yet to
become entirely clear.
N is for Nick
Grimshaw, who comes on with Cheryl Whatever-Hernameis to present the award
for British Breakthrough Act. It goes to the appallingly named Catfish and the
Bottlemen (I’m sure there’s probably some ‘hilarious’ story behind it but
frankly I don’t give a shit) but all I can think about is the fact Grimmy’s
head appears to be at least four times the size of Cheryl’s. Feeling slightly
disturbed.
O is for One
Direction, who, despite technically not really existing at the moment,
manage to win the British Artist Video of the Year Award. Two boys in suits who
look like they’ve drawn crude beards on their faces in felt tip accept the
award. It’s good that they’ve given the work experience kids something to do.
P is for Pam Hogg,
who designed this year’s statue and thankfully succeeded in ensuring she didn’t
repeat Tracey Emin’s mistake of making 2015’s trophy look like an ornament in your
gran’s downstairs toilet.
Q is for: “Quick, Adele’s
about to swear, press the mute button... oh, never mind.”
R is for Rebekah
Brooks. Oh no, wait, sorry – it’s Jess Glynne. If I’m honest, she’s not
been on my radar at all and I’m pretty sure I’m not in her key demographic.
That aside, she has one of the least pleasant-sounding voices I’ve heard since
Sam Smith. Still, if the music career doesn’t work out in the long-term then
she could probably make a pretty reasonable living recording those warning
klaxons used when bin wagons are reversing.
S is for Simon Le Bon,
this year’s token Veteran Pop Star Who Looks Like He Doesn’t Really Know Why He’s
Here. Good of him to take time out of his undoubtedly hectic schedule to be
here tonight.
T is for Tame Impala,
who scoop the International Group Award. Pleasant surprises (or indeed ANY
surprises) at the Brits are few and far between, but this is definitely one of
them.
U is for
underwhelming, which is exactly what British music SHOULDN’T be, right? Maybe
the bigwigs at the Brits missed the memo?
V is for varying
degrees of mediocrity. Fifty shades of Bay, if you like.
W is for white,
as in: “Wow, the Brits seem overwhelmingly white tonight – I wonder why they
chose to overlook the many innovative black artists who made fantastic music over
the past year in favour of yet more homogenised River Island balladry from
skinny, long-haired, hat-wearing white boys with guitars or miserable, watered-down
blue-eyed soul from whining white women who’ve been ploughing the same stale
creative furrow for the best part of a decade?”
X is for xylophone jazz-wobble
tech-hop, a genre woefully under-represented at this year’s Brits, to the
point where there were no xylophone jazz-wobble tech-hop artists nominated at
all. I’m writing a very strongly worded letter to my MP as we speak.
Y is for years and
years. Not the awful pop three-piece of the same name, but the amount of time
I feel is passing with each excruciating second of Adele’s closing performance.
I note she’s playing it safe by not wearing a cape.
