The Brit Awards 2016: from A to Zzzzzz

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.

Z is for Zzzzzzzzzzz. Wake me up when LEVELZ are nominated for Best British Album, okay?

2015: an alternative review (part 2)

As promised, here’s part 2 of my alternative take on 2015. Same format as part 1, but a different set of irritations. Dig in, you beautiful, beautiful people…

Kanye West

If there should ever come a time when a man is permitted to marry a cloned version of himself then it’s a safe bet that Kanye will be first in line. I know you want to tell me that he’s a genius, an innovator, a true maverick, and that strutting around alone on the Pyramid Stage in filthy decorator’s overalls under a job lot of lightbulbs constitutes some sort of triumph over his critics. You’re entitled to your opinion, of course, but please don’t expect to sway mine any more than I would expect to sway yours. I used to have a great deal of respect for Kanye – he made genuinely decent music and wasn’t afraid to speak out on issues such as homophobia – a stance largely unheard of in hip-hop circles. But somewhere along the line he has become so absorbed in his own self-importance and the apparent need to remind anyone that will listen (and even those who won’t) that he needs to be respected as an artist that he has effectively been reduced to self-parody. I’m resigned to the fact that he could shit in a paper bag on stage and people would still declare it the boldest artistic statement in the entirety of written history, but personally I’d find him a whole lot easier to respect if he didn’t persist in being a dick at every given opportunity. You’re rich, famous and successful – what are you still trying to prove, and to whom?

Music award shows

I’m going to let the Mercury Prize off the hook here because although it’s been responsible for some highly questionable winners in its time (hello, M People), it does at least recognise that British music extends beyond the lukewarm, play-it-safe fare of Ed Sheeran, James Bay, Sam Smith and Adele. Nope, my ire today is reserved specifically for the Brit Awards and the BBC Music Awards, which may as well be one and the same given their relentless pursuit of celebrating the offensively mediocre. My thoughts on this year’s Brits can be found here and speak for themselves. The BBC Music Awards are basically more of the same, but with Chris Evans (now dyeing his hair a rather fetching ‘Chernobyl sunset orange’) and Fearne Cotton (apparently still a thing) doing their whole ‘we’re still down with the kids, honest’ shtick, desperately trying to convince themselves as much as anyone else that we’re all having fun celebrating The Best of British Music. Rather predictably, the awards were dominated by the wailing banshee Adele (who couldn’t even be arsed to turn up) while Song of the Year (the only category voted for by the public) went to Hozier’s dismal Take Me To Church. That’s right: THERE WERE NO BETTER SONGS THIS YEAR. Honestly, some people don’t deserve ears.

Justin Bieber

Hasn’t he grown up a lot? Hasn’t he matured as an artist? Wasn’t ‘What Do You Mean?’ such a wonderfully strong choice for a comeback single? The answer to all of those questions is, of course, NO. He may look a little taller, a little more tattooed and have a ludicrously lop-sided haircut but he still comes across in interviews as a spoilt brat with absolutely nothing to say for himself. ‘What Do You Mean?’ is the most sorry-sounding, directionless excuse for recorded music I’ve heard all year, not helped by that incessant, panpipe-heavy ‘tropical house’ masquerading as a backing track. Even David Guetta would probably dismiss it as ‘too generic’. That clear enough for you, Justin? Textbook fucked-up child star.

The X-Factor

A confession: I didn’t actually watch it this year, but that’s okay because apparently neither did anyone else (for the most part, anyway). Each year, this low-brow corpse is subjected to the ritual humiliation of being dug up from its grave, dressed in new clothes (from River Island, naturally) and paraded through the streets under the pretence that it’s still new, fresh and relevant. Except viewers are now starting to get wise to the fact they’re being made fools of and switching over (or off). They’ve seen their reflections in the polished turd Cowell’s presenting to them and it’s all starting to feel a bit tired and smell a bit stale. Maybe people are fed up of watching twat-for-hire Grimmy and Rita Ora (from the mean streets of stage school) coming across like your uncle and aunt trying to be down with the kids. Maybe the new presenting team of Murs and Flack didn’t resonate with the viewers in the way that O’Leary apparently did. Maybe people have just stopped caring about someone with a predictable sob story (and a tabloid-unearthed assault/drug/theft conviction) being moulded into whatever Cowell thinks hysterical teenage girls or bored housewives will go for. One thing has always been clear, however – the best thing about X-Factor is clearly earlier in the series where the proudly deluded and genuinely tone deaf are given their five minutes of fame and then ritually rejected from the competition (even better when they storm back in to tell Cowell he’ll be sorry when they have a number one album and their toothless face is adorning billboards across the world). Trouble is, a show focusing entirely on this element would either be tantamount to bullying or the greatest outsider music showcase you’ve ever seen. With that in mind, let’s leave the corpse to fester in the ground next year, eh, Si?

Martin Shkreli

I grow more and more convinced each day that some people are put on this earth with the sole purpose of showing everyone else what a complete and utter twat looks like. A case in point is Martin Shkreli, a snivelling excuse for a bunch of cells who has had both the best and worst year. The kind of person who would genuinely wipe his arse on bank notes, Shkreli first came to the wider world’s attention earlier this year when he acquired the rights to HIV drug Daraprim – and promptly hiked its price by an eye-watering 5,000 per cent from $13.50 to $750 a pill, giving the rather dubious excuse that the extra profits would be used to develop an ever better product (but only after tweeting about raising a middle finger to his critics). He also reportedly paid $2 million for the only existing copy of a Wu-Tang Clan album – although to be fair, no one bought their last commercially available album anyway. His luck now seems to have run out after he was arrested on suspicion of running a Ponzi scheme at his previous company, prompting him to resign as CEO of his present company (are you keeping up with this?). Let’s see the twat buy his way out of this one.