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.

Ten more things I did instead of watching X-Factor

1. Watched a bit of ‘Farewell to the Planet of the Apes’ on the Horror Channel – specifically a bit where two apes were literally flirting with each other. Having checked that I hadn’t accidentally stumbled on to the more ‘specialist’ channels further down the list, my discomfort was further compounded by the fact they sounded like they were voiced by Carry On actors. I was half expecting a Sid James ape to stroll in at any moment, emitting a filthy chuckle from his grinning simian lips. Still, it can’t be anywhere near as uncomfortable as watching Grimmy acting like a sixth form tutor who thinks he’s still down with the kids.

2. Had a wee. I got up to go the bathroom, obviously – I haven’t yet reached the stage where I keep a bucket by the sofa, although I may one day look into setting up something involving a series of pulleys if the need arises.

3. Microwaved a chicken biryani.

4. Ate the microwaved chicken biryani. It wasn’t bad, although I did burn the roof of my mouth in my eagerness to consume said ready meal.

5. Scratched my arse.

6. Ironed four new work shirts.

7. Wondered why shirts always come with so many bits of plastic and cardboard (and tissue paper?!) stuck to them, ready to fly off in a multitude of directions as you try to unfold your newly purchased garment. I probably spent just as long picking up plastic clips from the floor as I did actually ironing the shirts they were attached to.

8. Flicked through the channels and accidentally (ACCIDENTALLY!) caught a few seconds of X-Factor in which Simon Cowell looked like he’d been living in his car for the past few weeks. I wonder if he watches the show back each week just so he can freeze-frame the exact moment a contestant realises their dreams have been smashed to smithereens?

9. Wondered whether there had ever been a Smiths tribute band called The Smithereens. And if not, could someone make it happen?

10. Wondered if I could come up with a solution to the world’s problems during my spare evenings. I’m not promising anything, but I’ll give it some thought, okay?

I regret nothing. NOTHING.

Where dreams go to die

So it seems perpetually self-satisfied music mogul Simon Cowell’s ill-considered idea for a ‘DJ X-Factor’ is finally set to see the cruel light of day, albeit via an online platform bafflingly offered by Yahoo (cheers, guys).

While it’s not yet clear exactly what format this atrocity will take, the flat-topped twat’s track record should be enough to tell you that it’ll be about as appealing as waking up to find Jedward lying either side of you with knowing smiles on their otherwise vacant faces.

How will it work? To my mind, it takes at least 30 minutes, if not an hour, to get a feel for what a DJ is like, maybe even longer. It’s about building a mood, a feeling, a journey (clichéd, I know) – how will that be condensed into three minutes in front of an audience of over-excitable adolescents and tearfully proud nans? And DJs who CAN cram it all into three minutes – otherwise known as turntablists – already have their own talent show in the form of the infinitely more credible DMC World DJ Championships.

How will contestants be judged? Mixing ability? Track selection? How easily they can make that excruciating heart shape with their hands? Whether they have some ridiculous gimmick like throwing cake at people who’ve paid to see them? Will someone with the skills of Carl Cox or Sasha find themselves rejected with a withering: “You’re not quite right for this show – I mean, what are you going to do when it’s Abba Week?”

The advancement of technology has effectively meant that anyone can download the latest top 10 tracks from music sites such as Beatport and mix them together using the ‘sync’ button (which basically does all the work for you). Great, but where’s the creativity, the imagination? Will someone with real technical ability and a genuine understanding of the music they’re playing lose out to someone who simply plays the chart-toppers and puts on more of a show behind the decks?

What does Cowell imagine ‘clubland’ is like these days? Will extra points be awarded for demonstrating your prowess on the microphone by giving a shout out to the hen party down at the front or spitting out lyrics such as “remember, folks, it’s half price WKDs at the bar until midnight”?

Will Cowell complain that drum and bass is “too fast”? Will he put two different DJs together purely because “you look good and I think girls will really like you”? Will there be a judges’ house stage where plucky hopefuls are forced to fiddle around with expensive electrical equipment precariously close to a swimming pool while the show’s equivalent of Cheryl Cole (or whatever she’s calling herself these days) fights back tears as she stares into the distance while managing to look bored, confused and angry at the same time?

And on the subject of judges, who would they be? Fatboy Slim literally told Cowell to “fuck off” when he was approached to become a judge on the show in 2013. Could any DJ worth their salt lower themselves to this level and then expect to be taken seriously? Or will Cowell call on the services of so-called ‘superstar’ DJs such as David Guetta and Paris Hilton, who, ironically, are probably better known for NOT actually mixing.

The bottom line is that a DJ competition will not make good television. Turntablism aside, DJing is not a visual art – it’s about listening and dancing to what’s being played. Good DJs work best in their natural environment – the club, the rave, the festival, the squat party – where they can feed off the crowd in order to shape and develop their set. No amount of fancy studio lighting, overpaid celebrity guests, theme weeks or heart-wrenching sob stories (“my dead grandad always wanted me to be the next Pete Tong!”) can ever replicate this.

People: this is evil and must be stopped, or, at the very least, ignored. Cowell is a parasite who loves nothing more than to feast on the shattered dreams and bitter, stinging tears of the young, impressionable and foolish.

You’ve already encouraged him by continuing to watch X-Factor – don’t make the same mistake again. How will we explain this shame to our grandchildren?

We’re better than this.