Cool Britannia
The BRITs Run Out of Steam
There was probably a short period in the mid-to-late 90s when the BRIT awards, being billed as “Britain’s biggest music awards,” could actually be respected and were considered, by those in the know, a reasonable measure of current British music trends. But, the mid-to-late 90s seemed a long way away as the 2006 ceremony trundled from one calamity to the next. I watched with bated breath, waiting to pounce.
Chris Evans, the host of this year’s awards, beams a smarmy, round-faced grin, telling you everything you need to know about this paragon of ginger-haired bastardry. He’s adorned in a long, dark velvet coat that doesn’t suit his pallid, freckly face. Dear Lord, he’s cracking crap jokes that barely draw a low, humiliating murmur from the audience. It gets worse –- later on, he asks Boy George, just about to present an award, about the drug scandal he was involved in last year, leaving George’s face shocked and ever so slightly murderous. He mumbled off his “And the winner is…” lines with the expression only an offended, indignant celebrity could pull. Car crash TV at its best.
You have to question who chooses Chris Evans to host the annual industry blowout, after a string of similarly embarrassing faux pas incidents that had the host grinning and the audience groaning. You might also question why anybody would choose to waste two precious hours of their lives rotting brain cells watching what has become more a measure of corporate enforced radio play, big name artists, advertising and blanket PR coverage than a fair shot at awarding deserved artists with commendations of their achievements and their talent.
As with most shows of this variety, the BRITs attempt to, firstly, compliment artists with eye-catching trophy cabinet monuments (Best British Male, Best Song About Love, Best Boob Job and so on ad finitum) with reputations to be paraded on CD cover stickers and fancy TV adverts, flaunted as signs of talent, worth and reasons why you need to buy this album, or you’re just not cool enough. Secondly, these shows aim to throw a spectacular celebration of expensive indoor pyrotechnics, sexy dancers and popular chart artists hopping around, swinging their mics and singing whichever No.1 record the majority of the audience will know best.
The first objective -- the actual awards -- is always hard. Pleasing everybody is impossible, there’ll always be somebody with a complaint at the end. However, the second –- putting your sex and your money on show -- is a piece of piss if you’ve got advertisers and investors queuing up waving thick bricks of notes. Even better if you’ve got lots of semi-naked women shaking their booties to “Gold Digger” with Kanye West hip-hopping his massive glasses (they were massive) in front of a crowd mainly consisting of fortunate teenage girls penned in, sweating and swooning because: “It’s Karn-yay, sker-ream!”
It was out of intrigue and a naturally ruthless desire to have something to complain about that I found myself so interested in the release of the list of nominations a few weeks before the ceremony proper. My lust was well sated, the nominations presenting a line of predictably harsh, ignorant prospective awards to artists who sold lots of records but, in terms of talent, didn’t deserve such flagrant attention. That’s where the problem always lies with these artistic love-ins, there are always musicians who get forgotten in the mad rush to pat the same back everybody else is patting. For example, there were an extortionate five nominations for Leeds five-piece Kaiser Chiefs and their debut LP Employment, whilst Bloc Party and their outstanding debut Silent Alarm were completely overlooked, in all categories. It’s obvious which album and which band will stand the test of the time –- it’s fated that Kaiser Chief’s second album will be a disappointing, lacklustre affair (oh, we’ve all seen it so many times), the fans will get bored of their poor ears being molested by the same old “I Predict a Riot” and the band will disappear again. They’ll be soon forgotten, along with James Blunt and his four, equally extortionate, nominations, as just another mark in history to look back on in nostalgic, tacky “I Love 2006!” TV filler shows in 20 years time. And then we’ll all be saying, “Christ, Kaiser Chiefs and James Blunt were complete shite. Now where’s my Bloc Party CD…”
In the end, Kaiser Chiefs stumbled up to the Earls Court stage, trying to look as rock and roll as possible, to collect the three silver statues (British Group, British Rock Act, British Live Act) that various random cameo celebrities –- although seeing Wayne Coyne from the Flaming Lips opening one of the golden envelopes had me whooping and yalling with glee -- had announced they had won. Those are always uncomfortable moments, when whichever lucky artist it is who has just ambled up behind the audaciously decorated microphone stand to collect his or her prize claims to have not prepared a speech and blushes and thanks God and Mom and Pop, as if they hadn’t been practicing in front of the mirror the night before.
James Blunt, the ex-army pop balladeer whose surname has become cockney rhyming slang for something very crude indeed and the man who most of the sensible adult population hate with a fervent passion went up for his two awards (Best British Male Solo Artist, Best Pop Act) and made equally atrocious, uninterested comments, thanking people we’ve never heard of and don’t really care about. The most interesting thing about his presence on stage, I found, was how big his mouth was when he talked. Honestly, it was nearly as big as Kanye’s sunglasses –- or should that read ego?
Besides the two major successors of the evening, Blunty and the Kaisers chaps, other awards of note went to the organic, sultry KT Tunstall for Best British Female Solo Artist, a deserved piece of acclaim. British Album and British Single went to Coldplay for X&Y and “Speed of Sound” respectively, although Gorillaz or Kate Bush (also nominated) would have been a pleasant surprise. British Breakthrough Act went to the Arctic Monkeys, who made the commendable decision to reject the awards show in favour of a gig in front of their own fans, which seems indicative of how uncouth and ultimately boring the BRIT indulgence has become to more than just the public.
The international awards bought few surprises, with Jack Johnson inevitably beating the utterly deserving, utterly magnificent Arcade Fire to the International Breakthrough award, International Male Solo going to good ol’ Kanye and Green Day scooping International Group and International Album, for American Idiot’s drooling, snail-paced political commentary. However, a subtle hint of dignity remained with quiet nods to the aforementioned Arcade Fire and the impressive John Legend. Madonna’s relatively refined International Female Solo acceptance speech kept the quality of the artist’s role in the evening from drowning in a sickly mesh of poor English and “umm…err…thanks,” illiteracy.
Performances on the night came from the likes of the all-talented KT Tunstall, James Blunt and his massive mouth, Gorillaz and their stolen Pink Floyd child choir idea, Kaiser Chiefs’ wide-eyed stomp, Jack Johnson’s suave hum and the disappointingly dour Coldplay. However, the highlights came from Prince and his electrified, howling shudder, proving the old feline still had plenty of life in him, and Kanye West’s all-out strip show, reeling through a medley of hits and spittin’ his rhymes as he leapt about with the same trademark egotism that had him shouting the odds at the acceptance of his own phallic statuette. “Anybody thinking about releasing an album same time as me, watch out ‘cos there’s gonna be trouble – December Registration, it’s gonna blow ya mind,” he was bawling, with a few more gangster colloquialisms I didn’t quite pick up on as I tried to scribble the quote down, whilst sobbing with laughter.
Finally, the Outstanding Contribution award went to the straight-faced Modfather, Paul Weller, for his 30 years of work with the the Jam, the Style Council and his solo projects. With a dry stare he championed the award above his head before stalking across to the waiting stage to play a set of familiar, confident rock and roll that showed the Kaiser brats just how things are done.
Considering the hype and the sense of occasion surrounding the BRITs each year, the overall anti-climax can’t be enthused enough. Whilst having several carefully choreographed highs, these fail to paint over the deep cracks in the concept and the decision making process, nor the growing apathy towards the price of indulgence and OTT glamour. You have to think –- will any of these artists be in Paul Weller’s place in 30 years time? Personally, I think not.
David Segurola