Why hate the last few minutes of the BRITs when you can hate all of it?
|February 25, 2012||Posted by Cameron MacLeod under entertainment, satire|
This isn’t so much an article as a smug lecture from someone who didn’t waste two hours (or however long it was) of his life watching the BRIT awards on Tuesday. Or rather, someone who wasted that time watching Alex Polizzi’s The Fixer and then deciding whether or not he had just viewed a repeat, who then later had to research and view clips of the event when writing this article. In any case, enjoy.
As far as self-congratulating formalities of reality TV go, this particular uncompromising turd was so utterly unpolished that even BBC3 ought to have turned its crack-eroded nose up at it. The fact that Adele’s entirely predictable monologue in acceptance of her grotesque and dubiously prestigious statuette was cut short has caused something of an uproar among people who don’t find Adele to be a vulgar, entitled gobshite with ultimately forgettable songs. For those people, I’d be happy to share this quotation from an interview with Q Magazine, which I find to be an approximate embodiment of all her various quirks and sensibilities:
“I use the NHS, I can’t use public transport anymore, doing what I do. I went to state school, I’m mortified to have to pay 50% [tax].”
“Trains are always late, most state schools are s**t and I’ve gotta give you, like, four million quid? Are you having a laugh?”
“When I got my tax bill in from 19 [her debut LP] I was ready to go and buy a gun and randomly open fire.”
So there you have it – if you don’t give Adele more than a measly £8mn (pre-tax) for her subsequent albums, she will opt to indiscriminately shoot members of the public because she would only have received a sum 200 times the size of the average UK salary, after having to pay so much for your woeful excuse for an education. I’m frankly amazed – and somewhat disappointed – that she didn’t at least assault James Corden after her self-indulgent expression of false courtesy to the future victims of her whimsical, gun-toting crusade against public services was interrupted.
Instead of indulging her urge to exchange a minuscule proportion of her grossly inflated income for the opportunity to send bursts of scorching lead in the direction of any man, woman or child who should happen to cross her path, she gave only a mildly rebellious middle finger to the “suits” responsible for the latest atrocity to have been committed against her, in a career already plagued by such blood-curdling misfortunes as paying taxes and having to allow Radio 1 to play You Got the Love and Sex On Fire after every fiftieth airing of her latest single.
One can only assume she was brandishing her unconventional choice of trigger finger, and that no “suits” were involved in the manufacturing of her highly-commercialised performances, style of music and image. Not that that matters. She’ll shoot just about anyone, regardless of how smartly-dressed they are. That’ll teach those bloody train drivers.
However, focusing on Adele too much would be to distract from how awful the show was as a whole. Imagine MTV on an average day.
Feeling no need to extend that imagery in order to highlight how dull, distasteful and psychologically taxing the BRIT Awards werw, I shall continue. Failing a coma, I would agree that Damon Albarn was in the most appropriate physical state for enduring the entire ceremony (obliged as he was to stay until the end), having attained an alcohol-induced stupor. It did impact quite noticeably on Blur’s performance though, to the extent that I had to stop viewing during Girls & Boys.
I was initially optimistic when observing Rihanna’s performance, assuming that the perspex box she appeared to be trapped within would render her inaudible, though her bland lyrics and whiny warble soon permeated the feeble prison. She strode to the front of the stage, alternately flanked and surrounded by a cast of experimental dancers delivering their artistic interpretation of a dog’s reaction to intestinal worms.
Adele has some definite talent for singing, despite her lack of any palpable charisma, and seemingly regarded her highly conventional verses as a tedious prelude to another bellowed, repetitive chorus. That last point is possibly the only common ground we share. At least she decided to let the audience continue living for a while longer.
This may come as a surprise to you, dear reader (hello mum, by the way), but I actually quite liked Florence and the Machine. Or at least No Light, No Light, anyway. I blame the record company for restricting their credibility to this shoddy awards show. The token stage dancers performed an adequate physical representation of Florence Welch’s abilities being held back by trashy consumerism.
One of the unmistakeable highlights of this research was finding that One Direction thanked Radio 1 listeners for an award voted for by Capital FM listeners. This confirmed my predisposition that their appeal is purely superficial, and also that their musical guise doesn’t so much as reach the standards of the questionably discerning Radio 1 listeners.
Noel Gallagher did give a reasonably good performance at one point in the show, though it was far from enough to salvage the evening, particularly when it was riddled with James Corden’s bumbling and humourless announcements. Corden instead acted as the perfect accompaniment for the embarrassingly disorganised procession of over-privileged would-be mass murderers, during the brief periods for which I endured his commentary at least.
With a distinct lack of regret, I see the BRITs as a ticking time bomb, at best. Adele will continue to make even larger sums of money for her tedious ballads, and thus pay larger sums in tax. This will only exacerbate her craving for wanton slaughter, and the subsequent spree will surely send the British pop industry into permanent disrepute, even if it does improve the punctuality of our public transport. Which it almost definitely won’t.