by Fraser Bryce
The very thought of the Brit awards fills me with dread, hatred and despair. It’s a celebration of everything I hate about modern music: it’s shiny, polished and sterile. So, this year, I have decided to do what any right thinking wannabe journalist would do: get smashed and talk about something I hate. So, it’s 20:25, on the 25th of February 2015, I’m half a bottle of Jack Daniels down. LET’S DO THIS.
One of the things I hate the most about the Brit awards is that they’re just so damn boring. The only way I can think to describe them is beige. Nothing offensive, nothing that breaks any kind of mould. Just a three hour parade of the most middle of the road pop music you can imagine. Granted, occasionally, a few more non-conventional artists slip through the cracks and win something – Iron Maiden winning the best live band award comes to mind – but most of the time it’s your One Directions, your Little Mixes, your JLS… crap, what’s the plural for JLS? Never mind, my point still stands. Bring Me The Horizon sold out Wembley Arena in December, thus, giving them roughly the same status as many of the acts represented at the Brits. Are they nominated? Are they fuck. Although, I can’t imagine Oli Sykes instructing the Brits audience to “Fuck someone in the eye” (he actually said this) going down very well with ITV.
Now, don’t mistake this as ‘Angry Metal Fan Still Lives In 1985’. There is a lot of good pop music out there – Taylor Swift is queen, and anyone that disagrees can fight me – but it’s very rare that it wins anything. Is Ed Sheeran good? Yes, no denying that. But there are literally hundreds of artists like him. The only artist nominated this year that has any shred of originality are Royal Blood and mark my words, in about a year, all rock bands are going to try to sound like Royal Blood. Not as if that’s a bad thing, but music evolves. Music changes. Every day, there are bands out there creating all sorts of crazy, out of this world music. But it’s not represented here. This is a celebration of the boring, the bland and the beige.
It’s not as if it’s always been like this either. Up until recently, the Brits used to be a night of drunken mayhem. Liam Gallagher used to call things “shite” and throw awards into the crowd. Presenters used to get horribly pissed and cock the whole thing up. Hell, John Prescott got a bucket of water poured over him once. What happened to that? Where has the danger gone? If you ask me, it’s more fun to watch something that could potentially go tits up at any moment. But, sadly, that is no longer the case. I mean, they’ve got Kanye West on and they’re muting him every few seconds because he’s saying no-no words. Pathetic. Can’t fault the presenting though. Ant and Dec are delightful.
In short, the Brit awards have lost their way, and have gone from a slightly edgy celebration of what is great about music to a dull as dishwater celebration of everything that is wrong with music. Now, it’s 21:21, I can’t stand any more of this. So, I’m going to finish my Jack Daniels, listen to Taylor Swift and try and forget this whole sorry mess.
