An old person reviews The Brits 2011

I haven’t watched the Brits since 1989 when some clearly mental events organiser thought it was a good idea to get drummer Mick Fleetwood and Page 3 deformed dwarf-model Sam Fox to present a live music show. They had about as much chemistry as an art lesson. She kept whooping. And he clearly didn’t know where he was. Or who she was. And they also appeared to be reading from auto-cues for a different show entirely. So when Stock, Aitken and Waterman strolled off with Best Producer and Best Single for Rick Astley’s Never Gonna Give You Up, I decided to switch off this car crash and go to the pub, or a rave, or take horse pills. Or something.

So 30 years on, I thought it was about time I tuned in and see if things had improved and throw in my two penneth worth. Which, considering I’m currently listening to German Prog Rock, is probably going to be cynical at best. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a massive music fan and like allsorts from Andy Williams to the Arctic Monkeys. But most of today’s offerings do leave me a bit chilly round the ears.

So James Corden hosts. Shouty and not terribly funny. Or good at presenting. There seems to be a growing trend that just because you have a hit comedy, you can turn your hand to pretty much everything! I mean, is Michael Aspel really that uncool now? Isn’t Noel Edmonds available? Still, anything rather than Davina McCall!

I know nothing of Arcade Fire. Other than a chap behind me on the escalator telling a friend that they were an “8-piece bunch of twats from Canada and their music makes you want to slit your wrists”. Hmmmm. It’s a fair point. On their own advice, I googled them. Sadly, they appear to have all the worst kind of words associated with them – namely ‘husband & wife team’, ‘accordian’ and ‘hurdy gurdy’. A sort of Fleetwood Mac meets a Bosnian folk group. In all fairness, I think they were as shocked to hear they’d won as the rest of us were. But on the plus side, if it keeps 11th century Middle Eastern fiddles at the forefront of the music scene, then surely, it can only be a good thing. I won’t be rushing out and buying any of their LPs. Especially as the first one was called ‘Funeral’!

I’m guessing Tinie Tempah isn’t his real name. Actually I know it’s not. it’s Patrick Chukwuemeka Okogwu Jr. Which doesn’t sound terribly ‘grime’, does it. Mind you, neither does the line ‘Bin Southampton but I never bin to Scunthorpe’. Still he managed to win ‘Best British Breakthrough Act’ and ‘Best British Single’. With that sort of fame beckoning, he’ll be welcome at the Bamboogy Retro Bar in Scunthorpe in no time! I don’t mind this stuff. It’s quite clever and catchy. In fact, my daughter was playing it in her room yesterday while I was in their scraping her socks off the wall. So I sang along. And now she’s not talking to me. Again.

‘Best Album’ went ‘Sigh No More’ by Mumford & Sons. They sound more like a removal company to me. In fact, they are a London folk rock band, rather than the west country bumpkins I thought they were. This was the first time I’d heard them. And to be honest, I thought it was all rather dull. Plus there really is no excuse for young people to dress like The Wurzels. As The Sun describes them, Banjos, beards and blokes in chunky jumpers. Meet the Folkers!

I’m glad Take That won Best British Group. Because I hadn’t heard of most of the others on the list. The XX – Nope. Technically, the Gorillaz don’t really exist and can’t recall hey’ve had lots of songs in the hit parade recently, Mumford & Sons – those blokes in waistcoats again and Biffy Clyro who I’d also never heard of. Apparently they’re a Scottish rock group and one time Mercury Prize nominee – the kiss of death for anyone that wins it! Anyway, well done TT – although sadly they couldn’t muster up a decent acceptance speech. Robbie says “Shabba” and Mark Owen thanks Robbie for coming back (for good). Ends

There were others of course. But I really did lose interest. Shouty fat bloke and whooping crowds. A room full of egos and tables full of Dom Perignon. Jarvis Cocker didn’t run on the stage and show his bum and no-one tipped a bucket of ice over a politician. And for that reason, I shall probably not bother watching it again. The current music scene is starting to baffle me therefore I shall gracefully retire from it.

So it’s back to German prog rock for me. And Dreaming of Tangerines.

Shabba!

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