Talent in a Previous Life

Because It's Never Just About the Music

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Music Week 

It's The Brits on Wednesday! And they're going out live! Something which the organisers seems to beleive will add a frisson of danger and exictement to proceedings, although in reality all this is likely to mean is that the programme which follows it may well start a few minutes later than scheduled and that someone may well say something which will offend many of those viewing - "And the winner of the award for best British male is James Morrison!" springs immediately to mind. They're going to be hosted by Russell Brand who, indicating somewhat the sort of world in which the Brits organisers live in, they firmly believe to be the most dangerous man in broadcasting today. Russell, it may be worth remembering, does earn his pennies with a show on Radio 2. They've probably got Donny Tourette lined up to present an award as well.

Anyway, we were going to get into the 'spirit' of things by doing a live blog of the whole affair but, in a bid to actually enjoy the evening, we're going out to see The Long Blondes play instead, so you'll have to wait until Thursday for our traditional post-mortem on the whole affair. But until then you may well be wondering how some of the Brits nominees will be spending the days leading up to and after the awards ceremony. Well worry not! We're here to enlighten you:-


With the Brits only two days away it's time to prepare for the glamourous walk down the red carpet. It's important to get it right as not only do you not get a second chance to make a first impression, you only get one chance to turn up on the front page of the Daily Star wearing nothing but some dental floss and a trio of carefully positioned CD's covering your essentials. Multiple nominee Lily Allen will today be commencing a 48 hour visit to the hairdressers, where the cream of the profession will be attempting exactly how to style her fringe so that it will both hide and distract attention from her oversized forehead. Best Male nominee Jarvis Cocker will be visiting his local charity shop in the hope they have a suit which is almost his size and doesn't smell too badly of wee.


One day to go and the nerves are starting to bite. The stars are frantically phoning round the management, asking what their chances are, all except those who's prizes come via the public vote, who are frantically phoning up the voting lines until their credit expires. Best British Male nominee Lemar will be frantically phoning up his manager asking "Are you sure it's not a misprint? I'm really up for a prize and it's not just a joke?", while Girls Aloud will be phoning up their management to ask what the fuck they have to actually do to get some sort of nod from the judging panel as releasing some of the most exciting and fantastic pop music of the 21st Century clearly isn't enough.


The ceremony itself! Things get off to a bad start when the security guards refuse to let Lemar into the ceremony as they politely explain to the voice of coffee table urban that his inclusion on the shortlist was nothing more than an elaborate prank for Channel 4's Balls of Steel show. Lemar accepts his humiliation with good grace and politeness, a position it's easy to take when, like him, you're posessed of no emotion whatsoever. AS for the other artists, some win, some lose, some are forced on stage to perform an embarassing duet with the aim not of providing the audience with the entertainment of watching a unique and unexpected yet utterly thrilling collaboration, but providing a backscratching boost to each of their back catalogues, but most will drink, take copious amounts of drugs, dance with wild abandon before copping off with a succession of beautiful people. The bastards.


The hangover kicks in and many of the great good of British music will be waking up with one hell of a headache. And those who got nominated for a Brit Award probably won't be in much of a state either. Both the winners and losers will be searching the morning press, looking for a mention of their name, all angered by the fact that coverage of the ceremony itself has been overshadowed by the artist who chose to turn up in nothing but some dental floss and a trio of carefully positioned CD's covering their essentials. All except the wearer, Paolo Nuitini, who will be wondering whether it's hygenic to reuse the dental floss as he nurses the initial stages of hypothermia.


And as quickly as the excitement of Brits Week began, it's over. Admittedly it was over roughly five minutes into Monday, but this doesn't stop the organisers taking time out to reminisce as they clear the mess of the arena where the ceremony took place, being careful not to wake Lily Allen, who has spent the days since the ceremony collapsed drunkenly on to a pile of rubbish which, at the time, she firmly believed was her dad, but upon her eventual return to consciousness she'll realise that not only is it far too clean to be Keith, it also posesses a lot more acting talent. Once the arena is tidied, they'll then return to their boardroom where they'll look at a series of images which help remind them why they go through such heartache and hassle each year: graphs showing projected sales figures for the next month for the nominated artists all shooting through the roof as they head firmly towards the bland plateau which the public seems to love so much. God help us.