The Brit Awards matter . . .

. . . for all the wrong reasons. Like Coldplay.

 

In terms of record sales (or, increasingly, download receipts), the Brit Awards still matter. The appropriately named Duffy, for example, who claimed three gongs at the 2009 tedium, saw a substantial hike in profits -- this, when even the NME compared Rockferry, her debut album, to "an X Factor covers record". Its total first-year sales hit the 1.7 million mark; "Mercy", taken from the LP, was the third-bestselling single of 2008. Paul McCartney's lacklustre Memory Almost Full, which received the "Outstanding Contribution" nod in 2008, sold five times as many copies immediately after the ceremony as it had before it.

When the Brits began in 1977, the panel retrospectively awarded three prizes to the long-defunct Beatles. For an institution that claims to "showcase the sheer depth and diversity of British and international music talent", its choices are marked by a distinct lack of daring: Travis, Coldplay and the Darkness (!) are among past winners. This is partly because, to be eligible, artists are required to have had a hit single or album the previous year. It's an unapologetically commercial enterprise, which, I concede, is fair enough in these hard times. Judging from its logo, it isn't even called the Brit Awards. Its full name seems to be "the Brit Awards with Mastercard". Ker-ching.

This year marks the Brits' official 30th anniversary. For all its self-professed "glamour", the event has long had the deathly atmosphere of a musical Slug and Lettuce: smartly dressed people desperately trying to have fun, all the while aware that they're actually at a work do. It'll be a big moment for Lady Gaga, La Roux and the sundry other popstrels on the coveted shortlist. But the Brits, whose first lifetime achievement award was awarded to the EMI chief Leonard G Wood, is an extended TV commercial -- much like the time-fillers on QVC -- and it's made by the music business, for the music business.

What's more, it's unlikely they'll ever top their 1990 showbiz coup: Maggie Thatcher singing "How Much Is That Doggie in the Window". Where do you go from there?

Yo Zushi is a sub-editor of the New Statesman. His work as a musician is released by Eidola Records.

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"The Anatolian Fertility Goddess": a poem by Fiona Pitt-Kethley

Across the Golden Horn in Karakoy. . . 

Across the Golden Horn in Karakoy,
a maze of ancient, crooked, cobbled streets
contains the brothels of old Istanbul.
A vendor at the bottom of the hill
sells macho-hot green chilli sandwiches.
A cudgel-wielding policeman guards the gate.
 
One year, dressed as a man, I went inside
(women and drunks are not allowed in there).
I mingled with the mass of customers,
in shirt, grey trousers, heavy walking boots.
A thick tweed jacket flattened out my breasts.
A khaki forage cap concealed my hair.
 
The night was young, the queues at doors were short.
Far down the street a crowd of men stood round
and watched a woman dancing in a house.
Her sixty, sixty, sixty figure poured inside
a flesh-tone, skin-tight, Lycra leotard,
quivered like milk-jelly on a shaken plate.
 
I’ve seen her type before in small museums –
primeval blobs of roughly sculpted stone –
the earliest form of goddess known to man.


Fiona Pitt-Kethley is a British poet, novelist and journalist living in Spain. Her Selected Poems was published in 2008 by Salt.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad