Was it just our imagination or were the BRIT awards actually - gulp - quite entertaining to watch last night? Not as entertaining as watching something that is genuinely brilliant, like television‘s The Wire (never actually seen an episode, just fond of bandwagons) but enjoyable nevertheless.
There were some good performances, from Amy Winehouse and The Killers, and at least two of the awards actually went to the right person.
Highlights included Joss Stone’s re-invention as a vaguely racist soul stereotype (or drunken drag queen, depending on your point of view); Scissor Sisters doing live what they do in their new video; Jason Orange saying something Very Moving about his Dad, and a delightful moment that saw Best International Female Nelly Furtado scream and run away the second she caught sight of Russell Brand.
On the subject of Brand, this awards show saw him live up to at least some of his obvious potential and atone for the complete mess he made of last year’s NME awards. His joke and subsequent giggle before The Killers came on provided clear evidence that he was enjoying himself, and the stuff he said about The Sun was spot on (surprisingly, this was omitted from their review of his performance).
Obviously there were downsides. Arctic Monkeys’ HILARIOUS attempts to show the world that, yes, Alex Turner does have a sense of humour backfired when it transpired that even in fancy dress, he’s a sarcastic, sullen sod. Lily Allen didn’t win anything, and she had to suffer her father standing up to make a rubbish joke (it’s not a fucking wedding Keith).
And then there was Fearne Cotton. A one-woman barrage of nonsense who kept popping up to interview the winners (sample ‘interview’: “Do you agree that you‘re brilliant? I do. I think you guys are ahMAYzing”) and who unfurled over the evening in a way rivalled only by Joss ‘Can I Get A Witness’ Stone. It ended up with her running off to watch Oasis. She’s not been seen since.
So, yes, it was quite fun to watch. In a mouth-open sort of way. And what other awards show would give you the pleasure of seeing Mark Owen seemingly channelling spirits live on stage, during a performance, and then announce to the nation, “I’ve been sat over there, in my special chair”? Or get a US funk band in to cover the cigarette intermission? Few others we’d imagine.
The BRIT awards: permanently irrelevant, occasionally irritating, but more-often-than-not, beguilingly irresistible.
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