Notes on the BRITs...

So, the 30th annual Brits Awards ceremony occured last night. Thirty year anniversary. A commemoration of a decade multiplied by three. If you were one half of a married couple you would possibly celebrate your Pearl anniversary with champagne, divorce, mutual stabbings, getting raucously, bitterly drunk and, if you're lucky, engaging in some boring, unsatisfying sex with someone you've come to detest over so many years of legally binding, mentally stultifying coexistence. Surely if it's a popular music awards show, such an anniversary would be a jubilant, self congratulatory + referential affair, abundant with cultural gems taken from the golden archives of mainstream music, filled with cheer, innovation and optimism. Surely?

Or perhaps not. If you have to open a show with a mid tempo Lily Allen song that has been circulating through the media for approximately the last year or so, things must be pretty dire. Not exactly a stonker of a song, "The Fear", is it? Pleasing on the ear, yes, but floorfiller/adrenaline pumper? Not quite. It was jazzed up with some Union Jack boxers + umbrellas, a troupe of Sloane Square Organic Curator Yummy Mummies, some perspicacious pink paratroopers and a glittery blimp, but the blandness persisted. Maybe it was meant as a cutting satirical comment on the Music Industry bigwigs/pop music pawns sitting at table 5 with a sack full of Cristal Cocaine, maybe it was meant as a stylised yet whimsical piece of performance art celebrating our national idiosyncrasy, or maybe it was just meant as a half arsed bit of recycled bumhole that didnt require much in the way of effort. Well, that probably goes for Lily, who looked like she'd forgotten how to walk and seemed to struggle with the concept of descending stairs in an orderly fashion-confusing it with "being sexy" which seemed to consist of wobbly stalking and fidgety hands. Backing dancers and perambulators, however, did an admirable job of trying to propel the shambolic experience and give it some artistic flair.

Peter Kay as host. Wasn't really paying attention. Better than an illiterate, ebulliently bouncy bimbo tripping over words and pronunciation (I'M LOOKING AT YOU, SAM "REMEMBORABLE" FOX). Bit of 'Wary Dad' tone to it, which was refreshing, considering they could have gone with unskilled and sycophantic grinning automatons. Kasabian came on and did a song and there were some flames. Sam Fox learnt how to read for the first time whilst presenting Memorable Performance (coining, in the process the term "rememborable") ; an award which went, unsurprisingly, to the Spice Girls. Geri and Mel B (with newly tugged face, overly tautened eye) came on, got distracted by fleeting moment of relevance and promptly forgot to thank other Spices, and their manners, squabbling over the mike.

More stuff happened. Dizzee Rascal won something which was apparently long overdue. Well done him. His performance with Florence was actually one of the best of the night-a combo of "Dirtee Cash" and "You've Got The Love"-very slick, professional and abundant in harps. Never a bad thing. Florence emerged from a disco golfball dressed as an iridescent mermaid and wafted around the stage looking genuinely pleased to be there, the "Dirtee Cash" lyrics hewn even sharper in contrast against the lyrical backdrop, their delivery meticulous (that sounds pretentious). Then they were showered in confetti and shmaltz. All somewhat marred by pointy-gesticulating-collaboration hands (Welch.)

A JLS performance. Despite the Tangled Up Tour harness descent at the opening, total attention vaccuum. Other stuff: Jay Z perfomance; Liam Gallagher, the walking eyebrow, winning something and then throwing it at people; Robbie Williams. I channel flicked through most of this. Lily Allen won something and accepted it wearing a comedy ginger Scotsman wig and her bizarre Elizabeth Tayloresque eye make up. Courtney Love presented something looking like a drag queen's skeleton dressed in a permed horse mane.

LADY GAGA. The only reason I put myself through this televised tedium. In the words of Kay, "New York's equivalent to Sue Pollard" took to the stage dressed as an albino Amadeus Mozart reincarnated as moth. Lots of netting, backcombed hair, drapery, all in white. No monsters, no vinyl, no exposed crotches. Quite a refreshingly chaste and delicate affair, actually. Very ornate, too, with her bleached Marge Simpson wig and face covered in floral lace. Acoustic version of Telephone - one of the only genuinely new releases to be premiered at the Brits-pretty, but of same stock of all her other piano based reinterpretations. A tribute to McQueen, which though genuine, felt a little too soon/sore. Sensitive, though, and a tad misty eyed. A couple of interesting improvised lyrics concerning Marble Arch, newsagents, the Underground, the Queen, corgis, dog shit etc. Thumping bass brought transition into Dance in the Dark, though interestingly stripped of any backing dancers/vocals/support-she went it alone, with only her bizarre sampler/looping Sycorax guitar for company. Playing/singing it a tad awkward, requiring side on attention. Once through spoken introduction (a harrowingly eloquent feminist discourse on the fatal consequences of fame/public pressure) got centre stage, hit the big notes, had a bit of a jive to herself, enacted death by strobe light, struck a monster pose and brought it all to an abrupt end. Genuinely surprising, musical and tender; there should have been more of this. She also grabbed all the International awards. Much deserved etc.

And then some bathos. Enter Cheryl Cole, "singing" for the upteenth time "Fight for This Love"; who decided to pull a Britney, rendering a dull song even duller by refusing to sing it live. Compared to Gaga's couture snowstorm, Cole's white trench coats + sunglasses Terminator Matrix look came off a bit tacky and uninspired. Lots of emphasis on group dance routine as seen in video. Then things took an interesting turn: mash up with "Show Me Love", a musical amphetamine, the bass line adding some much needed depth and feeling to a tired and twee single. Aided by Tribal tattooed, torso bared mass of writhing men, a quick change into a glittery, snooded leotard fitted with extra Geordie baseball cap, and aggressive ninja dancing, a homosexual rejuvenation seemed to be taking place on stage. But just as it started getting good, they reverted back to the original and ended it. Shame.

Oh, and the Robbie bit was a medley and "showstealer" according to some. He swaggered, pottered and crooned his way through a couple of the golden oldies, managing to remember most of the words and coerce the audience into "bouncing." All in all, a pretty stagnant, homogenous affair. A few glimmers of genuinely diverting material, but on the whole about as enthralling as aqueous diarrhea.

Maybe Sam Fox was going for rememborable? Let's hope not.