i-want-more

Why don't you go where fashion sits

Following my review of the Brits, here is a dissection of the NME Awards (sponsored by Shockwaves, the people who once produced the best hairspray ever, Hard Rock. For this, I salute them).

Dear god, what a shambles.

Firstly, the live performances. I keep hearing how fabulous Glasvegas are, and it’s hard to agree with that when they can turn out such a shite cover of Suspicious Minds, complete with a self-consciously kooky posh girl wailing away in the background (Florence, of and the Machine, apparently). Another band wheeled on the dancing girls, presumably to disguise how utterly pedestrian they were (I can’t even remember their name).

The Boosh picked up an award for best TV show despite not having a series out in 2008. That goes to show the power of product placement – dropping the NME’s name into a comedy routine is a smooth move. The most casual mention of a band/product by Noel Fielding has a million edgily-haircutted teenagers reaching for their pocket money. [Which makes me wonder, can the Boosh’s popularity be linked in some way to the Kings of Leon’s inexplicable rise to fame? Ask me about them another time, reader – I had the misfortune of seeing their first ever London show. JJ’s verdict at the time: “like the Eagles”]

I was relieved that MGMT got some awards, because they are fun, at least. Also pleased that Richard Ayoade got the nod twice (he directed both the best DVD and the best video). Charlie Brooker looked awkward and dropped the c-bomb. Love your work, mister.

Aside from that, Oasis named as best band. Godlike genius award given to the Cure. Did the last 15 years not happen? I will be the first to admit that in the past I have liked/followed both of these bands, but to say that both are past their best is a very polite way to put it.

The Brits made me depressed, but the NME awards left me feeling that it surely can’t be long before the bloated corpse of British popular music is fished out of the canal. Although, with luck, the NME will be dead first. Hmmm.

Onto other matters. Last week Niece #4 came to stay with her fiancé, M. We enjoyed having them around the place and the flat felt a bit empty once they had gone. I love having guests. Please feel free to visit, one and all.

It occurred to me this morning as I was waiting for the bus into work in the sunshine that this time last year I was finishing up at the City job.

When I was a bit younger, dates of things starting and finishing always seemed very significant. After a school play/French exchange I would find myself thinking “three weeks ago I was preparing for the first performance” or “two weeks ago I was on the beach at Deauville”. For years after break-ups with boyfriends I would find myself getting a chill on the dates in question (particularly in the lean years, 1992-1996, when I had nothing better to do than feel sorry for myself, virtually unaware that there was a world outside my bedroom). On reading this back, I sound faintly autistic. That is probably a fair assessment.

These days, very few dates mean much. But perhaps I should make more of a big deal about the anniversary of leaving, because it was a major turning point. Few things in life will ever feel as depressing or bad as that job did. Simply not being in it should be worth putting a top hat and tails on and tap-dancing about every day of the week.

Labels: hard rock hairspray, nme awards, the worst job in the world

posted by deafdisco @ 1:43 pm