Today we bring to you a witty take on the Mercury Music Prize Nominees before anyone else and you should thank us, because we have endured listening to Ms. Dynamite on the Lauren Laverne show to do this; there was terrible music and hateful voices everywhere. We really do not look forward to watching them on TV, when we will be forced to stare into her dead eyes while Jools Holland carries on regardless in the background.
As some clever sod said on twitter, The Mercury?s are the private school of awards, which is probably why anyone who wins goes on to do nothing of any importance with the money.
Feel free to disagree with that previous statement, but just know we have tricks up our designer sleeves. Pulp did alright didn't they? Arguably so did Dizzee Rascal, except now he touts CBBC theme music – you could say all of these things but then we would say Speech Debelle and you would lose.
Who are these secret industry professionals that decide the nominees, and indeed winners, of the oh so prestigious, not to mention cursed, award? Clearly they are a group of jaded, failed musicians who invented this to shit all over the careers of good young men and women by giving it to the joke act – M People. It all got a bit out of hand when Barclaycard decided sponsorship was a good idea though, so they quickly gave it to The XX to regain a fraction of credibility. That one backfired when Jamie ran away with all the money, changed his last name to XX, and started remixing every top 40 song of the past five years.
So the post-dubstep war on the world is continuing as James Blake, Ghostpoet, and Katy B are all given nominations for three decent albums. Along with Ms. B, Tinie Tempah and Adele fill the pop quota; they have to have a few so the tabloids don't start spewing out garbage about them being out of touch and unnecessary, but if either of those three win then we will take it upon ourselves to make their lives a misery. Especially you Adele! She obviously reads her own press.
Now that the pop quota has been taken care of, they have to notch up some points with the always under-represented avant-garde, which is the only reason Gwiylm Simcock (ha! SIMCOCK!) was invited to the party. The token jazz act is a bid to create some buzz, tickling the ivories at the nominations ceremony. Not only did the maestro play the keys, he played the inside of a grand piano like a great big show off.
Gwiylm doesn't stand a chance. And ha! SIMCOCK!
After all the genre gaps have been filled in, the judges get straight down to business feeding us concentrated indie from the likes of Anna Calvi, Elbow, PJ Harvey, Metronomy, Everything Everything, and King Creosote with Jon Hopkins. Some obviously generic choices to keep the guessers at bay and some genuinely inspired choices of albums that feel like they came out about five years ago.
The odds are the closest ever, according to gambling experts William Hill who inform us that Adele’s ’21’ and PJ Harvey’s ‘Let England Shake’ are the favourites at 4/1. Meanwhile the outsiders at 10/1 are: Gwilym Simcock’s (Ha!) ‘Good Days at Schloss Elmau’ , Ghostpoet’s ‘Peanut Butter Blues and Melancholy Jam’, and ‘Diamond Mine’ by King Creosote and Jon Hopkins.
By the time September rolls around you will be wondering why Adele is, why Tinie Tempah is still wearing sunglasses, how Elbow can be so boring, who Anna Calvi copied from, why Katy B didn't stick to helping out Magnetic Man, who King Creosote is and why was he working with some guy called Jon Hopkins, where you've heard PJ Harvey before, and what jazz even is.
That leaves you with James Blake, Ghostpoet, Metronomy, and Everything Everything – the only people who deserve to win; naturally none of them will.
Congratulations Adele go and buy yourself a nice cake.
dog wover says
You have sunk to new lows in attacking the fabulous Adele. May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits and your effing “bedsit” catch fire