The success of bands like Alt-J does however hint at a more avant-garde future for popular guitar bands, but the transatlantic glories of banjo-fornicating pretend farmers do not. Hopefully, the following ten records will allow me to demonstrate that the future is in the hands of gloriously inventive yet accessible pop architects, and does not lie in re-treading the footsteps of past fixated guitar-wielding bores. It’s bad enough listening to this little turd of walking cliché go on. Personally, I can’t think of anything worse than an army of boring Oasis sound-alikes coming to fruition in 2013, and intuition tells you that it’s a return to 1996 as opposed to 1979 that’s being longed for by the vast majority of tedious past-dwellers. Meanwhile, a return to guitar-dominated charts is something that has regularly been mooted by various sources over the last few years. My preoccupation with more alternative forms at various points during the 2000s wasn’t due to ignorance about pop, however – composing ‘best of the year’ playlists for each of these years confirmed that the charts were in fact rubbish in the mid-noughties. I’m not lamenting the overall absence of guitar bands in the charts one iota, and since the wave of supposed ‘Britpop 2’ bands thankfully died an overnight death circa 2008/9, either splitting up, going on a long hiatus or signing to Cooking Vinyl, I’ve been more engaged with pop, R‘n’B and dance than I have been for years.
However, early mid-life crisis or not, personally I’m now listening to more chart-friendly contemporary music than ever, addicted to the youthful rush that it brings and sense of excitement that tends to characterise it. Pop music has always been widely seen by those hitting a certain age as something disposable, unintelligent or perhaps even too abrasive or unlistenable.
That’s the age in which we’re all expected to close our ears to new pop music in order to retreat to either sounds of the past or more embittered, grown-up music, whether of the MOR type or of the more leftfield, rustic persuasion. There has been great pop and great music outside of the mainstream, which does not need gongs, emotive speeches and bland presenters to give it 'worth'.ĭL: Hello. Put simply, we now spend so much time discussing prize nominations and their theatrical showcases because there is no visible alternative to speak of.'Īs Alex suggests we are treated to a 'narrowness' in the Official Music Culture of the BRITS, but, outside of this bubble music in a healthy state and has a powerful part in our lives, as the writings below from David Lichfield, John Gibson and I attest. This shift reflects a deeper malaise in the recent history of the arts. Now, on the other hand, we are disappointed when prize events don't live up to our bizarrely high expectations. Even at the height of Britpop, bands used to turn up to the Brits in order to drunkenly take the piss out of the whole enterprise. Not so long ago, we ridiculed awards ceremonies as comic charades. (*to quote one of our 'keyboard warrior' nemeses on that haven of reason, Digital Spy)Īlex has not been able to join us in writing here, but he has recently written in The Guardian about the preposterous BRIT Award spectacle and the lack of any subversive impulses: Not forgetting an obligatory dig at the 'winners' of the 'Best British Band' 'Award' at the BRITS, those Cameronite leeches Mumford and Sons, draining the life from the culture with their anodyne music and bumpkin apparel. Well, the BRIT Awards has motivated us to complete this task, which you will see has become less a coda and more a lengthy mix of 'earnest chin-stroking'*, 2012 diary and cultural manifesto. Basically: an optimistic coda, posting YouTube clips of recent music we loved with brief explanatory comments.
In April 2012, when Messrs Gibson, Niven, Lichfield and I concluded our epic 'Worst 200 Songs' trawl, I alluded here to the prospect of an epilogue to that project, identifying what each of us liked in current '2011-12' music. Now, here's the beginning of a counter-attack! In this of all weeks, we thought it best to check that you were still alive and hadn't drifted off into some blandness-induced coma. Silly season featuring crushingly predictable roster comprising Kasabian Clyro Cribs Maccabees Vaccines and Adele Mumford-Mastercard and her Sons shite.
This piece originally featured on Tom May's blog, 'Where Shingle Meets Raincoat'.
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