Editorial: Is there any point in music awards?

So it’s Mercury Music Prize (or Barclaycard Mercury Prize, if you wish to be pedantic) time again and, as ever, expletive-riddled rants that usually begin with “I can’t believe..." and end with "...Glasvegas/Kasabian/La Roux?!!?!!?” are spooled out across the country.

But what’s been gnarling our bark here at UtR towers isn’t so much the line-up itself, as the whole damn point of music awards. On one hand they’re a ‘celebration of music’, a veritable banquet of the best tune-churners around. But on the other, well, all they do is reinforce the stranglehold of commercialism, forcing acts to play ball or die in a cocoon of uncooperative insularity.

So, with our feathers firmly ruffled, we put forward our arguments for and against the never dying beast that is the music awards ceremony...

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"The Mercury at least registers a pulse of vitality"

FOR

By Nick Mitchell

The big gripe that’s always slung at the Mercury Music Prize is that it’s blatantly tokenistic in its cover-all-bases approach. If a contemporary jazz trio are nominated then that’s the ‘token jazz’ slot filled, and the same applies to the ‘token classical’ composer or the ‘token urban’ rapper.

But while the box-ticking nature of the shortlist comes across like the overtly liberal narcissism it undoubtedly is, I would argue that the Mercury winners, on the other hand, are refreshingly unpredictable.

How often do the bookies’ favourites actually triumph anyway? How often are you shocked, blind-sided or just baffled by the name that’s plucked from the envelope by a gurning Jools Holland? So this isn’t always a good thing: Roni Size (right) somehow won with his D’n’B breaks album New Forms in the same year that Radiohead were a shoe-in with OK Computer, an album often voted the best of the 1990s by critics and fans alike.

But no matter, because compared to the artistic flatline that runs through the sales-driven Brits, NMEs, MOBOs et al, the Mercury at least registers a pulse of vitality.

And to those who say the Mercury judging panel is too elitist, middle-class or London-centric, well you’re probably right on all three counts. They will comprise of the usual 40-something, self-congratulatory, media-savvy types we see cropping up on BBC4 music docs or in Observer picture bylines.

But while you might expect such a gaggle of chin-strokers to be insular or stuffy, and just plump for the last cool-sounding CD they heard at their friend’s dinner party in Primrose Hill, I actually think that Mercury panels have shown a remarkably open mind in years gone by.

The aforementioned genre diversity is one argument for this, and the southern bias claim is refuted by the fact that Scottish (or at least part-Scottish) bands have won twice: Primal Scream in 1992 and Franz Ferdinand in 2004.

In 2009 I'd argue the Mercury Prize has never been so important. We are in a recession. Record sales are in freefall and could sorely do with the boost. More importantly though, the endangered creature that is the British music journalist needs something to write about; a big, daft, glitzy party to make them feel important again, and unlimited free booze to consume. They’ll be out of their jobs this time next year, so who could deny them one last, all expenses paid blow-out?

On that note, perhaps someone should establish a Scottish version. And invite us.

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"There’s no need for artists to tussle like leotard-wearing Neanderthals"

AGAINST

By Billy Hamilton

My gripe with music awards isn’t the mutual back-slapping that accompanies these gong bestowing jamborees. Nor is it the self-congratulatory high fives dispensed by industry executives who've craftily wheeled in a few more bucks during notoriously dry months. In fact, my rancour isn’t even concerned with ex-Kenickie wench Lauren Lavern (below) fronting almost every music ceremony in the UK like a cod-faced Jonathan Ross.

No, I’m afraid my pique is gunning for the concept itself.

Y’see, the notion of music as a competition is absurd; a complete abstraction that defies logic. Think of the most successful scenes of the last five years - Baltimore, Montreal, LA, Glasgow. All unmistakably different in both lifespan and ethos, but all founded on one common denominator: an industrious hub created by a core of interlocking bands. There was no rung-climbing aspirations, no overbearing hegemony that dictated the needy few; each was fashioned by a united collective progressing towards a single goal.

So why forge a competition from it?

There’s no need for artists to tussle like leotard-wearing Neanderthals pantomimically playing out a musical Royal Rumble. Challenge each other by all means, but to go mano-a-mano for an award that, ultimately, does nothing but dissipate credibility and alienate fans is beguiling at best, bilious at worst. And, before you ask, yes, these bands have to agree (and many times pay) to be nominated. Awards ceremonies are not the natural order of things.

Let’s be clear, I’m no naive young pup with a rouge-tinted view of the industry. I know money keeps the big four [EMI, Warner, Sony and Universal] on their pedestal; which in turn ensures bands like Glasvegas and Kasabian maintain their penchant for humdrum space filler; which then feeds the PR men, DJs, hacks and whoever else slavers after crumbs from the top table.

But when even the Mercury prize – an award once considered the leftfield better of the Brits’ archetypal bumchumming – nuzzles up with a former sponsor of England's premier football league, the aching reality of these self-serving reacharounds becomes all too clear. Tonight’s winners will be the music industry's Manchester United; a band gearing up for bigger battles at home and abroad. The rest? Well, we all know what happened to Newcastle United last season.


Music awards: good or bad? You tell us...

And if you're really bothered at all, join us on Twitter tonight for a good old moan as the result is announced. Follow @under_the_radar