Gramdad

 I was watching the BBC's coverage of the Grammys. It was strange. The main pundit was a middle-aged man with loose chipping teeth and a pastel shirt, sat deep in his chair with question cards resting in his lap. He was supremely unruffled, as though just returned from a boozy lunch at the BBC Club and was in a GOOD mood. There were a couple of earnest, beardy types Zooming in from papers, and opposite him two young women of colour, who sat forward and were very much engaged with the whole thing. They too had prompt cards. 

The beardy types talked about the history of the Grammys, about who was and wasn't "Grammy material", who had "played the game and campaigned effectively". The women reeled off stats about how many times various songs were streamed, the tally of sales the artists made on a given song and "historically", and how many thousands of times people had performed dance routines to the songs on TikTok, "as a way of expressing their femininity". They were so excited by this they didn't blink while the camera was on them, but I expect that's media training. 

They talked about the artists in terms of what they were wearing, who they were with, their reactions, who they knew, and the scandals and upsets that had beleaguered or enhanced their careers.  

It was odd. I've never watched anything related to the Grammys before, in the same way I never watch the Oscars. They're nonsense. It's gaudy night. It's a wealthy idiot's flex. And there's something so American about it - campaigning for popularity is a very alien concept to your average Britisher. Canvassing politicians are right to fear the slow tread up the footpath to the constituent's door. It's a long time since one was photographed kissing a baby for anything other than blackmail purposes. 

But really. At the risk of sounding like an old fuddy duddy stating the obvious, or worse, some tedious fart complaining about "soul" and "integrity" - those two impostors - a grizzled gate-keeper bemoaning the way things are nowadays, and asking you to name three Phoebe Bridgers songs - not singles - to work out if you're a true fan, it's nonsense isn't it? A room full of twats talking rubbish. And the worst of it isn't even the Grammys, which is exhaustive and exhausting, a spreading counterpane of sets and subsets ad infinitum: Roomful of Teeth won for Best Chamber Music/Small Ensemble, The Diary of Alicia Keys won for Best Immersive Audio Album, either Depeche Mode or Wet Leg (it's not clear) won for Best Remixed Album, Non Classical (the phantom of Hooked on Classics lingers on). Star Wars Jedi: Survivor won the Grammy for Best Score Soundtrack for Video Games and Other Interactive Media. 

On and on it goes, on and on...and really, I'm sort of okay with that. The dressing up, the faux solemnity, the reaction shots, "what? Me? NOOOOOO?", the nonsense feuds, the shit outfits, that bloke getting arrested straight afterwards...that's fine. It's nonsense and a hideous waste of time, but fine...

But we don't have to play along. We don't have to admire the Emperor's fresh 'n' fly new duds. We don't have to pretend this means anything. We used to mock this sort of faux-seriousness. This self-aggrandising nonsense (unless the Queen/ King was up to stuff - bit of a blind spot there). I wonder about this click-bait acceptance of the worth of anything we're told is important and good, this wide-eyed yes yes yesness, as long as people keep watching, people keep scrolling the sidebar, people engage with our associated advertisers, because that's all there is now, and where it's taking us. If we surrender our disinclination to be impressed by faff, nonsense and flummery, who even are we? 

Tinseltown was intended to be an insult, not town-planning for a small Hertfordshire new town. We may not have much, Britain, but we have our scorn. You have nothing to sneer but sneer itself.