The Brits. Honestly, why do I still watch this, when I could be doing something more spiritually nourishing, like punching myself in the face? It must be some notion that I still have, somewhere deep inside, that pop can still thrill, move, delight and transport. On the evidence of this parade of mediocrities, I must be wrong.
It’s been easy the last five years, since
Talking of Winehouse, she was literally the only good bit. Happily, she got two bites at the cherry. She couldn’t stand still and looked hugely nervous, like it was her first time on stage: skirt hitching, hair-twiddling, hopping around like a kid. But the voice: like she’d been singing for a hundred years. There was something thrilling about “Valerie”, as she seemed to be stunt-singing her way around the melody, without ever looking like she was about to crash. Adele, Kate, Leona et al can only dream.
But it says something that the best bit of the evening was a medley of old songs. The only other good thing, apart from Amy and the end, was that I missed Mika opening the show with his “Grace Kelly”.