It’s not that I don’t understand how The Mercury Music Prize managed to weave its way into the collective unconscious as a funnel shaft for respectable music, but, more deceivingly, how it manages in each successive year to vex people with typically self-respecting tastes into believing that it should be reaching higher and searching outside the membrane of its predictably standardised format for nominee selections (i.e. one ambient singer songwriter, the latest post-garage trend and the latest batch of banal guitar-centric boy bands) .

Let’s break down my first assertion: Mercury’s initial image as British opinion setter for adults and amour-propre music moguls.  Itchy beards and musicology degrees aside, they had gathered an array of acts from across the mainstream spectrum for the first ‘album of the year‘ award in ‘92. With the likes of the Jesus and Mary Chain and Saint Etienne filling the airwaves of popular stations and CD shops (R.I.P.), it wasn’t hard to get it right. With the exception of the now as-standard buried jewels such as Durban’s Bheki Mseleku and the fantastic, trailblazing Jah Wobble contending for the accolade, it understandably felt like they were breathing life into a Brit-pop dominated mainstream awards scheme in the UK (although notably they failed to consider important acts in the innovative Junglizm movement, many of whom were at the height of their powers during this time). For Primal Scream’s Screamadelica to win against the clear commercial favourite and now hugely revered (though over-rated)  Achtung Baby (U2), they managed to forge a perception that I myself still find difficult to shake off, however inexplicable my inclination is.

For years this mould wouldn’t be broken: Artistically successful acts would be considered but overlooked by smaller, more contentious bands. Fast forward to 2008 and I’m screaming at my screen, friends, family, MYSELF at the decision to award Arctic Monkeys the ‘honour‘, when I  know that only two years before Franz Ferdinand had won, rivaled by Snow Patrol and Keane. In order to describe my opinion of these acts, I would have begin by addressing my interpretation of why I know about them in the first place. Why are they in my head, why do I know about them, why are they in my life? They don’t deserve to be bands, they deserve none of the airplay or attention that they receive. They do nothing for music apart from remind fledgling acts that any attempt to breathe life into the dead parrot that is pop song-structure and transparent imagery is futile, and more significantly, totally marginalized commercially.

But my argument doesn’t focus on the bootlessness of modern pop content. Take a look at 2004’s shortlist, for example. Although I disagree that Antony and the Johnson’s I am a Bird Now should have won the award, I do concur with its recognition. Overarchingly though, the nominees left out were, almost completely, murderously merde. The Kaiser Chiefs - KT Tunstall - Hard Fi - really?? This was five years ago, and yet I fail to acknowledge why I haven’t moved on from feeling annually terrorised. In essence, arrows point towards outside factors contributing to the homogenisation and stoop in quality of the selections. It’s not as if acts aren’t out there for us to enjoy and appreciate: There are bands popping up all over London and especially Brooklyn that have made both informed and informing impacts on local scenes from coast to coast. Mercury seem to have developed an intolerance for looking further than commercial channels for inspiration when the climate for free artist networking and advertisement at the touch of a button is flourishing beyond compare and sprouting new innovative ganglia (such as Spotify). Lazy, poor in judgment and yet able to retain a sense of superiority…Mercury, get out of my head.

Posted In Features, Aug 16 2009. Words - Jack