The Great Irish Music Famine

 
 

The New Year is upon us which can mean only one thing – it’s time for the lurid build-up to that annual vomit-fest known as the Meteor Awards, writes Paul Fennessy

Every year the cream of the Irish music scene gather together as a nation holds its collective breath in anticipation for the prestigious Meteor Ireland Music Awards… or so the two or three pompous, self-important twits that run the Irish music industry would have you believe (Cheers for the complimentary tickets, guys).

This annual gathering of The Script, Westlife and a whole host of other people that you’ve never heard of is once again set to showcase the best of Irish music ‘talent’ – desecrating the sanctitude of human decency in the process – as all concerned unanimously stroke their unseemly egos (among other things).

As I visit the awards’ website, purely for research purposes of course, the first thing that catches my eye is a poll: “Who is Top of Your Best Dressed List: Katie Perry/Robert Pattinson/Lady Gaga/Westlife?” It immediately becomes clear that the show has been established purely for the benefit of 12-year-old girls and paedophiles.

This year, the two obligatory big draws appear to be Paolo Nutini and Michael Bublé. In other words, two acts so remorselessly bland that they are guaranteed to segue perfectly with the Bore-onas and the Shit Patrols of this world.

Admittedly, the likes of Nutini and Bublé are fine for people who sell insurance for a living. However, for the rest of us breathing creatures that actually possess emotions and acquire complex systems of knowledge, listening to these ‘artists’ feels more sinful than festooning your body with nothing but chocolate sauce, before spontaneously embracing that hot female lecturer you’ve been fantasising about. (Ahem, I really like Michael Bublé – ed)

Florence and the Machine – the only non-Irish group who have been confirmed to appear – are a shoe-in for Best International Band (why would they bother turning up otherwise?). This will consequently satisfy Florence Welch’s desperate, relentless need for adulation on account of her crippling case of gingerness. In addition, viewers will also have the opportunity to see blatantly not-Irish Snow Patrol glumly warble their way through ‘Chasing Cars’ for the ten thousandth time.

Moreover, the press release for the Meteors was clearly constructed by someone who was dangerously intoxicated whilst writing it. It affirms that the event “promises to be the musical highlight of the year”. Remember those old football boots adverts that described Gareth Southgate – who incidentally happened to be endorsing the product in question – as the “champion of English football”? The aforementioned Meteor-related claim makes that pronouncement seem almost viable by comparison.

Furthermore, I have a few helpful suggestions which are certain to amplify the inanity and general air of sadism that permeates the event, thus ensuring that it succeeds in illustrating the utter pointlessness of humanity.

Instead of a music industry award, how about an award for the most irritating, sycophantic and unashamedly vacuous PR person? Instead of recognising the best DJ, why not give the prize to the radio personality who manages to consume the least vodka while adhering to their meticulously soulless, virulently repetitive, insurance-man-approved playlist? Instead of calling it the Meteor Awards, why not be honest and label it ‘The yearly congregation of untalented, disposable musicians with an aptitude for delusions of grandeur and a proclivity for getting pissed’?

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