Established in 1977 and taking the format of an annual awards ceremony from 1982, before the advent of social media, the BRITs were the place where some of the year’s biggest pop culture moments played out. The only televised music awards ceremony in Britain until well into the ‘90s, the excitement of live broadcast and the promise of antics from ‘overly refreshed’ (thanks, Mum) attendees encouraged high viewing figures. From Jarvis Cocker’s infamous 1996 mooning of Michael Jackson’s ‘Earth Song’ and Robbie Williams challenging Liam Gallagher to a fight on stage in 2000 (whatever he said, whatever he did – he didn’t mean it, I’m sure) to The KLF’s dramatic ‘exit’ from the music business in 1992, complete with a dead sheep, a disgusted conductor, and several blanks fired from a machine gun, there was never a dull year. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.
Anthropologically, the inter-generational BRIT-watching experience is a key site of socialisation into this arcane pop culture knowledge, gifted to us youngsters around the (electric) fire with all the gravity of great wisdom being imparted. This was absolutely not the way that I found out that Mabel is Neneh Cherry's daughter in the late 2010s (or, in fact, who Neneh Cherry is).
The point is, a communal awards-show watching experience can promote conversations about some of the must-know samples, covers, and nepo babies in 21st century pop. In doing so, the BRITs have the potential to provide a one-night-only musical extravaganza where housemates or family can learn (with varying degrees of defensiveness) from each other about a common interest.
As the accelerating nostalgia railroad has started encroaching on decades that some of us remember first-hand, it can be an interesting opportunity to see who’s stood the test of time, and trace pop lineages within our own century. Trying to communicate the Midwest Princess’ cultural impact to an older acquaintance by describing Chappell Roan (justly nominated for International Song and International Artist of the Year) as 'Lady Gaga for people who don't remember the credit crunch', and the appearance of Chase & Status with Stormzy in the nominations for Song of the Year begs the question: could late ‘00s recession pop or early 2010s DnB be the next eras in line for a spin in the 20-year trend cycle?
Coming together in person to watch nominees from a variety of genres – country, nu-metal, grime, bedroom pop, and rap are just a handful of the sounds represented this year – encourages conversations that cross-cut our usual musical rotations. We can debate the relative feminisms of brat summer vs tortured poets in private jets (Charli xcx is nominated five times this year, Taylor Swift twice), stretch our indie muscles, and reveal our not-quite-over emo phases (Bring Me The Horizon are nominated for Group of the Year), learning more about each other in the process.
Which of your housemates is going to use the nominations for Group and Song of the Year to start the Are Coldplay Actually (/Still) Good discourse? Who is going to proclaim they just KNOW so-and-so is an ‘industry plant’; who will take the Beatles’ nomination for Song of the Year as their cue to tell everyone the White Album is so overrated, not as good as the rumoured samizdat recording of their first rehearsal of ‘Twist and Shout’ recorded in Paul’s dad’s living room in 1962, which is definitely a thing, right?
These conversations, which shows like the BRITs can generate, encourage us to expand our musical horizons a little bit, complementing our Release Radars and Discover Weeklys. Also, it’s good for the soul to experience the epic highs and lows of your favourite artist not being nominated and/or winning that award they absolutely should have had in the bag. Honestly.
Real music snobs know the simple truth is this: anyone who knows fewer of the nominees than you do must be old enough to remember when the big Mr Hewson of Irish rock sported a proper mullet, and anyone who knows more than you do is an irritating know-it-all and/or brainrotted TikTok-addicted NPC.
In seriousness, though, in a decade where music consumption and tastes are increasingly influenced by algorithms and six-second viral audios, the opportunity to get together for real-life conversations about music is no bad thing. Don’t get me wrong - I love a hyper-specific Spotify playlist as much as the next listener (I’m currently on number 410, with no plans of stopping). Interesting and refreshing reflections on genre happen through the democratisation of music production and commentating abilities possible online – the musical landscape is weirder and richer for born-digital contributions like the existence of Simpsonswave, and the coining of Midwest emo as a genre, for instance.
However, with the decline of more communal everyday means of consuming and sharing music – the stuttering last breaths of even the Christmas special episode of Top of the Pops rattling through the early 2020s, the progressive whittling down of TV music channel numbers, and the move of magazines like Kerrang! to an on-demand or primarily online format - music consumption is increasingly organised around individually-tailored online bubbles. Perhaps, for one night only, the BRITs can provide us with a brief interlude of a different way of interacting with music.