Not the Mercury Prize

The Mercury Prize List, as it should be. Probably.

So this year’s contenders for the Mercury Prize have been announced, and its the usual bizarre mix of elitism, populism and tokenism, with a few glaring emissions. Had I chose the nominees (who does, exactly?), it would read something like this:

Los Campesinos! – Hold on Now Youngster…
The coyest, most knowing record of the year, the Cardiff-based seven-piece created a debut which instantly draws you in with its unashamedly pop heart, and keeps you interested with its literate brain. It owes as much to the hardcore of Black Flag and Minor Threat as it does to the cardigan-rock of Pavement and Beat Happening, so don’t let its saccharine appearance fool you into thinking Los Camp can’t rock with the best of them.

Burial – Untrue
Also on the Mercury list, the elusive dub DJ is the nominee causing tabloid hacks the most confusion this year (see also Antony Hegarty and any jazz nominee ever), but this deep, brooding effort fully deserves to be brought to a wider audience.

Note to the bloke in the Sun: if Burial turns out to be Fatboy Slim, then I look like a young Nelson Mandela.

Portishead – Third
Bristol’s finest (sorry Tricky mate) finally returned after a seven year hiatus with the dullest title of the year, but a record that was far from dull. As edgy and deep as ever, with tracks ranging from ethereal beauty to those with beats that could cripple a man.

M.I.A. – Kala
The melting-pot sound of modern Britain flicking two fingers at ‘the Good Ol’ Days’: from African tribal rhythms to kitsch Bollywood covers, via Aboriginal wood sections, choirs and quite probably a kitchen sink, if there was any justice Kala would waltz to victory in the Mecury Prize. Alas, it wasn’t even nominated.

Frightened Rabbit – The Midnight Organ Fight
More sweary than me when I’ve had too much Southern Comfort and I’m confronted with an idea anywhere to the right of Trotsky, Scotland’s finest purveyors of Jock national stereotypes created a bittersweet, drink-sodden ramble through the murky, dingy streets of the Borders.

The Shortwave Set – Replica Sun Machine
Produced by Dangermouse, and partly arranged by John Cale and Van Dyke Parks, it was never going to be anything short of excellent, was it? Not that there wasn’t already enough in-house talent to create something special, either: The Shortwave Set’s alt-rock teemed with gentle-electronica is consistently tremendous.

School of Language – Sea from Shore
The constant overlooking of Field Music’s delightful retro-pop led to their probable split, and so David Brewis released Sea from Shore under this moniker: taking the toying pop sensibilities of his former (maybe) band and running wild with them under a multi-instrumental veneer.

Frank Turner – Love, Irove & Song
As much as I love Conor Oberst, the Bright Eyes’ frontman’s often overwrought worthiness is in my eyes exactly what prevents him becoming the ‘new Dylan’, or the ‘new new new Dylan’, as we’ve already truckloads of troubadours bestowed with grandiose comparisons to the reluctant ‘voice of a generation.’ Dylan though, had a sense of humour, and a lack of belief in his own hype or importance. The laconic, sardonic Turner also has his tongue often firmly in cheek, a jaded voice for the lost Left and the lost loves.

Hot Chip - Made in the Dark
Showing they can be as tender as they can geeky and dancy, Hot Chip’s third LP took them into stadium territory, with the aptly titled club-hit Ready for the Floor and the festival singalong title track, and a vastly improved live show to boot.

The Futureheads – This is Not the World
After the sadly underrated News and Tributes, the Sunderland quartet ripped it up and started again, leaving their record label to self-release this roaring work of near-perfect pop-punk.

Johnny Greenwood – There Will Be Blood (Soundtrack)
The Token Classical Entry, the score to Paul Thomas Anderson’s is an evocative, unsettling work that proves Greenwood’s multi-instrumental, trans-genre brilliance.

Radiohead – In Rainbows
Yes, this is bottom of the list because I forgot all about it until writing about Mr. Greenwood. Sometimes you can’t see the wood for the trees: their seventh opus caused ructions in the industry and brought the phrase “doing a Radiohead” into the vocabulary of clichéd journalists everywhere. It was, however, all trailblazing aside, a bloody fantastic album, as glitchy and neurotically brilliant as anything else they’ve committed to record.

I still like the Mercury Prize though, if only for how it perennially confuses the fuck out of the Sun.