Middles - Arcade Fire : behind the black mirror

Copyright 2012 Omnibus Press
This edition 2012 Omnibus Press
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EISBN: 978-0-85712-773-0

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Introduction

I AV NO CLU WHO THE SUBURBS IS. WHY THEY GET FICK AWARD WHEN GAGA THERE. THEY PLAY N NON OF MY PEOPLE KNOWS WHO THEY ARE.NOBIDY LIKE EM

FUCK YOU? Who the fuck is Arcade Fire? Stop riggin this shit. U lost many viewers. Look at the reactions. You lost a lot

(Messages on whoisarcadefire.com website)

I t was an awards ceremony like no other, but in many ways it was like all the others.

It is February 2011 and we are in Las Vegas amid a swirling mess of joyless sycophancy, excitable chatter, insincere smiles and the nervous undertone of cautious expectation. Scan the crowd and gasp at famous faces, all primed to bask their egos in shameless glory. They peer over vast, round, drinks-laden tables, a veritable orgy of smug celebrity, the full blast of paparazzi flash, all languishing in tabloid cheese. Baby-faced, miniskirted female television presenters prowl freely.

And look at those faces: Justin Bieber, Eminem and, of course, the omnipresence of Lady Gaga and her not-really-that-strange kookiness. All of them are surrounded by bobbing and swaying minions; important looking men trying desperately to look even more important and glancing nervously towards the stage. The mind loses track of reality as gong after gong is presented between stilted, scripted announcements. Everything, it seems, is clipped to a perfect choreography. The thoroughly stage-managed slice of contemporary music is spliced with glittery glances of stars of yesteryear, all here to play tribute and gain kudos by association with the fast rising stars of 2011.

Perhaps due to the growing realisation that the record industry is on its knees in subjection to file sharing, this years Grammys seems a little different. Record company nerves are more on edge than usual. A million sales can follow a Grammy, making that priceless CD sticker reading Grammy Award Winner all the more important. In an age of universal uncertainty, with the entire music business shattered into fragments by digital downloads and the fast-moving listening habits of its audience, any chance of gong glory is no longer to be sniffed at.

Sell Out?

Of course. Fucking hope so, maan.

No longer is the concept of sell out regarded with disdain. On the contrary, it is actively encouraged by companies and fans alike, even centrally placed in the marketing ethos of hip-hop and rap. Prestigious awards like the Brits and Grammys are merely a cog in this increasingly cynical game. Best Album equals best marketing too. People will keep their jobs. People will smile and, tonight, tumble into gleeful inebriation.

On this night, the honour of announcing the winner of the Best Album category falls to Barbra Streisand, though even a star of such magnitude seems fazed when she rips open the envelope, her facial features noticeably contracting as a twinge of anxiety creeps in. She must not mess up this simple task. She mustnt and she is squinting at the name before her. She is momentarily nonplussed, a flash of panic, of unrecognition, crossing her exquisitely powdered brow. What is the name on this card?

And the winner is

She is visibly fumbling at this point, clearly distressed. Her mouth closes around two words two words delivered in a state of questioning terror. Was it an announcement? Was it a question? Her eyes are shining with What the fuck?

The winner is Theeee Suuuubuuuuuurbs?

For once there is an eerie lull. Then a lonely squeal. Then the sight of a small excitable huddle. Of Arcade Fires Rgine Chassagne spinning round in glee and of an uncomfortable band lost in a state of collective embarrassment.

A chill ripples through the room, a low growl. Cameras flash on the less than exalted faces of disappointed superstars. Lady Gaga looks lost in thunderous disbelief. Elsewhere, theres a sense of embarrassment. Will someone get sacked for this, tomorrow? We expected to win that. Who the fuck is Arcade Fire?

A band with no hits, thats who it is. A band with no identifiable genre which, in itself, makes them a dangerous property. A band rarely glimpsed on MTV. A band that looks like they dont belong anywhere, especially at the Grammys.

The band with no hits takes the stage and begins to play Month Of May, performing before stunned, silent, stony faces. Nil movement. The sheer energy of suppressed hate. Horrified faces

Then they play a second song. This time its Ready To Start and, at last, there is noticeable crowd movement. An initial trickle has become an embarrassing stream aiming for the exit. Its a protest of apathy, setting the seal on a thoroughly disappointing evening.

I mean. Who the fuck is Arcade Fire?

I thought it was hilarious at the ceremony, Arcade Fires Win Butler would later tell Q magazines Simon Goddard. I dont think we have ever played to a more apathetic audience in our lives.

The band flash rebellious faces on finishing, darting from the stage to the door, and Rgine twice, three times, clashes with over-zealous security, their arms across the door. You cant go back there, miss miss MISS. You cannot go back there. That is for artists only.

Eventually, and only after a series of phone calls, Rgine is duly rescued from the ignominy of being the first Grammy-winning artist ever to be barred from her own awards ceremony. But, in another way, ejection from the ceremonial hall would have been perfect.

Rgine: It was kinda funny. I can see the funny side to that. And maybe a little symbolic too. I dont really know the truth of it. Maybe that security guy hadnt been briefed properly. Maybe he expected female musicians to look like Lady Gaga or something. Or maybe he was a Kings of Leon fan I honestly dont know.

It may seem ironic, perverse in its stupidity perhaps, to object so much to an awards ceremony that you are moved to instigate a website dedicated to emphasising a bands state of obscurity. Who is Arcade Fire even became lodged as a top five Google search that catapulted their name through the digital catacombs of Facebook and Twitter, virtually creating for themselves a new cult status among the Gaga freaks and light hip-hop tribes the very people who objected in the first place. So powerful was this electronic wave, so penetrative the new media, that one might have been forgiven for thinking it a record company scam, Machiavellian/McLarenesque in its subversive effectiveness, Suddenly the band with no hits, the band plucked from dense obscurity at the Grammy ceremony, were gathering pace. Could this really have happened by accident?