Reports are trickling in, much like the cheap gin I’ve been mainlining since breakfast, that the British music industry has thrown a massive stadium show for Gorillaz, the cartoon band that has somehow convinced us all to take them seriously. Let’s get this straight: a collective of animated characters, drawn by someone who probably hasn’t touched grass since the 90s, is now being celebrated as the vanguard of global cultural dominance. This is like giving a participation trophy to a particularly ambitious fever dream.
Backstage, which I imagine smells of ozone and regret, industry bigwigs are no doubt patting each other on the back with the enthusiasm of a seals clubbing themselves. They’ll be toasting to ‘innovation’ and ‘boundary-pushing’ while conveniently ignoring that the whole enterprise is built on the back of a man in a dressing gown who once said something about a plastic beach. Meanwhile, the actual band members – real, breathing humans presumably on a payroll – are probably being paid in exposure and the occasional cup of tea.
The show itself, a one-off extravaganza, must be an absolute riot of sensory overload. I picture strobes, holograms, and a crowd so caffeinated they might spontaneously combust. And for what? To celebrate the fact that a fictional entity can sell more records than your average reality pop star. The British music industry, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that the best way to assert dominance is to create a meta-narrative so convoluted that even the most dedicated fan would need a flowchart.
This is the same industry that gave us Brexit, the Spice Girls, and the understanding that a good soaking in the rain is a rite of passage. Now they’re championing a band that exists primarily as a series of YouTube videos and merchandise. It’s a masterclass in marketing: create a product that can’t complain on Twitter, release an album of generic pop with a quirky twist, and watch the cash roll in. And they call this cultural dominance. I call it a confidence trick of the highest order.
We must also consider the sheer absurdity of the backdrop. A stadium show, in a world that is literally on fire, where people are still arguing about whether masks are oppressive, and the government has decided that the best use of public funds is to prop up a cartoon. This is the contemporary British music scene: a glittering corpse propped up by nostalgia and a total disinterest in the actual state of affairs.
But let’s not be too harsh. Maybe this is the only way we can achieve global dominance: by retreating into a fantasy where animated bands rule the charts and reality is just a suggestion. I, for one, will be drowning my sorrows in a poorly mixed gin and tonic, watching the livestream from the comfort of my crumbling flat. In the meantime, I invite you to join me in a toast. To Gorillaz, the band that proves it doesn’t matter if you exist. As long as you sell. God save the king, and gods save us from this bloody mess.
