The BET Awards, that annual orgy of self-congratulation and rhinestone-clad tribalism, has once again proven that American television is a parallel universe where emotions are currency and Lauryn Hill is a ghost. Teyana Taylor, God bless her, wept. And wept.
And wept some more. Her tear ducts, it seems, have become a national treasure. The British arts scene, ever desperate for a crumb of transatlantic relevance, applauded from its damp, cash-strapped corner.
We clap because we want to be included. We clap because our own awards ceremonies are so dreadfully polite. The BET Awards, by contrast, is a glorious, messy, gospel-tinged wreckage of sincerity.
Taylor’s performance was a masterclass in public grieving. She wrung every last drop of pathos from her choreography, a series of jerky, heartfelt convulsions that would have made a mime weep. It was as if she had swallowed a theatre critic and was trying to cough him up.
The tribute to Lauryn Hill, meanwhile, was less a tribute and more a séance. Hill, that elusive sphinx of neo-soul, was honoured by a parade of lesser artists doing their best to sound like her. It was like watching a tribute band play the hits of a ghost.
The crowd swayed, their phones aloft like digital candles. They weren't just honouring Lauryn Hill. They were honouring the idea of Lauryn Hill.
The myth. The woman who, by not showing up, has become more present than any living artist. In Britain, we do things differently.
Our tributes are stiff-lipped affairs. We honour dead poets with grim-faced actors reading their work in a church hall. We don't cry.
We drink tea and mumble. The BET Awards reminds us that we are a nation of emotional accountants. We tally our feelings and present them as a balance sheet.
But America, oh America. They spend their feelings like lottery winnings. They cry on stage.
They honour legends who are still alive and simply refuse to perform. It’s a beautiful, unhinged spectacle. And we, the British arts scene, sit in our damp sitting rooms and applaud.
Because we want to be part of the show. But the show, as ever, is over there.
