After The Noise

Everything Is Equal

Saturday 28 February 2026

The Brit Awards 2026, ITV1 (2026)

Living in Manchester, it’s been inescapable. Posters everywhere. For the first time, the Brit Awards has ventured outside the centre of the entire universe — London.

I don’t think I’ve watched it since Madonna famously lost a fight with a cape. Back in the dark ages, the Brits felt as important as the Oscars. Big collaborations. Big incidents. Jarvis Cocker protesting against Jacko being wacko. Mick Fleetwood and Sam Fox ensuring they’d never present anything ever again.

Since launching The Listening Log, I’ve dipped a toe into the modern fangled pool: Styles, Dean, Swift, XCX. So I felt vaguely qualified to observe.

Harry Styles opens proceedings. Not bad. A song from Harry’s House (which I’ve stuck on the After The Noise playlist) is yet to properly bleed into my ears, but I suspect it’s only a matter of time.

Olivia Dean is up next. Media darling of the moment. I’m still trying to work out why.

Winners read their acceptance speeches from phones, which looks oddly corporate. Meanwhile, the nominations list sounds like someone generated it by shaking a Scrabble bag: Geese, Barry Can’t Swim, Sleep Token, Turnstile.

Or maybe I’m just a senile old git.

Jack Whitehall holds it together admirably. His face has been plastered across Manchester for weeks and I loudly claimed not to know who he was. Apparently, he’s some kind of comedian. He’s a safe pair of hands, and I grudgingly admire how he steers the ship.

Robbie Williams now gives out Brit Awards instead of collecting them. He’s ageing gracefully, greyer but still very Robbie.

The true Manc royalty of the night are Bez and Shaun Ryder. They shuffle on to present an award to Wolf Alice. Singer Ellie — not an Alice — reads from her phone. Lola Young does the same. The mobile teleprompter era is alive and well.

To be fair, nobody else read from their phones.

Whitehall later interviews Ryder, who claims him and Bex have been in a sexless marriage for 42 years. Still sharp, still chaotic.

Rosalía is hyped as the great moment. It feels like it’s trying very hard to be more exciting than it actually is — until Björk appears. Dressed outrageously. Sounding magnificent. A genuine treat.

The pop kids would probably have trouble knowing who Bjork is. A lot of the new performers seem to prefer spectacle over content.

Whitehall continues to ham it up. Alex Warren performs a song that’s apparently been number one. Again, high art with a full orchestra.

A pianist appears who looks suspiciously like James Blunt. Because it is James Blunt. The Blunt remains brilliant. Follow him on X. Trust me.

Bobby Gillespie presents an award to Noel Gallagher. Both ageing well. Slightly sheepish. It’s strange watching Brit Award darlings from thirty years ago still holding cultural weight.

Gallagher delivers exactly the kind of speech you’d expect from Noel Gallagher. A fair bit was predictably bleeped out.

Skepta appears. Looking almost normal. Presents to Mark Ronson.

After the recent BAFTA Tourette’s debacle, the censors are clearly on edge. There’s a 15-minute delay, meaning we miss an anecdote from Ryder and some Epstein/Mandelson banter from Whitehall. The bleeping becomes irritating. You know you’re missing something mildly interesting.

Mark Ronson takes to the decks, dancing awkwardly while a rapper in bright yellow trousers appears. The crowd cheer. I ought to know who he is.

Turns out it’s Ghostface Killah of Wu-Tang Clan. Fifty-five years old. Needs looser clothes.

Amy Winehouse appears in the Ronson medley. Well handled. Then a scantily clad woman materialises. I know that face. Of course. Dua Lipa. I should have known.

Rosalía wins. Members of the currently on-hiatus Little Mix present. Like Robbie, once winners — now presenters.

Tim Burgess ambles on. He hasn’t aged at all. I once interviewed him and he bought me a Guinness. Tribute to Mani. A nice Manchester moment.

Then the inevitable montage of those we’ve lost.

Wolf Alice perform. Modern staging seems to require people writhing artistically in the background at all times.

Olivia Dean wins again. The Brits always anoint a darling. She’s starting to grate. Lots of shrieking. Lots of tears. Lots of thanking “the team”. By now the audience are well lubricated. I’ve overdosed on crackers and herbal tea.

I can’t be certain, but I think she ignored The Blunt who co-presented her an award with some lippy woman whose no doubt famous but I had no clue who she is.

And if she did ignore The Blunt, then life imprisonment is a fitting punishment.

Sombr. Couldn’t quite stretch to the “e”, could you? Twenty years old. Bedroom viral sensation. This is actually very good. At one point someone runs onstage and punches him. Turns out it’s part of the act. Briefly had me.

No orchestra. No dancers. Just a band. A voice. Proper songs. Unexpected triumph. His album has now been inserted into my Everything Is Equal playlist.

Ozzy Osbourne receives a posthumous lifetime achievement award. No argument there. Shame it couldn’t have happened while he was alive. Dolly Parton appears via film tribute. Because why not.

Although even Whitehall seems a little baffled why Parton is doing a video tribute.

Sharon gives a long but heartfelt speech. With Kelly. What on earth has happened to Kelly? She speaks with a posh English accent and looks very gaunt these days. Possibly some work been done as well?

The slightly burly, awkward, American accented, gobby teenager has long gone. I thought it might be Aimee. She lets Sharon do most the talking.

Robbie returns to sing Ozzy. Surprisingly strong. No theatrics. Just a band and “No More Tears” with stills of the man himself behind them. Simple. Effective.

It was watchable. Entertaining enough. But not the spectacle of old.

Maybe that’s me. Maybe I’m just older.

But it felt safe. Very safe. And in 2026, safe often equals slightly dull. This need artists have to try and make it a spectacle by adding lots of dancers and/or an orchestra.

The excitement that once defined the Brits has faded. Everything feels like it’s already been done.

Still, for a night outside the centre of the universe, it wasn’t bad.

And I didn’t even throw a biscuit at the television.

END OF LISTENING LOG

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