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Mercury Players

The Mercury Prize, 19 years old, has had a mixed past.  It's chosen duds, and brilliant albums.  What it has done is select the 12 "best" albums of popular music each year, made in Ireland or Britain, from an eclectic genre-list, of avant-jazz to hip hop to nu-folk, and all stops in between.  Famously, PJ Harvey, who won again last night, making her the Don Paterson of the music world, first won exactly a decade ago, on September 11th.  That time, the album was Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea, her finest work, until Let England Shake appeared earlier this year.  It is, as I have written earlier at Eyewear, an album for the ages, one crafted with the sort of literary intelligence we normally associate with poets.  Speaking of Englishness in the context of war and empire, it could not have come at a more apt moment, and to win on the eve of the first decade of 9/11 is an unusually satisfying cultural moment of deserved recognition.  Harvey, who spoke live on TV last night to accept her award, appears to be very intelligent, lucid, dedicated - a genuine artist.  She made me proud for the British music scene, often portrayed as loutish, drug-addled, and vain.  We need more Harveys.  It only remains to be said that Katy B would have also made a great choice, but her album, brilliant as it is, lacked the cohesive moral and aesthetic vision of the winner.
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