Why the Grammys don't matter

(Paul McCartney, Rihanna and Kanye West perform 'FourFiveSeconds' at the 57th Grammy Annual Awards on February 8 2015. Image - Just Jared)

For as long as I can remember, I've looked up to my brother.

Not just because he’s older and taller, mind. He has opinions, strong as himself, and speaks well, but not to the point where he is argumentative. He is extremely intelligent and well-informed, and has always challenged me to think for myself, and not what people tell me to think.

When it came to music, growing up, we rarely agreed on things. I went through the inevitable emo phase, (which I’m not sure I ever really came out of, being), and become obsessed with Fall Out Boy, much to his dismay. When he called them shit, or mocked Pete Wentz’s bass playing, I would defend them to the end.

He would never let up though. Comparing them to John Legend, (an artist we both love), he would always say, “but sure how many Grammys have they won?”

Big fat zero, that’s how many. I listed off the numerous awards they had managed to nab – MTV, Teen Choice, People’s Choice, Kerrang – but he would just laugh.

“They don’t matter!” he said. Artist after artist, he would make me question their credibility as musicians and artists.

Why is that the Grammys are held in such high esteem? What makes the number of Grammy awards a person has the best indication of quality?

Brace yourselves: it doesn't.

Now, that’s not to say that MTV awards and the like are only given to the finest of musicians – far from it. Simply put, the award has come to be nothing more than a title.

This goes without saying, but music taste is completely subjective. It would be impossible for the academy for the Grammys – or any judges board, for that matter – to compile a list that would please everyone.

Criticism of this year's ceremony has been extensive. After interrupting Beck's acceptance speech following his Album Of The Year Win, Kanye said it was all a joke, “like the Grammys themselves”. Ironic, considering he's performed for the academy countless times.

Memes have since circulated comparing Beck's 'Morning Phase' to Beyoncé's self-titled effort which attempt to undermine Kanye's comments about artistry, highlighting Beyoncé's extensive employment of song-writers. Pitting artists against each other like this only devalues the industry itself. Just because Beck arranged his album himself doesn't make it better than 'Beyoncé'. Likewise, Beyoncé's album doesn't trump 'Morning Phase' just because it's Beyoncé.

EDM giants Calvin Harris and Kaskade were also critical. At the inaugural GQ Grammy after-party, they slammed the telecast as “geriatric”, and complained that their music was unfairly represented. Most of the awards for dance categories were awarded before the main ceremony.

In 1989, rap and hip-hop communities initiated a boycott against the Recording Academy when their categories weren't televised. This year, rap and hip-hop artists were serious contenders within certain categories. This, however, has been overshadowed by the fact that this year's Grammys were 'the whitest in 35 years'.

In the past six years, Best Rap Album has gone to white male artists four times – Eminem and Macklemore. In the past four years, there were no black artists nominated for Best New Artist, Record Of The Year and Song Of The Year.

On top of that, Best Rap Album nominee rapper Iggy Azalea was a lightening rod for controversy, accused time after time of appropriating black culture and encouraging black erasure. When she lost out to Eminem's 'The Marshall Mathers LP 2', people reacted gleefully. But was she nominated for the sake of causing a stir? Was it just an attempt on the part of the Recording Academy to stay relevant?

It's not just the Grammys that have been getting a roasting. Resident crank Morrissey penned an open letter recently, criticised both the Brit Awards and the Mercury Prize for giving out awards to artists “who had not earned it”.

"The Brit Awards do not ask the public who they would like to see receive awards - for that would be to risk too much, yet the fierce insistence is that artists are rewarded for their prominence in the previous twelve months because, after all, 'it's what everybody wants'," he wrote.

"Thus, for 2015, we have MacDonna [Madonna], who had a quiet 2014 (but who is quite usefully about to release her new album!), yet here she is again promoting her frightening career on the Brit Awards even though her music has not ever said anything at all about British life."

Morrissey also wrote that awards are a cynical incentive to produce quality music. "At its most honest, the Brit Awards are unfairly given to singers who, it is hoped, might be encouraged enough by the award to actually write a good song. Just as the Mercury Prize lands like a voodoo doll in the hands of the unlucky recipient (who is usually to be found selling mattresses ten months later), a Brit Award generally goes to a lot of shriveled young souls who have not earned it, yet none are likely to ask 'are you sure I deserve it?' - possibly because they know the reply."

Comments on Morrissey's outburst varied. The most significant, however, was probably the one that read, “how can anyone get so bitter over something so insignificant?”

We are now living in age where, hopefully, people are beginning to realise that there is no correlation between the number of accolades an artist or band has garnered, and the quality of their music. People scour obscure music blogs and streaming services to find music they enjoy, and that's fine. Others rely on the charts or popular media when it comes to their listening preferences, and that's also fine.

My tastes have broadened since that conversation with my brother, (Fall Out Boy are still the one, though), and I am insatiable when it comes to my knowledge of music and culture. I'm still learning to form my opinions on things, and how not to be blinkered by mainstream media. My brother and I, we still don't agree on everything, and he still calls me out on my shit.

A couple of years ago, I posted a link to a Bruce Spingsteen song on my Facebook. I can't remember which one. I do remember, however, his comment underneath it.

“Wow, something good for once. I'm proud of you!”

Waxing lyrical

I'm not one to pay attention to the Christmas creep. Well, not really anyway.

I'd avoided all the Bah Humbuggers, collectively cursing the Yuletide and all things related on every social media platform possible. I'd shown equal amounts of indifference to festive manics, saying things such as, "only seven Saturdays 'til Christmas!", as if it had suddenly become appropriate to use the number of Saturdays as an appropriate measurement of time.

I think it was only towards the end of November that it got to me. We were dismantling equipment after an open mic. I did a lap of the room, plucking flames out tea lights with damp fingertips. Usually, the smell of smocking wicks incites different emotions - birthdays, sucrose saturated blood streams, extreme bashfulness due to incessant choruses of "happy birthday to you", (because what did I deserve for them to be singing for me?)

This was different. This was Christmas.

I'm very bad with candles - more specifically, candle wax. I'm a messer as it is, but candle wax is a different ball game. I blow candles out so I can play with the wax. I wiggle them around so that the pool of warm wax builds upon itself. I stick my fingers in it so that it hardens on my fingertips and I resemble some sort of half-human, half-reptilian being.

Or just a freak with a candle fetish.

One Christmas, in the run-up to, I remember my mam had been gifted a tall red Newbridge Christmas candle.It stood in silver stand, with a repeating reindeer pattern. The candle itself was made of twisted wax, with a white wick.

I think I was nine - old enough to know better - and in my eagerness, I knocked the candle off the mantle.

The sitting room looked like a crime scene - hot red wax splashed all over the timber floor. This saw me gleefully pushing my initials into the wax, before I realised that wax dries as quickly as it melts, and that my mam was going to fucking kill me.

Back to present day, approximately 250 kilometres away from my family home, I was filled with an enormous sense of longing. All of a sudden the world gets a little bigger, and so does the distance. I found myself shopping for a Christmas tree for the apartment, despite the fact that only one of my housemates would be up long enough to appreciate it. I decorated it, but it was a shadow of the one at home - sparse lights, mismatched tinsel, tiny stockings stitched in primary school.

 I was ready for the annual argument over the fact we never have potato croquettes for Christmas dinner, courtesy of my sister. I was ready for a house that resembled Santa's grotto. I was ready for my mam telling me to stay away from the candles.

I was ready to come home.

5 Reasons To Date A Girl With An Eating Disorder: A Response

A couple of weeks ago, an article was brought to my attention by a friend, on the website "for masculine men", Return Of Kings. (I would hyperlink it, but I refuse to let Drumbeat Heart be responsible for any more traffic to the site). The title of the article was, '5 Reasons To Date A Girl With An Eating Disorder'. I have refrained from responding to the article until now. My response can be read below).

Nothing screams 'ignorant shit bag', than someone who triviliases mental illness - in this case, specifically eating disorders.

In November of last year, a 'writer', (I use the title loosely), called Tuthmosis published an article on Return Of Kings, listing the five reasons why men shouldn't date women with eating disorders. Eating disorders affect up to 24 million Americans (where the website is based) and 70 million individuals worldwide, according to the The Renfrew Center Foundation for Eating Disorders. More interestingly, an estimated 10 to 15% of people with anorexia or bulimia are male, according to the Review of Bulimia in Males published by the American Journal of Psychiatry - the website's target audience.

Tuthmosis claims to have dated several women with eating disorders, who displayed the traits described in his article. However, I've found a couple of flaws in his theory that girls with eating disorders make ideal girlfriends.

1. Her obsession with her body will improve her looks

Not so. Symptoms of anorexia and bulimia include pale or even grey looking skin, hair loss, blood shot eyes, bruising under the eyes and cheeks and bruised knuckles. Symptoms of binge eating disorder can even include weight gain. No self-respecting man would want their woman looking like that, would they?

2. She costs less money

Again, this is debatable. The Lois Bridges centre my friend attended last year in North Dublin cost nearly €5,000 a week. Ouch. Plus, she's a woman, so she can't be expected to pay her own way, right? Right?!

3.  She's fragile and vulnerable 

No, actually, I can't even think of a valid way to rip the shit out of this point because it infuriates me too much.

4. She probably has money of her own

Refer back to point two.

5. She's better in bed

Let's go back to the symptoms, shall we? Loss of sexual desire, frequent sore throats, constipation and headaches will mean that you'll end up getting even less sex than you were having before, because you're an intolerably awful chauvinistic man.

Let's leave aside the fact that this article is completely anti-feminist, (his other 'articles' include 'Girls With Short Hair Are Damaged', and, '5 Signs A Girl Has Daddy Issues'). That's another argument for another day.

Let's address the fact that when you search for the article, Google auto-completes the search with 'satire'. Since when is encouraging stigmas about mental health and eating disorders satirical or humourous? Did I miss the turning point in comedy when laughing in the face of others' adversities became socially acceptable and cool?

I am one of those people that believe there is a line when it comes to comedy. This is more than offensive. This post could be viewed as triggering to those still suffering with an eating disorder.

The definition of satire is as follows: "attacking human vice with irony, derision or wit". Maybe I'm the only one, but I do not see the irony, or the wit in this piece. I see the words of an extremely troubled, insecure man. People misunderstand satire as much as they misunderstand the nature of eating disorders, meaning people as ignorant and deluded as Tuthmosis will take what he says on board.

You can say me being offended is political correctness gone crazy, or that I shouldn't be getting so upset over something that's just a joke. But when you've been in on the 'joke' and witnessed the suffering first hand, there rarely is a funny side, is there?

Funeral sandwiches

 "Happiness is a drink, a fag or a shag."

Apologies if the following post comes across like a pity parade - it kind of is.

I finished my first year last week. I successfully submitted my last assignment, and I didn't even have to upload a photo to Facebook as proof. Huzzah!

To be honest, I was happy to see the back of the place. I feel like I went through a reverse emotional cycle when it came to college. I found it easy at the start, and was deliriously happy. However, I struggled towards the end. This was largely due to external factors.

I don't want to go into anything too much. Other people are involved here, and I'm not entirely sure how happy they'd be if I went into extensive detail about things that they didn't want to be discussed in the public domain.

My uncle died. It wasn't unexpected, but I don't think that makes a situation any less sad. I'd be lying if I said we were very close or we had a 'special' relationship. But he was a good man. He was always good to me growing up, and to my brother and sister. I knew he, and my aunt, would have done anything for me had I ever been in need. He felt more like a blood relative than an in-law, and it was a shame to see him go. . On the other hand, it was wonderful to see how much of a positive impact he's had on my family and beyond as we reflected on his full life.

A week later, my godfather died. This was not expected. My godfather was not a relative - I was the only one of my siblings to have a god parent that wasn't. But it made no difference.

A large part of my childhood was spent in their house. There, I would draw moustaches and devil horns on all the people in the paper. I would play with their family pet, (Ben, a beast of a dog), for hours, one slobbery tennis ball after another. His wife would give me Weetos and all the other delicious things I wasn't allowed at home, and he would tease me gently and wind me up about anything and everything.

He was good natured and good humoured: a larger-than-life character. He was well-known within the community, as a golfer, a Navy man, a good guy. I knew him as my godfather.

My mam told me before the funeral that he was delighted when my dad asked him to be my godfather. And I was delighted that it was him that was asked. He was my dad's best friend from the age of 18, and I cannot fathom how difficult it must have been to let him go.

On top of that, my dad was asked to give the eulogy. Naturally, he wrote it the morning of, (after much protest from my poor mother - he knew what he wanted to say in his head, wasn't that enough?)

He tripped up here and there - understandably - but otherwise he did a great job, and summed him up perfectly.

"If he could sing, he would have been perfect," he said.


Death and funerals are the only times when such great displays of strength are really acknowledged and appreciated. Similarly, at my uncle's funeral, my cousin - his son - gave a witty, poignant eulogy to a packed church in Dublin. I struggle to speak in public as it is, hence why I was so proud of both my dad and my cousins for giving eulogies dedicated to someone they'd loved and lost.

Death unifies us. It's the only thing that every person has in common - we're all going to die. Though its immediate repercussions are devastating and incomprehensible, death can also bring a sense of togetherness. Families following death resemble the pieces of a mosaic.

This all came to me at my uncle's removal. The way we deal with grief is so typically Irish. One branch of the family will be popping out lasagnes, sandwiches and cake like there's no tomorrow. The other battalion will sit, murmer, comment on the corpse, eat and ask you the same questions about college over and over and over.

"I mean, he looks well, doesn't he? He doesn't look ... Sick, like."

"The glasses. He's missing his glasses. I wondered what was different about him."

"And tell me, do you have exams? What are you doing for accommodation next year?

Then, all of a sudden, the two sides amalgamate. Before you know it, it's 10 o'clock, and 90% of your family are inebriated  - and still scolding you for drinking vodka-laced cocktails with your aunts, (despite being 18 and all).

It'd be difficult to capture a moment like that under different circumstances. Beautiful, raw, unique and completely unconventional. Although I still can't contemplate a life without either of them, it's nice to be able to take something from it that is positive.

"If I never see another sandwich again ... " My other cousin grumbled.

When it's salad and cucumber, who could blame him?

Up in the clouds

The mammy walking through the grounds of St. Philip's Cathedral, Birmingham

I hadn't realised how independent I'd become since moving to Dublin, until I went travelling with my mam recently.

I had asked her to buy me tickets to Fall Out Boy, my favourite band growing up, (reserve your judgement for someone who gives a shit), when they announced a show in Ireland for March.

Naturally, she bought tickets for their show ... In Birmingham.

"Ah sure, we'll just go to Birmingham for the weekend. Be grand."

My mam's cock-up had turned into my first holiday abroad in six years. Result.

I was unbearably excited. I wore the ears off everything talking about the trip. We were due to fly over from at 6:45 am, the night after my school awards. I had frantically prepared an extensive itinerary - we would visit Cadbury World, Birmingham Aquarium, the Jewellery Quarter, Winterbourne House & Garden ...

"Go to bed now and make sure you're up in the morning." Callista 'Two Hours Early' Jones told me.

5.45am.

Five forty five. Am.

"FIONNUALA, YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO LEG IT!"

"Why?"

"BECAUSE'S IT'S QUARTER TO SIX!"

What ensued was possibly the shittest episode of 24 ever ... Teeth were brushed, blood pressures rose, clothes were thrown on as Frank 'I Don't Obey The Speed Limit It Obeys Me' Jones finally came in handy. Half an hour to get to the airport - the race was on.

We were subsequently hurled out of the car, scrambling up the escalator in departures. We joined the queue at our gate: at this stage, years had been put on to me, and I was pretty sure Callista was going to collapse. We began organising our liquids into clear plastic bags (because, naturally, we'd forgotten to do that), and I silently said prayers to whatever deity had decided to scupper our plans to let it go, just this once.

6.30am.

We plowed through baggage as an exasperated flight attendant called our names over the tannoy. Onwards to security. For whatever reason, my mam had decided to wear whatever metal objects she could find in the house. As I breezed through, she was held up for a full body pat down. There I was, surrounded by all the things I loved - tax free alcohol and cosmetics - what was I do to do?

"GO FIONNUALA! JUST TELL THEM I'M COMING!" My mam's voice carried through the duty free.

I turned and ran, hand luggage bobbing, straining for breath. Never before had I wished I'd used my DCU gym membership more than right at that moment. Breathlessly, I told the flight attendant about my situation and scurried on to the plane.

I was now on a plane, by myself, in the midst of the Malaysian airline crisis. Was this the end?

Queue Callista trundling up the aisle. Admittedly, she didn't speak for the majority of the journey, only to occasionally make delirious remarks about the reliability of her phone alarm.

"Next time make sure you set one as well." she told me as we landed.

We arrived at our hotel at quarter past 9, had a breakfast, and began tourist-ing. We headed straight to the Bullring shopping centre, where the credit cards were melted. Five hours later and 500 bags heavier, we trekked back, admiring St. Philip's Cathedral in the centre of town on the way.

Mid afternoon naps were followed by watching Ireland's glorious Six Nations' win in the comfort of our room, before dinner in All Bar One.

The following day saw a trip to The Jewellery Quarter in the sunshine, before more shopping. We watched the St. Patrick's Day parade - the biggest in Europe, would you believe - before heading back to the hotel before more naps.

That evening, I watched my favourite band for the last six years, Fall Out Boy, annihilate the stage. I suffered a punch to the face, and almost sweated my skin cells off, but it was well worth it.

And so, my 'wild' weekend away had come to an end, and the beds beckoned us before another nosebleed flight in the wee hours.

We set two alarms this time. And a wake-up call. Just in case.

Oh, and before I forget ...

Hi Jason and Maria!

For more on my trip to Birmingham, check out my Instagram and my Tumblr! Don't forget to follow me on Twitter either!

Pyjamas and monkey suits

Tuesdays are my favourite days.

The week's barely begun, and already I'm off - no lectures and the freedom to lounge in my apartment. I can sit behind my laptop with a constant stream of tea, pretending to be a journalist. Bliss.

Last Tuesday, I got a text off my friend. It was Enterprise Week, and he wanted me to come with him to some talk on how to enterprise, or whatever ... It was the middle of the day and (naturally) I was still in pyjamas. I was not leaving the house for that very reason.

"It's 1pm!" Barra was baffled on the other end of the phone. My other friends expressed similar sentiments.

My response: "What is it with you and the others and wearing pyjamas after conventional hours? Free your mind!"

"It's not acceptable to wear them while attending college", he said.

Isn't it?

I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm pretty much against wearing pyjamas in public unless it's a dire emergency (the walk of shame doesn't count). As I'm studying journalism, I've read endless books (cough) on the trade, and one the plus sides of being a self-employed journalist means working at home. Which means never having to leave the jammies. So really, I'm just preparing myself for what's ahead of me.

Pyjamas are wonderful things. They bring people together. There's something about onesies that just screams mutual understanding. Just the other night in college, we had a pyjama-themed open mic night. I'd never seen so many overgrown toddlers in a room in my whole life.

Clothes seem to be a big thing in college. I know one of my friends wears a suit to college ever day, as well as polishing his shoes. Me? I'm lucky if I'm dressed for my 9 o'clock starts.

I will admit that DCU has seen me one time too many times in my pyjamas. That technically wasn't my fault, however. I woke up one morning, horrifically hungover, to find a brutish cleaner at my door. It was bed bug spraying day, and, of course, I had forgotten all about it. Queue frantic tipping over of mattress, stripping of sheets and scrambling out of the room.

In my fluffy pink dressing gown (from Lidl, no less), I strutted over to my friend's apartment with more sass than Beyoncé until they were finished spraying.

It's a confidence thing more than any thing. I've been told on several occasions that the stuff I wear is completely outlandish.

"Put it this way", my best friend Val said to me, "If we hadn't been friends already, and I saw you in the street or at a party, I probably wouldn't be your friend. You dress weird."

I can't say she's wrong. I have a fetish for fur coats, and I've been known to make tops out of tights ...

Or maybe we're still conservative when it comes to clothes. Maybe in years to come, pyjamas will be less of a social phenomenon. Men will be legally obliged to wear suits at every opportunity. People won't laugh at me and call me Macklemore when I wear my fur coat in public and it swallows me whole ...

A girl can dream!

Truth

It's safe to say that this week has been a struggle.

Having just typed that, I feel incredibly silly and ashamed. While I have had my own difficulties this week, nothing could compare to the struggles my friends are facing and will continue to face in the coming weeks. While health issues are plaguing one of my best friends, a young man in my year died while on a trip with a college society. I refuse to name him or go into intense details about the case: people are doing enough of that as is. I also would not claim to have ever been incredibly close to the deceased, but on any occasion I did engage with him, he always came across as a very polite, well-rounded young man.

These are hard truths we face. "God only takes the best", we are told, as hands are held and eyes are closed. We pick up our friends from the airport to greet them with smiles and warm hugs, only to be met with ashen faces and distress. Emotions run high as you realise it could have happened to any one. "Life is simple, it's just not easy" - another equally upbeat pearl of wisdom from the powers that be.

You sit and wonder why. You sit and sympathise with the family in a faraway county, who must bury their son in the most tragic of circumstances. You sit and wonder why it wasn't you. You're selfish. You cry wolf and blame anxiety for your cowardliness. You blame others for the self-inflicted panic attacks. You lay awake until five in the morning begging people to talk to you until your heart stops racing. You lie and cry after love in the dark of your room. You call others out for their selfish acts caused by their own inner conflictions. You act recklessly and irresponsibly in a desperate attempt to recapture your spirit and call yourself brave. You are no better for saying no. You are no stronger.

I've spoken briefly before about my anxiety. It's something that's stuck around, and tends to rear its head when I'm alone. Anxiety and loneliness are lovers. I've moved back to Dublin following my Christmas break, and was living in the apartment by myself while all my friends were away. I told my mam, who reassured me I could come home whenever I wanted to. But I turned her down. I saw coming at the weekend as a sign of weakness. I felt like I had something to prove. Going home would be allowing my emotions to win.

My brain became more wound up as cabin fever set in. My sheets were sweaty and I felt like I'd seen everything the internet had to offer me. So, that night, I went out by myself, in a city I am still growing accustomed to. I got drunk, and, in hindsight, put myself in a potentially dangerous position. What I had thought to be a courageous act had been hideously stupid in light of what had happened.

You have your darkest days in exchange for the brightest of nights. Often, the pieces of yourself will feel broken or shift out of place. That doesn't make you weak. Neither does asking for help. Comparing your problems to others' don't make your problems any lesser or any greater. They are still your fears, and they will feel just as real, no matter what the context. I encourage any one with the saddest of burdens to reach out their hand in the dark and take the first step. Despite how small you feel, you will always be the largest part of someone's eye, the plug in the hole in someone's heart. You'd don't go any where alone, and you don't let any one go any where alone.

You'll still over think. You will still cry yourself to sleep worrying about your future in the hands of demi-gods. Bad things will still happen. But not a day will go by when you won't be shining. You are as bright as the day you were born - for always, forever.


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