Cultural contests always occasion some handicapping, but this year’s Polaris Music Prize seemed to inspire an unusual number of amateur bookies. CBC Radio 3 went and recruited a research scientist, who used science and graphs to determine that, basically, who knows? The perceived odds for nine other nominees were alternately warped and magnified by Arcade Fire’s sheer gravitational pull. Polaris shortlists typically feature at least one big-name contender, but never in a font so large: The Suburbs sold over a million copies while amassing Grammys, Junos, and yet more garlands.
Since the award stresses “artistic integrity” and its voter pool has formed a reputation for upsets, this caused pre-emptive meta-arguments about whether Canadians would succumb to their traditional resentment of success. Juror Joshua Ostroff even argued that Polaris rules should be changed if The Suburbs lost, excluding LPs above a certain arbitrary sales threshold—the music-criticism equivalent of slouching home with your ball under your arm.
That suggestion is moot, of course, because David got his ass murked. False distinctions between popularity and quality still live; the designated experimental weirdo on 2011’s shortlist, saxophonist Colin Stetson, has sometimes collaborated with its unstoppable crossover juggernaut. The greatest disappointment during an otherwise crowd-pleasing ceremony was the missed opportunity to scramble those rote categories: both Stetson and the controversially gorgeous Destroyer were absent. Of those who did perform, the young artists came on strongest, like NBA rookies bent on pulling off a glass-shattering dunk. Braids introduced some new song, their best, with a casual manner that belied its shivering vocals. Austra staged “Beat and the Pulse” as a ritual of swiveled hips. They’ll all be back.
Any existential angst over the meaning of a prize was dissolved by the gala’s affable hosts, Grant Lawrence of CBC Radio 3 and Damian Abraham of Fucked Up—the latter slimmed-down and dapper yet retaining the visible scar where various objects have smashed against his forehead. Arcade Fire themselves were as bashful and gracious as ever; after that non-upset, Win Butler invited the other nominees to come record at their new studio.
I’ve never been a big fan of his band. I like them best when Regine Chassagne is singing and they’re threatening to make dance music, which feels slightly perverse. I was representing the Bejar Massive with my friend Carl Wilson. But we couldn’t begrudge them, and it was deserved. Maybe that’s what was most Canadian about last night: all these musical partisans, meeting the rain in quiet, good-enough contentment.
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Chris Randle is a regular writer on culture for Toronto Standard.
