Internationally recognised art and literary critic, writer and cultural producer. Published in ELLE, Glamour, Esquire and Cosmopolitan; member of the Union of Writers.
So the list is out. The annual ritual of the Grammy nominations. The press releases land, the headlines get written, and for 24 hours everyone in the music business pretends that this is the most important thing in the world.
And every year, you scan the names, looking for a story. A pattern. Some kind of sign that the people who vote for these things are actually living in the same world as the rest of us.
At first, you just see the big, obvious headline: Kendrick Lamar leads with nine nominations. And you think, of course he does. It’s almost a given at this point. The Grammys need Kendrick more than he needs them. He gives them a credibility they are desperate for. Anointing him with a pile of nominations is the easiest way for them to say, “See? We’re serious. We listen to the important stuff.”
But the most interesting story on this list isn’t at the very top. It’s in the smaller print. It’s the cracks that are starting to appear in the old walls.
Look at Bad Bunny. Three nominations in the big three categories – album, record, and song of the year. For a Spanish-language album. That’s not just a big deal. That feels like a fundamental shift. For decades, the implicit message from the Grammys has been clear: we love ‘world music’, we’ll even give it its own little category down the back, but the top table is for English-speakers only, thank you very much. This feels like a recognition, finally, that the centre of gravity in popular music is no longer exclusively in Los Angeles or New York. The message is clear: you don’t have to sing in English to be in with a shot at the main prize.
And it’s not just him. The K-pop thing. It’s happening. Slowly, grudgingly, but it’s happening. Rosé and Bruno Mars getting nods for record and song of the year. A track from a Netflix film called Kpop Demon Hunters getting a Song of the Year nomination. A few years ago, this would have been unthinkable. K-pop was treated as a novelty, a strange, manufactured phenomenon for teenagers. Now, it’s just… pop. You can’t ignore it anymore. The numbers are too big, the songs are too good.
So what are we looking at here? Is this the Grammys suddenly becoming enlightened and culturally aware? Or is it just a business decision? A recognition that their audience is now global, and if they want to stay relevant, they have to reflect that? It’s probably a bit of both.
The whole thing feels a bit like a very old, very grand London restaurant that has spent years serving the same menu of roast beef and trifle. And now, it’s finally realised that the city outside its doors is full of people eating tacos and kimchi and ramen. So it’s desperately trying to add a few ‘fusion’ dishes to the menu to show that it’s still with it. The intentions might be good, but the execution can feel a little clumsy.
And then you have the figures who represent the establishment. The insiders. Jack Antonoff. Of course. The man is a walking, breathing Grammy nomination. He’s become the go-to producer for a certain kind of intelligent, slightly retro-sounding pop. And he’s brilliant at it. But his dominance also tells you something about the industry’s comfort zone. He represents quality, yes, but it’s a very specific, very familiar kind of quality.
You scan down the other categories. The rock album nominees feel like they could have been nominated in 2005. The traditional country category is, as ever, a lovely and completely irrelevant tribute to the living legend of Willie Nelson. It’s the part of the menu that never changes. The roast beef.
But it’s the big categories, the Album of the Year list, that show the real identity crisis. How do you even begin to compare a Clipse album with a Lady Gaga one? Or a Sabrina Carpenter record with a Kendrick Lamar masterpiece? The answer is, you can’t. They exist in different universes. The category isn’t a battle of titans from the same field anymore. It’s just… a list. A collection of very different, very good albums that have been thrown together in the hope that it looks like a comprehensive snapshot of ‘music’ in 2025.
I remember a time when Album of the Year felt like it meant something. It felt like a genuine cultural event. Now, it just feels like an administrative exercise.
So what’s the verdict? The list is… fine. It’s got some things right. It’s making a clumsy, belated effort to look beyond the English-speaking world. It’s rewarding some genuine brilliance. But it still feels like an institution that is deeply, profoundly unsure of what its job is anymore. Is it to reward commercial success? Artistic excellence? Cultural impact? It’s trying to do all three at once, and the result is a slightly incoherent, slightly confused, but occasionally interesting, mess.
It’s just another list of names. But if you look closely, you can see the story of an industry trying, and mostly failing, to keep up with the world it’s supposed to be reflecting. The usual ritual, then.
