Once, Britain had a common soundtrack. From the Beatles and the Stones to Live Aid and Britpop, the arts gave us collective moments. Even when we argued about politics, we recognised the tune. Streaming changed that. Personal playlists replaced public ones. The abundance of choice technology promised has dissolved the sense of national discovery that prizes like the Mercury were meant to celebrate.
From the Booker of music to the age of metrics
The Mercury Prize began in 1992 as a thoughtful alternative to the BRIT Awards — a “Booker Prize for music” dreamed up by industry leader Jon Webster and music sociologist Professor Simon Frith, who helped design its judging ethos.
I once had a university tutorial with Frith, who said, half in jest, that when he was young they worried about the overthrow of capitalism — whereas by the 1990s they just worried about what was to be included in the English curriculum. It was a brilliant confession that even the rebels had been absorbed by the institutions they once challenged.
That quip has stayed with me because it captures our cultural journey: from revolution to revision, from subversion to strategy meeting. The Mercury, conceived as a prize for the uncompromising, now has to prove that excellence still matters in a world ruled by clicks.
A hometown win with national meaning
Holding the ceremony in Newcastle — and awarding it to a Newcastle-born artist who writes about working-class life, economic stagnation and community pride — gave the evening an unexpected symmetry. Fender’s songs resonate because they treat ordinary lives as worthy of epic treatment. His win was a quiet rebuke to the idea that “the North” produces either grievance or novelty.
Britain’s cultural funding still tilts toward the capital. Opera houses and galleries soak up subsidy while regional theatres and local papers close. The result is resentment — a sense that “culture” belongs to someone else. The Mercury’s northern debut offers a modest correction, suggesting that excellence is not a postcode privilege.
Authenticity and its imitators
In politics, “authenticity” has become performance art. Figures such as Nigel Farage and Donald Trump prosper not because they are honest but because they sound unfiltered. Populism uses the same tools as the creative industries — the edit, the clip, the viral share — to turn grievance into belonging.
If cultural institutions want to rebuild trust, they must learn from that without copying it. Real connection requires proximity, not pandering: commissioning locally, sharing decisions, and reflecting lived experience rather than abstract ideals drafted in Soho boardrooms.
Building new communal moments
Technology isn’t the enemy; apathy is. YouTube and TikTok already host thriving communities around folk, grime and jazz. The challenge is to connect those micro-cultures to public institutions that can give them permanence. Short-form content may spark discovery, but long-form storytelling still builds empathy — and empathy is democracy’s raw material.
When a John Lewis Christmas advert moves millions, it’s because, for a few days, the nation feels something together. The Mercury Prize can still do that: remind us that artistry is not just content, and that listening together is an act of citizenship.
Towards a new settlement
Reconnecting Britain’s cultural life will take more than touring ceremonies. It means re-imagining how we fund and value the arts. Every region should have a claim on the national story. Re-investing in local journalism, community theatre and small-venue touring would do more for cohesion than a hundred marketing campaigns.
Culture cannot replace policy, but it can create the empathy that policy cannot buy.
When Fender lifted the trophy in Newcastle, he showed that Britain hasn’t lost its capacity for shared meaning — it just needed a stage outside the capital. If that becomes the Mercury’s new tradition, then a prize founded to celebrate authenticity might finally help a divided nation find its voice again.