Two weeks have passed and still the bad taste lingers. A certain shivery unease remains and the terrible flashbacks continue to come - sudden half-remembered glimpses of the nightmare that so dazzled Dublin. Maybe you had the same dream? One where a smug limo cruises the closed-off streets in triumph and everybody in town rushes out to cheer in a ticker tape parade of swirling punts?
And within that limo, there is a figure in a black suit and he is grinning at the ease of it all. He is high on his absolute victory, and he laughs at how eagerly we have all capitulated to such an obviously grotesque charade. With pride, he toasts the death of music and the fact that "cool" Dublin has turned out to be more of a pushover than he could have possibly hoped.
And then the limo slides up to the kerb and a pair of cowboy boots emerges onto the sidewalk. The shadowy figure remains inside as the crowds surge forward and, one by one, kneel and hungrily kiss the boots. And then, when the leathery legs are suddenly withdrawn, the people whimper and moan and the limo pulls away - heading at great speed back towards the pits of Hell (via The Point).
It is a strange nightmare I know, but I had it two weeks ago - and I was awake at the time. I was watching, from the corner of my eye, the television coverage of the MTV horror and was struck, more than ever before, by the magnitude of its awfulness. And what made it even worse was the fact that this was all happening in our soulful, funky and "happening" city. Here was tigerish Dublin, proudly licking its paws as the world's capital of banality, exploitation and media excess. Here was something very hard to watch.
And then the real horror struck that maybe this is what we've really come to be expert at - things meaningless, empty and cynical. Of course, the signs have always been there. Let's not forget that we were once a major European power back in the glory days of Eurovision. But even Eurovision was never like this. There was nothing much to laugh at here. It was all far too nauseating to be giggled at and there was a dull defeat in the air. Maybe the bad guys had won? Maybe the people we had always sniped at - the thoughtless performers and footsoldier jocks did, in fact, rule the world? They had clearly served their master well, and this MTV orgy of nothingness was their grand reward. All we could do was watch in disbelief.
But then, this week, I began to gather myself again. I decided that the answer is simply to stop calling it music in the first place. Because it isn't music. Certainly it employs notes and rhythms, but it's not music. Most of what we saw was the end result of a thoroughly cynical and entirely commercial process. It works like this: the record companies (or enterprising Svengalis) come up with acts, the money is spent, the hack tunesmiths write the material, the material becomes the product, the product is hyped and then the obedient radio and MTV spreads the stuff like slurry. You don't even have to go in for payola any more because everybody so desperately wants to be part of the process that nobody ever challenges anything - at any stage. And the kids, coralled at the front to provide enthusiasm on occasions such as this, take what they get.
I'm setting myself up here I know. There are a several obvious points to fling back at me. Firstly, music was always a business. Be it Hank Williams, Robert Johnson or Duke Ellington - it was always about money because that's how these people earned their living. But it was the music which propelled the business, not the other way around. So, I'm not saying for a moment that what passes for music in by book, is untainted by greenbacks. But, at least, it was music and, at some point, was only about music. The worst of the MTV stuff is never about music - ever. There isn't even a single musical impulse at any point in the procedure.
Secondly, bands and groups have long been manufactured by clever businessmen. The Supremes were a girl band, The Temptations were a boy band - and, in fact, the whole Motown phenomenon was a strictly controlled commercial enterprise. But that said, there was never any doubt about the talent. For one thing, The Supremes could actually sing. And, while Motown was certainly a well planned package, it was also about music. Stevie Wonder, Smokey Robinson - the case rests.
I'M conscious that I sound like every generation before me - giving out about pop music. I sound like I just don't understand it because I'm too old or too square or too something. I sound like I'm tutt-tutting the way people objected to Elvis or Jagger or Dylan - but I'm not.
I'm not outraged by Marilyn Mansun, for example, because he's clearly not for real. Nor am I threatened or challenged by what these new "stars" are saying because, in fact, they're not actually saying anything. The most profound thing Britney Spears has to impart is her gratitude to "Jesus Christ and Jive Records." It's a safe bet that she, for one, is unlikely to change the world.
The worry, however, is that it all seems so terminal. Such is the power of MTV and the rest of the media's eagerness to embrace it, that there now seems no way of stopping it. It's an overwhelming force which excludes anything which presents a challenge. If you don't fit, you won't figure.
That said however, I've no idea who let the three grown-ups in - but perhaps we can take some heart from the fact that Bono, Mick and Iggy were definitely in the house, mingling and hopefully spreading a little sedition. In fact, that's the least we'd expect from them.
On a further positive note, maybe the backlash has already begun? Maybe that crass display of emptiness a fortnight ago has pushed one too many people over the edge? Certainly, confronted by the full horror of it in our own backyard, a lot of people got very angry indeed. They switched off, they went to bed and they dreamt about a limo cruising the streets of Dublin. They never saw the face who owned the boots but they know well who it was. They say he has the best tunes. But clearly he doesn't - and we must take some comfort in that.
Presenter Carmen Electra blows a kiss to photographers at the awards photocall in Dublin