The Polaris Music Prize is a peculiar beast.
Since 2006, its roughly 200-person jury has bestowed a cash reward upon one singular Canadian album per year, deemed superlative without consideration of genre, commercial popularity, critical success or any number of factors that might interfere with the question: "Out of all these albums, which one was the best?" It's a tough inquisition and a serious pursuit, made all the more arduous by knowing the winner is awarded $50,000. (Each short-listed musician receives $3,000.)
Every voting period, a pool of journalists, radio programmers, academics and the like must whittle down a highly subjective roster of contenders. Jurors choose five albums each, the tally of which comprises the 40-album long list. A second ballot is then cast, which makes up the short list of 10. From there, a sequestered grand jury gathers the night of the gala to determine the year's winner. From the outside, the process appears noble, stately even. But the stumble toward consensus is a messy one, rife with inner friction, drama and departmentalizing.
In early 2016, Polaris founder Steve Jordan noticed that many jurors hadn't posted on the jury's private online message board during the previous year, so he asked them why. Jurors use the message board to debate the merit of potential picks and, more importantly, suggest prospective victors.
Juror participation was on Jordan's mind already, but the inquest followed a September, 2015 Canadaland article, which claimed the "vast number of [jurors] never say anything because a few personalities hog the oxygen." The article included screen shots of CBC radio personality and former Polaris gala host Grant Lawrence -- as well as other jurors -- who chided those wishing to address social issues such as gender imbalance or racist-sounding band names like Viet Cong. For the first time, outsiders were privy to how things looked inside the Polaris fortress. It wasn't hard to understand why some felt unenthusiastic about chiming in.
One juror told The Globe and Mail that Polaris's discussion board had become "an unreadable mess." Another said some jurors "were behaving like trolls intent on drawing attention to themselves, as opposed to the records we were discussing."
Jordan, along with jury foreperson Katherine Duncan, made changes to the jury's code of conduct with a goal of balanced engagement in mind. A new mandatory posting rule stipulated that each juror must now post at least once per year. Though some found the forcing of commentary a little condescending, most jurors who spoke to The Globe were unconcerned.
"If you don't have the will to at least nominate a record you love, then why bother being a juror?" said Cam Lindsay. "It's hardly onerous," echoed Stuart Derdeyn. There was some dissent. In the words of another jury member: "Music is so personal. It shouldn't be a requirement to discuss it with other people, many of whom seem to have a lot more time to pontificate in a Google group."
Mr. Lawrence was later informed that due to his lack of online participation he would not be invited back to the jury. (When reached by The Globe, he responded "no comment." Lawrence remains employed by the CBC, a lead Polaris sponsor.)
Most notable among the changes was a rule that sought to temper the very essence of criticism itself by eliminating comments that could be seen as admonishing. According to the changes made in February, 2016, "Differing or negative opinions on a suggested record are no longer welcome." The "no negative comment" rule, interpreted by some as a mechanism of censorship, sparked a fierce divide. (Though that rule was eventually relaxed, all comments are now moderated and approved by an administrator who scans posts for personal attacks and inappropriate remarks.)
"We're getting to a place now where everyone feels like they can express themselves openly but not be attacked for their views," says Jordan. "We want Polaris to be a conversation, and sometimes conversations turn into arguments when you're dealing with something as subjective as we are."
Some jurors, such as Alan Cross, appreciated the rule's intended function. "I'm okay with negative comments as long as they're proper, informed critiques. Much can be learned from such analysis. But just to pile on with saying mean, snarky stuff? Juvenile and useless."
Another juror, who chose not to be identified, said the rule went too far. "The 'no negativity' rule was meant to increase posting from those who might feel intimidated. But I think it was kind of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. There was a lot of actual, good, productive discussion there, and reasoned argument. They got rid of that along with the snark." An additional juror disagreed strongly, telling The Globe, "I don't know how a reader is supposed to trust a critic who operates only as a Pollyanna."
Recently, tension mounted in the message boards over a conversation about the rock band July Talk. One juror said they were so "offended and disheartened" by "mean-spirited" comments in the thread that they are now considering resignation. Another recurring source of argument is whether jurors should consider the economic status or political messaging of nominated musicians when voting.
"It's unfortunate if some people were afraid to post, because I'm sure they wanted simply to open a dialogue about music without the fear of being mocked," said Lindsay. "But music criticism is full of that kind of behaviour."
One wonders whether the combative egoism music journalists are known to exude – and I say this as an occasional music journalist – is what led them to the criticism machine in the first place, or whether the opinionated, scrappy nature of the job obscures the boundary between critical and crass. Historically speaking, some of the most lauded music journalists have been the most crotchety. As a result, critics often conflate outright impoliteness with the illusion of being powerful. Acrimony is seen as expertise.
According to many jurors, there is a generational divide within the jury – new blood versus veterans. Calls for civility, typically voiced by younger jurors, are often met with accusations of weakness.
"The 'no negative feedback' thing actually made it feel more welcoming for me to post albums no one has ever heard of," said one juror, of a younger cohort. "There's definitely an elitist vibe with people that have been there a long time. I don't think the older people necessarily take the younger jurors seriously. The Polaris forum itself is pretty positive now, but there's not really much discussion. The snarky stuff happens on Facebook."
In the aftermath of the "no negative comment" rule, a faction of jurors formed a separate, unofficial Facebook group to discuss music in a forum where tone is not policed. The group currently has 69 members, one of which described it as occasionally "nasty." Indeed, a discussion about a recent Walrus article that criticized Polaris was derailed when one member accused the article's author of sycophancy. Others responded by telling the commenter not to get personal. In a thread about the 2017 short list, some impassioned dissidence resulted in pleas for decorum. "Of course get sassy, express your opinions. Just don't assume you know why other people chose different albums," said one.
Juror Liisa Ladouceur, who served as the jury's foreperson for six years, disagrees with the "tread carefully" ethos. "It's a critics' prize. You are inviting groups of highly opinionated people to talk about something they are extremely passionate about, and then you're telling them they can only say positive things?" Ladouceur is one of the jurors who joined the unofficial Facebook group, where – she says with a laugh – "we talk about records and say negative things. But now we're a silo."
According to Jordan, there is a yearly turnover rate of about 30 jurors, usually due to critics who've changed careers. (Seventy per cent of new recruits over the past two years have been women. Jordan says he is pleased that the discourse has become "less male-dominated.") But there have been a number of conduct-related dismissals, including that of Jian Ghomeshi and two others who Polaris officials say compromised juror safety. Those shepherding the award have displayed vigilance and adaptability. Polaris's big problem seems to be that its jury is unable to find interpersonal accord.
"I value and believe in safe spaces, particularly as a jury member who often advocates for traditionally marginalized genres, but this is an issue of personal and professional comportment online," says juror Anupa Mistry. "It's an extraneous debate that feels very telling of how self-important some jury members feel. Steve and the Polaris crew have more important and impactful things to do in terms of promoting the prize and strengthening the jury's purview than catering to a few bruised egos in Canadian music media. The aura of petulance that dominates the jury process turns me off of participating more than anything else."
Ladouceur says a possible solution to the sprawling interpersonal turmoil would be to make the jury smaller. There are 203 people on this year's Polaris jury. By comparison, the United Kingdom's Mercury Prize jury has 12.
Adds Mistry: "There has to be a way of facilitating the really wonderful discovery capability that the message board was trying to nurture without having to kowtow to a million grievances. Maybe just old-school listserv?"
Juror Rob Bowman suggests that a possible lack of aptitude may be to blame for jury tension. "The problem with the jury is that you don't have 200 people in this country who are informed enough … Most people do not talk about music very effectively."
Whatever the future holds, the 203-headed Hydra that is the Polaris Music Prize is unlikely to relent.
Carly Lewis is a regular contributor to The Globe and Mail