Every so often something out of the ordinary will happen in the world of music, like Elvis on the Ed Sullivan Show, or the Pistols on Bill Grundy.
Back in 93, Suede had just released the eponymously titled 'Suede', and were booked to play at the 93 Brit Awards... in front of an audience consisting almost entirely of middle aged record company execs, businessmen, corporate investors, and their middle aged wives. They liked music by guys in sensible sweaters, like Val Doonican, and Des O'Connor... shit you can whistle along to. The organisers had no idea who the fuck Suede even were... they only invited the group because The Brits had been accused of not giving new groups any exposure. So, almost at random, they settled on Suede.
Suede came out to polite applause, Brett Anderson in a mostly open, transparent blouse, and played to a silent, unresponsive audience. There was zero feedback for the band to feed on, but Brett Anderson strutted like an androgynous whore trying to drum up business on a wet holiday weekend, smacking his arse and baring his rock hard nipples. This lasts for three glorious minutes of legend-making music, before Anderson smashes the mic to the stage and flounces off triumphant, as the majority of the audience look around at one another confused and frightened, unsure as to what they'd just witnessed.
Fucking genius is what they'd witnessed.