It's always worth remembering that the whole point of the Mercury prize is to sell records. The story of its creation bears repeating, not least because the prize itself – always big on high-mindedness of the "all-that-matters-is-the-music" variety – seems so keen that it's forgotten. You don't find any mention of John "Webbo" Webster on its website, which seems a bit unfair because, as well as being the man who gave the world Now That's What I Call Music ... compilations, he devised the awards while head of marketing at Virgin Records.
In fact, the Mercury has more in common with Webster's other big idea than it would like to think. Just as Now That's What I Call Music ... was, and is, about squeezing out extra revenue by recycling old hits, so the prize was initiated for purely commercial reasons, with no more high-minded intent than dragging record buyers of a certain age into shops during the traditionally dead summer sales period: the appointment of august rock critic and academic Simon Frith as chair of the judges was suggested by music industry trade association the BPI to emphasise the independence of the awards.
By the criteria on which the prize was founded, last year's event was an unmitigated disaster. Whatever the musical value of Speech Debelle's Speech Therapy, it's difficult to see how the 2009 Mercurys could have more thoroughly discouraged potential buyers from visiting record shops without sending the judging panel out to squirt superglue through their locks: Speech Therapy sold 10,000 copies and failed to make the top 40.
This year's shortlist clearly attempted to militate against something similar happening again. Largely filled with bands who'd already had a degree of commercial success, it was low on surprises, but high on quality – you could make at least some case for giving the prize to almost everyone on the shortlist. That said, the xx's eponymous debut may well have the most convincing claim to the prize. An opaque and unassuming album on first listen, its hushed, early-hours dynamics and undertow of sexual desire gradually work their way under the skin of the listener: there's something nagging and compelling about the songwriting. The band's influences are drawn from outside the indie canon – the xx are famously fans of modern R&B, which might account for the album's preoccupation with sultry yearning, not a mood indie music traditionally conjures: it sounds original, but isn't abstruse enough to scare less adventurous listeners. Already on an upward trajectory, you can imagine the profile boost of the Mercury finally pushing the xx firmly into the mainstream. Without wishing to detract in any way from the album's musical qualities – it could well be the best album released in the past 12 months – it's hard not to conclude that might have been a deciding factor in its victory.