Canadian awards shows: charmingly humble or gratingly incompetent?

Last Sunday night, it finally arrived — the biggest moment of Sarah McLachlan’s life.

The revered singersongwriter — who founded the iconic Lilith Fair festival in the ’90s — would be inducted into the prestigious Canadian Music Hall of Fame.

And as the Halifax native nestled into her seat at the 46th annual Juno Awards, a video montage of testimonials from international superstars began broadcasting across the country.

But what’s this? In a glitch more common to the early days of talking pictures — which was, ahem, almost 100 years ago — the sound didn’t sync with the images on screen. Which means we were treated to the unlikely sight of Sheryl Crow’s voice emanating from the body of James Taylor.

“I can’t tell you how much of an influence on my life you’ve been,” enthused Sheryl/James in a music equivalent of a cheesy martial arts flick with dubbed in dialogue.

Taylor’s accolades, meanwhile, emerged from the visage of crooner Josh Groban, while Groban’s supportive words cascaded from the lips of sister duo Tegan and Sara, who themselves appeared to be talking in pantomime.

Classy, right? But that’s the Juno Awards, second only to the Canadian Screen Awards in what some generously describe as folksy Canadian charm.

I prefer the word “incompetence.” And I don’t just mean in a production sense, although that’s certainly part of it.

I mean in a conceptual, artistic sense, a show that revels in mismatched co-hosts, off-colour jokes, dated vaudevillian humour, technical gaffes and the kind of overthe-top hero worship that paints Canada as a salivating lap dog in perpetual thrall of our American masters.

And get this — it started at 6:30 p.m., the Early Bird Special of Award Shows, the musical equivalent of a third-string eatery where patrons show up in white pants and floral print dresses to feast on rubbery steak at half price. The chicken is overcooked, the beans soggy and the veggies come from a can. But the price is unbeatable.

“Hey, go to commercial — go ahead!” taunts Paul Langlois, The Tragically Hip guitarist outraged when his acceptance speech for group of the year is interrupted by impatient producers trying to play him offstage. “This is my arena, not yours.”

Somehow, it always comes down to this — some ticked-off rock star waving his fist at the merciless bean-counters who just want the damn thing over with. I remember Burton Cummings, lead singer for the legendary Guess Who, ranting about the same shoddy treatment when his mike was cut during an awards speech years ago.

Jump to another iconic band in another generation and somehow, inexplicably, here we are again.

“I want to shout out to Gord Downie,” adds Langlois, about to pierce the country’s soul with a poignant salutation to his revered, cancer-stricken bandmate. “And I want .... ” (CUT TO COMMERCIAL)

I remember watching the Junos back in the days when Anne Murray scooped up every major award, but refused to attend because, as she later confessed, she was repelled by this amateur, glad-handing, U.S.-worshipping slobberfest.

“It was embarrassing, actually,” she told Canadian Press in 2010, her sentiments echoed over the years by Stompin’ Tom Connors and Matthew Good.

“Because at that time, it was kind of a dinner theatre. And by the time the TV show came on, everybody was in their cups. I don’t want to look out and perform in front of people who are drunk. I did that when I was playing little clubs.

“I said, ‘I’m not going to go through that again.’

“Then when I sat at home and watched the TV show, I had to turn the volume down ... because I was so embarrassed as a performer. I was embarrassed at the production values of the shows at the time.

“I decided that I just wouldn’t go,” said Murray.

Four decades later, you might think those problems would be fixed, a template established, that in a modern country of 35 million, producers would have learned a thing or two about how to stage a nationally-televised awards show.

You might think that after 43 years of bump and grind they would have learned to pick a decent host, operate a TV camera and avoid ticking off the most beloved rock band in the country.

Ha, ha. You would be wrong. “Look at all the young girls!” enthused Juno host Russell Peters, who sparked a virulent backlash with literally the first line out of his mouth. “This is a felony waiting to happen.” Peters is the classic Canadian awards host. A guy who made most of his money outside the country, lives in L.A. and has little meaningful connection to the event he’s overseeing.

The only thing worse: His inexplicable co-host, pop-rocker Bryan Adams, another Canadian defector whose feeble attempts at jovial banter were less notable than his striking resemblance to Mr. Drucker, the Hooterville firefighter on ’60s sitcom “Green Acres.”

Thank goodness for The Canadian Screen Awards, you say. Now that’s a real class act. But wait, wasn’t that Howie Mandel, a Canadian expat famous for pulling a latex glove over his head and blowing through his nose, hosting this year’s ceremony?

“So what is it?” he joked about the misshapen hunk of molten lava handed to everyone who manages to secure a government arts grant and produce something remotely marketable.

“Screen, television, digital. This will go viral — it’s an STD! How many of you are going to go home tonight with an STD?”

It’s a lame joke more suited to a frat house locker.

But Mandel — oblivious to his surroundings — was comfortable in his schtick, riffing on a ridiculous debate about nicknames that makes Canadians seem parochial, waffling and, frankly, not very bright.

The Screenies? The Candys? The CSAs? The Gemininies?

Honestly, it makes no difference, because winning one of these metallic carbuncles and a toonie will get you a cup of coffee in the CBC lounge.

Adding insult to injury, the major hardware is disproportionately awarded to any nominee who has received a glimmer of recognition beyond our borders.

Did Tatiana Maslany, who won a U.S. Emmy for her performance as multiple clones on TV’s “Orphan Black,” deserve the Best Dramatic Actress trophy so feverishly bestowed upon her? No argument here. Did she deserve it four years in a row for the same role, along with another best actress win for “The Other Half,” a blink-and-you-miss-it indie drama no one ever heard of ? Come on, don’t be ridiculous. What the Junos and Screenies have in common — like a child distracted by a shiny bauble — is an inability to tap into the deeper well of talent that exists in this country without affirmation from abroad.

They’re obsessed with it, horrified that Drake, Justin Bieber and The Weeknd would skip their floundering tribute to Canada’s musical muscle, thrilled that American standup Dave Chappelle would take time from his busy schedule to show up for a second-rate screen ceremony notable for its lack of recognizable faces.

Because they’re so distracted with issues of validation and legitimacy, there’s no pride of ownership, no desire to showcase talent that’s truly, distinctively Canadian.

Instead, they make the same rookie mistakes over and over — like Bill Murray in “Groundhog Day.”

But even Murray’s weaselly newscaster eventually figures out the secret to success: Put your ego aside, focus on what’s important.

Will Canada’s temperamental awards system ever follow suit?

After more than half a century of undignified slobbering, the odds are stacked against it.