I was born in a dormitory town of a faded seaside resort in 1971. St Annes-On-Sea was ever the poor relation to Blackpool, its bigger cousin 5 miles down the coast but in the early 1900s it had a sense of grandeur and class that alluded the brasher neighbour just to the North. 5 miles south lay Lytham, another Edwardian promenading hotspot, now a genteel retirement village being overtaken by a Manchester influx of BBC employees and the creative industries clustered around the one shining example of progress the North West can offer; a sore point that has whispered rumours of 'takeover' from older residents.
These days I find only those from the North and fans of golf have heard of Lytham St Annes. I mention all this because watching the by-election in Clacton, another faded seaside town, brought up strong memories of home and also got me wondering whether the safe Tory seat of Fylde, with a majority of 13,000 odd on a 43& turnout could be another Clacton come next year.
The images of that bye-election that will stay with me are of multiple members of the public in electric wheelchairs stopped in the street mid fag puff for their opinion, a mother outside holiday accommodation become permanent housing saying no-one cared about the people who lived there, seried ranks of respectable pensioners in hiking coats of the type permanently on sale in Millets telling reporters that the politicians had no concern for their old fashioned white working class views and young people brandishing the 'change' dictum ('we've tried the others, why not them?'). It didn't matter one iota that the other parties pointed out they would elect the same MP as they had had for ten years plus, that they had this policy or that policy, that UKIP would do this or that which contradicted the very thing they claimed to care about; there was an air of inevitability about the whole process.
When I visit my dad, still in the same house in Ansdell (between Lytham and St Annes) where I grew up we always go to the workings men's club of which he has been a member since 1959. He has been President. Chairman, Committee member, his father the same before him, it is a never changing world of family lineage and permanence; my younger brother once drew a plan of where all would sit on a Sunday afternoon which was 100% correct. In that club are the people that demonstrate a cross section of the 57& who didn't vote in the Fylde. There is little interest in Westminster politics within these walls. Yet there is increasing sympathy for UKIP. There is also a similar cross section of the people I saw in the media from Clacton both here and outside the 1920's red brick walls. Electric wheelchairs abound complete with fag puffing occupiers, the Peter Storm all weather coats, the rental tenants in temporary accommodation. Like their brethren in Clacton they don't care that much about a change in income tax, a fiddling with devolution, the promises they know will be broken like last time from the 'major' parties. They are a world away from the media world of Cameron and Miliband and Clegg and they dislike all of them equally, a basic disgust at the 'other' that transcends policy and enters the personal.
If UKIP can get a decent proportion of this 57% to the polls alongside adding the disgruntled from other party voters they will walk it. Like them or not, UKIP are the English mirror image to the Scottish experience of late. Where the Scots had Radical Independence targeting the non voting working class, we have Farage and company. It is a testament to him, like him or not, that an extremely wealthy City boy can become a 'man of the people' through the simple expedient of drinking beer and smoking but it works. Compared to the awkward schoolboy on a trip to the factory schtick of the three other party leaders he offers a real world experience, an ability to communicate with normal people about normal things in a normal way. If those of us, myself included, do not find a way to counter that with our own beliefs in a similar approach, we could be looking at a very different UK come May of next year.
Friday 10 October 2014
Thursday 2 October 2014
National Poetry Day
Undoubtedly the finest poem ever written
The Mask of Anarchy
Written on the occasion of the massacre at Manchester.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
As I lay asleep in Italy
There came a voice from over the Sea,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.
I met Murder on the way—
He had a mask like Castlereagh—
Very smooth he looked, yet grim ;
Seven blood-hounds followed him :
All were fat ; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.
Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Lord Eldon, an ermined gown ;
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.
And the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by them.
Clothed with the Bible, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by.
And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, and spies.
Last came Anarchy : he rode
On a white horse, splashed with blood ;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.
And he wore a kingly crown ;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone ;
On his brow this mark I saw—
‘I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!’
With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he passed,
Trampling to a mire of blood
The adoring multitude.
And with a mighty troop around
With their trampling shook the ground,
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord.
And with glorious triumph they
Rode through England proud and gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of desolation.
O’er fields and towns, from sea to sea,
Passed the Pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down ;
Till they came to London town.
And each dweller, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror sicken
Hearing the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy.
For from pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
The hired murderers, who did sing
‘Thou art God, and Law, and King.
‘We have waited weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our purses are empty, our swords are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.’
Lawyers and priests a motley crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed ;
Like a bad prayer not over loud,
Whispering—‘Thou art Law and God.’—
Then all cried with one accord,
‘Thou art King, and God, and Lord ;
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now!’
And Anarchy, the Skeleton,
Bowed and grinned to every one,
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.
For he knew the Palaces
Of our Kings were rightly his ;
His the sceptre, crown, and globe,
And the gold-inwoven robe.
So he sent his slaves before
To seize upon the Bank and Tower,
And was proceeding with intent
To meet his pensioned Parliament
When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was Hope, she said :
But she looked more like Despair,
And she cried out in the air :
‘My father Time is weak and gray
With waiting for a better day ;
See how idiot-like he stands,
Fumbling with his palsied hands!
‘He has had child after child,
And the dust of death is piled
Over every one but me—
Misery, oh, Misery!’
Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses feet,
Expecting, with a patient eye,
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.
When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose.
Small at first, and weak, and frail
Like the vapour of a vale :
Till as clouds grow on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in thunder to the sky.
It grew—a Shape arrayed in mail
Brighter than the viper’s scale,
And upborne on wings whose grain
Was as the light of sunny rain.
On its helm, seen far away,
A planet, like the Morning’s, lay ;
And those plumes its light rained through
Like a shower of crimson dew.
With step as soft as wind it passed
O’er the heads of men—so fast
That they knew the presence there,
And looked,—but all was empty air.
As flowers beneath May’s footstep waken,
As stars from Night’s loose hair are shaken,
As waves arise when loud winds call,
Thoughts sprung where’er that step did fall.
And the prostrate multitude
Looked—and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien :
And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,
Lay dead earth upon the earth ;
The Horse of Death tameless as wind
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust the murderers thronged behind.
A rushing light of clouds and splendour,
A sense awakening and yet tender
Was heard and felt—and at its close
These words of joy and fear arose
As if their own indignant Earth
Which gave the sons of England birth
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And shuddering with a mother’s throe
Had turned every drop of blood
By which her face had been bedewed
To an accent unwithstood,—
As if her heart cried out aloud :
‘Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another ;
‘Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number.
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you—
Ye are many—they are few.
‘What is Freedom?—ye can tell
That which slavery is, too well—
For its very name has grown
To an echo of your own.
‘’Tis to work and have such pay
As just keeps life from day to day
In your limbs, as in a cell
For the tyrants’ use to dwell,
‘So that ye for them are made
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade,
With or without your own will bent
To their defence and nourishment.
‘’Tis to see your children weak
With their mothers pine and peak,
When the winter winds are bleak,—
They are dying whilst I speak.
‘’Tis to hunger for such diet
As the rich man in his riot
Casts to the fat dogs that lie
Surfeiting beneath his eye ;
‘’Tis to let the Ghost of Gold
Take from Toil a thousandfold
More than e’er its substance could
In the tyrannies of old.
‘Paper coin—that forgery
Of the title-deeds, which ye
Hold to something from the worth
Of the inheritance of Earth.
‘’Tis to be a slave in soul
And to hold no strong control
Over your own wills, but be
All that others make of ye.
‘And at length when ye complain
With a murmur weak and vain
’Tis to see the Tyrant’s crew
Ride over your wives and you—
Blood is on the grass like dew.
‘Then it is to feel revenge
Fiercely thirsting to exchange
Blood for blood—and wrong for wrong—
Do not thus when ye are strong.
‘Birds find rest, in narrow nest
When weary of their wingèd quest ;
Beasts find fare, in woody lair
When storm and snow are in the air.
‘Horses, oxen, have a home,
When from daily toil they come ;
Household dogs, when the wind roars,
Find a home within warm doors.’
‘Asses, swine, have litter spread
And with fitting food are fed ;
All things have a home but one—
Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none !
‘This is Slavery—savage men,
Or wild beasts within a den
Would endure not as ye do—
But such ills they never knew.
‘What art thou, Freedom ? O ! could slaves
Answer from their living graves
This demand—tyrants would flee
Like a dream’s imagery :
‘Thou are not, as impostors say,
A shadow soon to pass away,
A superstition, and a name
Echoing from the cave of Fame.
‘For the labourer thou art bread,
And a comely table spread
From his daily labour come
In a neat and happy home.
‘Thou art clothes, and fire, and food
For the trampled multitude—
No—in countries that are free
Such starvation cannot be
As in England now we see.
‘To the rich thou art a check,
When his foot is on the neck
Of his victim, thou dost make
That he treads upon a snake.
‘Thou art Justice—ne’er for gold
May thy righteous laws be sold
As laws are in England—thou
Shield’st alike both high and low.
‘Thou art Wisdom—Freemen never
Dream that God will damn for ever
All who think those things untrue
Of which Priests make such ado.
‘Thou art Peace—never by thee
Would blood and treasure wasted be
As tyrants wasted them, when all
Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.
‘What if English toil and blood
Was poured forth, even as a flood ?
It availed, Oh, Liberty.
To dim, but not extinguish thee.
‘Thou art Love—the rich have kissed
Thy feet, and like him following Christ,
Give their substance to the free
And through the rough world follow thee,
‘Or turn their wealth to arms, and make
War for thy belovèd sake
On wealth, and war, and fraud—whence they
Drew the power which is their prey.
‘Science, Poetry, and Thought
Are thy lamps ; they make the lot
Of the dwellers in a cot
So serene, they curse it not.
‘Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,
All that can adorn and bless
Art thou—let deeds, not words, express
Thine exceeding loveliness.
‘Let a great Assembly be
Of the fearless and the free
On some spot of English ground
Where the plains stretch wide around.
‘Let the blue sky overhead,
The green earth on which ye tread,
All that must eternal be
Witness the solemnity.
‘From the corners uttermost
Of the bounds of English coast ;
From every hut, village, and town
Where those who live and suffer moan
For others’ misery or their own,
‘From the workhouse and the prison
Where pale as corpses newly risen,
Women, children, young and old
Groan for pain, and weep for cold—
‘From the haunts of daily life
Where is waged the daily strife
With common wants and common cares
Which sows the human heart with tares—
‘Lastly from the palaces
Where the murmur of distress
Echoes, like the distant sound
Of a wind alive around
‘Those prison halls of wealth and fashion.
Where some few feel such compassion
For those who groan, and toil, and wail
As must make their brethren pale—
‘Ye who suffer woes untold,
Or to feel, or to behold
Your lost country bought and sold
With a price of blood and gold—
‘Let a vast assembly be,
And with great solemnity
Declare with measured words that ye
Are, as God has made ye, free—
‘Be your strong and simple words
Keen to wound as sharpened swords,
And wide as targes let them be,
With their shade to cover ye.
‘Let the tyrants pour around
With a quick and startling sound,
Like the loosening of a sea,
Troops of armed emblazonry.
‘Let the charged artillery drive
Till the dead air seems alive
With the clash of clanging wheels,
And the tramp of horses’ heels.
‘Let the fixèd bayonet
Gleam with sharp desire to wet
Its bright point in English blood
Looking keen as one for food.
‘Let the horsemen’s scimitars
Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars
Thirsting to eclipse their burning
In a sea of death and mourning.
‘Stand ye calm and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute,
With folded arms and looks which are
Weapons of unvanquished war,
‘And let Panic, who outspeeds
The career of armèd steeds
Pass, a disregarded shade
Through your phalanx undismayed.
‘Let the laws of your own land,
Good or ill, between ye stand
Hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Arbiters of the dispute,
‘The old laws of England—they
Whose reverend heads with age are gray,
Children of a wiser day ;
And whose solemn voice must be
Thine own echo—Liberty !
‘On those who first should violate
Such sacred heralds in their state
Rest the blood that must ensue,
And it will not rest on you.
‘And if then the tyrants dare
Let them ride among you there,
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, —
What they like, that let them do.
‘With folded arms and steady eyes,
And little fear, and less surprise,
Look upon them as they slay
Till their rage has died away.’
‘Then they will return with shame
To the place from which they came,
And the blood thus shed will speak
In hot blushes on their cheek.
‘Every woman in the land
Will point at them as they stand—
They will hardly dare to greet
Their acquaintance in the street.
‘And the bold, true warriors
Who have hugged Danger in wars
Will turn to those who would be free,
Ashamed of such base company.
‘And that slaughter to the Nation
Shall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular ;
A volcano heard afar.
‘And these words shall then become
Like Oppression’s thundered doom
Ringing through each heart and brain.
Heard again—again—again—
‘Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number—
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you—
Ye are many—they are few.’
The Mask of Anarchy
Written on the occasion of the massacre at Manchester.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
As I lay asleep in Italy
There came a voice from over the Sea,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.
I met Murder on the way—
He had a mask like Castlereagh—
Very smooth he looked, yet grim ;
Seven blood-hounds followed him :
All were fat ; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.
Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Lord Eldon, an ermined gown ;
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.
And the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by them.
Clothed with the Bible, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by.
And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, and spies.
Last came Anarchy : he rode
On a white horse, splashed with blood ;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.
And he wore a kingly crown ;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone ;
On his brow this mark I saw—
‘I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!’
With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he passed,
Trampling to a mire of blood
The adoring multitude.
And with a mighty troop around
With their trampling shook the ground,
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord.
And with glorious triumph they
Rode through England proud and gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of desolation.
O’er fields and towns, from sea to sea,
Passed the Pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down ;
Till they came to London town.
And each dweller, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror sicken
Hearing the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy.
For from pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
The hired murderers, who did sing
‘Thou art God, and Law, and King.
‘We have waited weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our purses are empty, our swords are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.’
Lawyers and priests a motley crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed ;
Like a bad prayer not over loud,
Whispering—‘Thou art Law and God.’—
Then all cried with one accord,
‘Thou art King, and God, and Lord ;
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now!’
And Anarchy, the Skeleton,
Bowed and grinned to every one,
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.
For he knew the Palaces
Of our Kings were rightly his ;
His the sceptre, crown, and globe,
And the gold-inwoven robe.
So he sent his slaves before
To seize upon the Bank and Tower,
And was proceeding with intent
To meet his pensioned Parliament
When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was Hope, she said :
But she looked more like Despair,
And she cried out in the air :
‘My father Time is weak and gray
With waiting for a better day ;
See how idiot-like he stands,
Fumbling with his palsied hands!
‘He has had child after child,
And the dust of death is piled
Over every one but me—
Misery, oh, Misery!’
Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses feet,
Expecting, with a patient eye,
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.
When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose.
Small at first, and weak, and frail
Like the vapour of a vale :
Till as clouds grow on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in thunder to the sky.
It grew—a Shape arrayed in mail
Brighter than the viper’s scale,
And upborne on wings whose grain
Was as the light of sunny rain.
On its helm, seen far away,
A planet, like the Morning’s, lay ;
And those plumes its light rained through
Like a shower of crimson dew.
With step as soft as wind it passed
O’er the heads of men—so fast
That they knew the presence there,
And looked,—but all was empty air.
As flowers beneath May’s footstep waken,
As stars from Night’s loose hair are shaken,
As waves arise when loud winds call,
Thoughts sprung where’er that step did fall.
And the prostrate multitude
Looked—and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien :
And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,
Lay dead earth upon the earth ;
The Horse of Death tameless as wind
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust the murderers thronged behind.
A rushing light of clouds and splendour,
A sense awakening and yet tender
Was heard and felt—and at its close
These words of joy and fear arose
As if their own indignant Earth
Which gave the sons of England birth
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And shuddering with a mother’s throe
Had turned every drop of blood
By which her face had been bedewed
To an accent unwithstood,—
As if her heart cried out aloud :
‘Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another ;
‘Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number.
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you—
Ye are many—they are few.
‘What is Freedom?—ye can tell
That which slavery is, too well—
For its very name has grown
To an echo of your own.
‘’Tis to work and have such pay
As just keeps life from day to day
In your limbs, as in a cell
For the tyrants’ use to dwell,
‘So that ye for them are made
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade,
With or without your own will bent
To their defence and nourishment.
‘’Tis to see your children weak
With their mothers pine and peak,
When the winter winds are bleak,—
They are dying whilst I speak.
‘’Tis to hunger for such diet
As the rich man in his riot
Casts to the fat dogs that lie
Surfeiting beneath his eye ;
‘’Tis to let the Ghost of Gold
Take from Toil a thousandfold
More than e’er its substance could
In the tyrannies of old.
‘Paper coin—that forgery
Of the title-deeds, which ye
Hold to something from the worth
Of the inheritance of Earth.
‘’Tis to be a slave in soul
And to hold no strong control
Over your own wills, but be
All that others make of ye.
‘And at length when ye complain
With a murmur weak and vain
’Tis to see the Tyrant’s crew
Ride over your wives and you—
Blood is on the grass like dew.
‘Then it is to feel revenge
Fiercely thirsting to exchange
Blood for blood—and wrong for wrong—
Do not thus when ye are strong.
‘Birds find rest, in narrow nest
When weary of their wingèd quest ;
Beasts find fare, in woody lair
When storm and snow are in the air.
‘Horses, oxen, have a home,
When from daily toil they come ;
Household dogs, when the wind roars,
Find a home within warm doors.’
‘Asses, swine, have litter spread
And with fitting food are fed ;
All things have a home but one—
Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none !
‘This is Slavery—savage men,
Or wild beasts within a den
Would endure not as ye do—
But such ills they never knew.
‘What art thou, Freedom ? O ! could slaves
Answer from their living graves
This demand—tyrants would flee
Like a dream’s imagery :
‘Thou are not, as impostors say,
A shadow soon to pass away,
A superstition, and a name
Echoing from the cave of Fame.
‘For the labourer thou art bread,
And a comely table spread
From his daily labour come
In a neat and happy home.
‘Thou art clothes, and fire, and food
For the trampled multitude—
No—in countries that are free
Such starvation cannot be
As in England now we see.
‘To the rich thou art a check,
When his foot is on the neck
Of his victim, thou dost make
That he treads upon a snake.
‘Thou art Justice—ne’er for gold
May thy righteous laws be sold
As laws are in England—thou
Shield’st alike both high and low.
‘Thou art Wisdom—Freemen never
Dream that God will damn for ever
All who think those things untrue
Of which Priests make such ado.
‘Thou art Peace—never by thee
Would blood and treasure wasted be
As tyrants wasted them, when all
Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.
‘What if English toil and blood
Was poured forth, even as a flood ?
It availed, Oh, Liberty.
To dim, but not extinguish thee.
‘Thou art Love—the rich have kissed
Thy feet, and like him following Christ,
Give their substance to the free
And through the rough world follow thee,
‘Or turn their wealth to arms, and make
War for thy belovèd sake
On wealth, and war, and fraud—whence they
Drew the power which is their prey.
‘Science, Poetry, and Thought
Are thy lamps ; they make the lot
Of the dwellers in a cot
So serene, they curse it not.
‘Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,
All that can adorn and bless
Art thou—let deeds, not words, express
Thine exceeding loveliness.
‘Let a great Assembly be
Of the fearless and the free
On some spot of English ground
Where the plains stretch wide around.
‘Let the blue sky overhead,
The green earth on which ye tread,
All that must eternal be
Witness the solemnity.
‘From the corners uttermost
Of the bounds of English coast ;
From every hut, village, and town
Where those who live and suffer moan
For others’ misery or their own,
‘From the workhouse and the prison
Where pale as corpses newly risen,
Women, children, young and old
Groan for pain, and weep for cold—
‘From the haunts of daily life
Where is waged the daily strife
With common wants and common cares
Which sows the human heart with tares—
‘Lastly from the palaces
Where the murmur of distress
Echoes, like the distant sound
Of a wind alive around
‘Those prison halls of wealth and fashion.
Where some few feel such compassion
For those who groan, and toil, and wail
As must make their brethren pale—
‘Ye who suffer woes untold,
Or to feel, or to behold
Your lost country bought and sold
With a price of blood and gold—
‘Let a vast assembly be,
And with great solemnity
Declare with measured words that ye
Are, as God has made ye, free—
‘Be your strong and simple words
Keen to wound as sharpened swords,
And wide as targes let them be,
With their shade to cover ye.
‘Let the tyrants pour around
With a quick and startling sound,
Like the loosening of a sea,
Troops of armed emblazonry.
‘Let the charged artillery drive
Till the dead air seems alive
With the clash of clanging wheels,
And the tramp of horses’ heels.
‘Let the fixèd bayonet
Gleam with sharp desire to wet
Its bright point in English blood
Looking keen as one for food.
‘Let the horsemen’s scimitars
Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars
Thirsting to eclipse their burning
In a sea of death and mourning.
‘Stand ye calm and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute,
With folded arms and looks which are
Weapons of unvanquished war,
‘And let Panic, who outspeeds
The career of armèd steeds
Pass, a disregarded shade
Through your phalanx undismayed.
‘Let the laws of your own land,
Good or ill, between ye stand
Hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Arbiters of the dispute,
‘The old laws of England—they
Whose reverend heads with age are gray,
Children of a wiser day ;
And whose solemn voice must be
Thine own echo—Liberty !
‘On those who first should violate
Such sacred heralds in their state
Rest the blood that must ensue,
And it will not rest on you.
‘And if then the tyrants dare
Let them ride among you there,
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, —
What they like, that let them do.
‘With folded arms and steady eyes,
And little fear, and less surprise,
Look upon them as they slay
Till their rage has died away.’
‘Then they will return with shame
To the place from which they came,
And the blood thus shed will speak
In hot blushes on their cheek.
‘Every woman in the land
Will point at them as they stand—
They will hardly dare to greet
Their acquaintance in the street.
‘And the bold, true warriors
Who have hugged Danger in wars
Will turn to those who would be free,
Ashamed of such base company.
‘And that slaughter to the Nation
Shall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular ;
A volcano heard afar.
‘And these words shall then become
Like Oppression’s thundered doom
Ringing through each heart and brain.
Heard again—again—again—
‘Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number—
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you—
Ye are many—they are few.’
Maybe its a question of message. Enduring David Cameron's speech too conference yesterday lunchtime (not the best work break I have ever had in retrospect) whilst I disagreed with almost every syllable and, at times, find myself furiously searching the internet for rebuttals I had to concede that, as a piece of public speaking, it knocked Ed Miliband's effort last week into a cocked hat. Sure, all the requisite modern politician elements were present and correct, a touch of self-deprecation here ('see, he can laugh at himself'), a wrenching personal story there ('you've got to feel for the bloke, having lots of money means nothing if your kids are sick') but it worked. Were I (hard to imagine) a believer in some of the policies espoused I could actually imagine myself applauding. I am a believer in some (crucial word that) of the policies Ed Miliband espoused and yet I found myself less than motivated by his turn.
This may be less to do with Miliband and more to do with the re-alignment of the British political centre over the last 35 years. The push points that Cameron could return to, all familiar Tory ground post Thatcher, (home ownership, low taxes, anti- EU and anti-immigration with a side serving of Little Englander), bolstered by the waving mini Union flags distributed to the blue masses pre-speech are near indistinguishable from Thatcher's long time in power. Where she created a new political orthodoxy, Blair followed, swallowing up the centre ground by moving Labour decisively and, it would seem, permanently, into a liberal / capitalist dynamic where any whiffs of socialism are delivered via means testing and bottom line calculation rather than high taxes on high earners and real, radical redistribution of wealth from top to bottom. Throw into that mix Labour's perennial fear of upsetting Murdoch and The Mail and Miliband's room for manoeuvre on current Labour thinking is minimal from a genuinely radical perspective in comparison to his opposite number. Miliband is essentially in the mirror position to the Tories of the 50's, 60's and 70's, forced to pay lip service to nationalised everything to retain a voice in the prevailing political orthodoxy. Tony Blair's much vaunted third way has become a dead end for his successors. He may squeak through the next election on core support, the 'who else would we vote for?' brigade and UKIP raids on hitherto safe Tory seats but it won't change the weather. Expect Cameron's agenda, whether full blooded or refracted through Labour's pained attempts at mediation, to win out come 2015.
This may be less to do with Miliband and more to do with the re-alignment of the British political centre over the last 35 years. The push points that Cameron could return to, all familiar Tory ground post Thatcher, (home ownership, low taxes, anti- EU and anti-immigration with a side serving of Little Englander), bolstered by the waving mini Union flags distributed to the blue masses pre-speech are near indistinguishable from Thatcher's long time in power. Where she created a new political orthodoxy, Blair followed, swallowing up the centre ground by moving Labour decisively and, it would seem, permanently, into a liberal / capitalist dynamic where any whiffs of socialism are delivered via means testing and bottom line calculation rather than high taxes on high earners and real, radical redistribution of wealth from top to bottom. Throw into that mix Labour's perennial fear of upsetting Murdoch and The Mail and Miliband's room for manoeuvre on current Labour thinking is minimal from a genuinely radical perspective in comparison to his opposite number. Miliband is essentially in the mirror position to the Tories of the 50's, 60's and 70's, forced to pay lip service to nationalised everything to retain a voice in the prevailing political orthodoxy. Tony Blair's much vaunted third way has become a dead end for his successors. He may squeak through the next election on core support, the 'who else would we vote for?' brigade and UKIP raids on hitherto safe Tory seats but it won't change the weather. Expect Cameron's agenda, whether full blooded or refracted through Labour's pained attempts at mediation, to win out come 2015.
Tuesday 30 September 2014
Relative Values
The punchline is obvious. 'Poisonous values' is a phrase you can expect to hear again and again and again as Theresa May and friends (not all of them Conservatives it would appear) work to enact the new anti-terrorism strategy of denying 'oxygen' to radical values. This somewhat trepidatious approach wobbles on the less than firm foundations of 'British values', a fighting ground that I expect to see trampled by all parties as we approach the general election.
Even in the present these values are hard to define. The obvious paradox inherent in May's speech is that 'freedom of expression' is front and centre and yet the policy denies that very thing. The wiggle round for this is the contention that 'with rights come responsibilities', that tired get out clause that politicians of all hues wheel out to justify everything from cuts to out of work payments to all day licensing, from the sublime to the (potentially) ridiculous and many points in between.
For 'British values' are a slippery eel at best. Unlike Germany, where listeners to the excellent 'Germany - Memories Of A Nation' on Radio 4 will already be aware of that country's public demonstrations of reconciliation with the dark chapters of its past, Britain's history, and therefore its values, are a ragbag of the admirable and the detestable with little or no attempt to come to terms with the latter. Even focusing on the recent past, and avoiding the contradictions between the Chartists and the Highland Clearance, the direct clash of the promotion of the slave trade and its abolition or the instigation of the Poor Laws and the reality of the workhouse, leaves you with the legalisation of gay marriage up against the pursuit of an illegal war, the welfare state standing across a chasm from the 'shoot to kill' policy in Northern Ireland.
No country can in truth hold itself as a beacon of universally acceptable values. For the Tories (or any political party) to trade policy on this basis goes beyond disingenuous and into dangerous.
What we saw today was not a moral commitment to eradicating extremism but a play to middle England for votes in 8 months. To hear Radio 4 ask whether the policy would stop young British men from travelling to faraway places to behead other travellers was to see how this could play out. To get some sense of perspective here, one British citizen is not emblematic of any more than himself. You may as well frame policy on the basis that Pete Doherty plays guitar and has a drug problem so we should stop all young men playing guitars. Tautology is not a substitute for serious analysis.
That extremism exists is not in question. That it has always existed is never discussed. Faces and belief systems may change but as a 13 year old I spent a few months believing that armed revolution was the only solution to the problem of Thatcherite Britain. Had Twitter existed I would no doubt have been straight online to say so. Even within my peer group I was not the only one to believe this, Blackpool in 1984 was not a welcoming place.
The key to dealing with extremism in its Islamic context remains as evident as it always has. Given that the UK has just committed to more bombing in the Middle East the irony is crushing. Short of helping the Israeli government stick a few more flats on the occupied territories it couldn't become any greater. Palestine remains a festering sore, the duplicity of support for states that fund extreme Islam with men and materiel continues, the economic collapse of the 'home countries' of Islam, precipitated by that illegal war, the Western funding of puppet states throughout the area in the post war era and a willingness to only pay lip service to the genuine efforts of the (overwhelmingly) young people to change their situation witnessed in the collapse of the 'Arab Spring' are all factors far more powerful than the preachings of a few guys in urban conurbations and a barrage of rhetoric on Twitter and Facebook.
Without those subjects much of the ire would be meaningless. Theresa May and co may want to think about dealing with the cause rather than the symptoms. But I doubt that, expect a long few months of 'British values' and 'poisonous extremism'. To pick up another politico buzz phrase we will all be sick of before too long, we can all do it 'together'.
Even in the present these values are hard to define. The obvious paradox inherent in May's speech is that 'freedom of expression' is front and centre and yet the policy denies that very thing. The wiggle round for this is the contention that 'with rights come responsibilities', that tired get out clause that politicians of all hues wheel out to justify everything from cuts to out of work payments to all day licensing, from the sublime to the (potentially) ridiculous and many points in between.
For 'British values' are a slippery eel at best. Unlike Germany, where listeners to the excellent 'Germany - Memories Of A Nation' on Radio 4 will already be aware of that country's public demonstrations of reconciliation with the dark chapters of its past, Britain's history, and therefore its values, are a ragbag of the admirable and the detestable with little or no attempt to come to terms with the latter. Even focusing on the recent past, and avoiding the contradictions between the Chartists and the Highland Clearance, the direct clash of the promotion of the slave trade and its abolition or the instigation of the Poor Laws and the reality of the workhouse, leaves you with the legalisation of gay marriage up against the pursuit of an illegal war, the welfare state standing across a chasm from the 'shoot to kill' policy in Northern Ireland.
No country can in truth hold itself as a beacon of universally acceptable values. For the Tories (or any political party) to trade policy on this basis goes beyond disingenuous and into dangerous.
What we saw today was not a moral commitment to eradicating extremism but a play to middle England for votes in 8 months. To hear Radio 4 ask whether the policy would stop young British men from travelling to faraway places to behead other travellers was to see how this could play out. To get some sense of perspective here, one British citizen is not emblematic of any more than himself. You may as well frame policy on the basis that Pete Doherty plays guitar and has a drug problem so we should stop all young men playing guitars. Tautology is not a substitute for serious analysis.
That extremism exists is not in question. That it has always existed is never discussed. Faces and belief systems may change but as a 13 year old I spent a few months believing that armed revolution was the only solution to the problem of Thatcherite Britain. Had Twitter existed I would no doubt have been straight online to say so. Even within my peer group I was not the only one to believe this, Blackpool in 1984 was not a welcoming place.
The key to dealing with extremism in its Islamic context remains as evident as it always has. Given that the UK has just committed to more bombing in the Middle East the irony is crushing. Short of helping the Israeli government stick a few more flats on the occupied territories it couldn't become any greater. Palestine remains a festering sore, the duplicity of support for states that fund extreme Islam with men and materiel continues, the economic collapse of the 'home countries' of Islam, precipitated by that illegal war, the Western funding of puppet states throughout the area in the post war era and a willingness to only pay lip service to the genuine efforts of the (overwhelmingly) young people to change their situation witnessed in the collapse of the 'Arab Spring' are all factors far more powerful than the preachings of a few guys in urban conurbations and a barrage of rhetoric on Twitter and Facebook.
Without those subjects much of the ire would be meaningless. Theresa May and co may want to think about dealing with the cause rather than the symptoms. But I doubt that, expect a long few months of 'British values' and 'poisonous extremism'. To pick up another politico buzz phrase we will all be sick of before too long, we can all do it 'together'.
Monday 29 September 2014
Das Capital
London bias seems to be a thing at the moment. Joining political elites and the financial overlords theory comes 'Is the Mercury biased towards London?' That's the suggestion of Tim Ingham, editor of Music Week, in this week's issue and ties the music industry in with finance, the Commons, media and law in a suggested metropolitan conspiracy against the remainder of the UK.
Given that the Mercury judges are drawn predominantly from a metropolitan crew of media types with a couple of artists thrown in and are also beholden to that media given the demands of pr oxygen for any awards ceremony this is an argument that holds some weight. However hard judges may try to base decisions purely on musical merit I would suggest it is nigh on impossible to be deaf to the cultural positioning of many of the suggested acts prior to the judging process or the possible opinions on those choices from their peers. Add into that the absence of certain musical representatives on the panel, no room for a Kerrang writer or editorial representative, and you are already in a process of self-selecting before you begin. Similarly there is a definitive absence of regional voices. No Scottish writers, no room for a Northern based figure like Mike Walsh of XFM or John Robb. Therefore Tim's argument would seem to have some basis in fact. Dotted across the panel are BBC faces, ICA types, broadsheet music editors, all based in London and all, to some extent, the very epitome of the 'London media type'.
The Mercury shortlist isn't really the point here though. The list is reflective of a trend rather than an individual example of a narrowing of scope.
In a previous post I bemoaned the lack of authentic contemporary working class voices on our televisions. Music and its attendant media share a similar problem. And before we degenerate into a Pythonesque comparison of social ills, I appreciate that there are a few faces that buck this trend but, much like the Oxbridge intake demographics, with its frantic pointing at the state school kids, those fig leaves cannot cover the reality. Transpose 'London' for 'metropolitan middle class' and the workings of not just the Mercury shortlist, ultimately a subjective assertion of what is 'good', but the whole process of the trajectory of a new band to prominence becomes less opaque.
The Mercury lays claim to existing to promote new albums from a variety of genres to a new audience. In truth, and in particular with this year's shortlist, it is concerned with 'buzz' outside of its non tokenistic (jazz and classical nominees, the cannon fodder of the shortlist) choices. Given that 'buzz' in the music industry is (like so much else in the UK) centralised on London in a feeding chain that links blogs to music sites to broadsheets and the NME to the ultimate goal of Radio One it is little surprise that London acts, on the doorstep of an industry and media increasingly unwilling and, at times, financially unable, to travel in that way that A & Rs and media did 20 years hence should draw in an ever myopic gaze on the capital. More than ever, and ironically given the supposed liberation of the internet from geographical tyranny, playing London is an absolute necessity for a band looking to get noticed.
Meanwhile access to the non-London outlets for national notice, whether the labels like Factory or Postcard or regional voices whether writers or bloggers or DJs are greatly reduced. Whilst bands like Echo & The Bunnymen, Joy Division or The Stones Roses were championed from their home areas that situation is almost impossible under current media constructs. The paucity of mainstream national media voices in even cities like Manchester or Liverpool, musical centres that have produced time and time again, demonstrates an increasingly tight grip of the London agenda on the music media and therefore, the industry itself, given its new found tendencies to replace innovation and confrontation with social media chasing and audience fulfillment - the 'how many followers?' new orthodoxy of gauging a band's worth.
Thus finance rears its ugly head. The cost for a non London based band of playing London is a self selecting barrier for all but the most well off, especially given the all consuming trend for free entry shows. But finance and background also play in more subtle ways to cement this hegemony of a metropolitan takeover of what I shall call 'visible' music.
Cultures tend to correlate. The intake across the music industry is increasingly predetermined by the internship. That has become another self selector in the make-up of our industry, excluding those kids who are ex Home Counties or from non monied backgrounds from getting their first foot on the ladder. Who can afford a three month soujourn in London post University without a free bed or a trust fund? The same is true in the media that promote music, the publishing houses, the radio stations, the BBC, the PR's and pluggers and management companies. Whilst I am not suggesting that those in positions across the music industry and media do not deserve to be there when you are selecting salaried staff from a predetermined pool (and internships are now so prevalent that this is the case) you invariably end up with an intake that is in no way reflective of the totality of the social make-up of the UK.
And that matters. Culture is not strengthened by a takeover from a subsection of society. The history of popular music in the UK is not one of any particular strata ascending, the mix of a Mondays with a Radiohead, a Depeche Mode with a Pink Floyd, a Culture Club with a Kinks, the particular melting pots of the two titans, The Beatles art school / working class clash mirrored by the Stones (Jagger posh, Richards poor)demonstrate a strength that has run through our music making, that of cross class and cross cultural experience. What the Mercury list truly reflects is a segment of taste, reflected through an increasingly homogenous media that, despite much talk of ever greater opportunities, narrows our world and prescribes a vision of music that bears no relation to that enjoyed by the wider public.
Given that the Mercury judges are drawn predominantly from a metropolitan crew of media types with a couple of artists thrown in and are also beholden to that media given the demands of pr oxygen for any awards ceremony this is an argument that holds some weight. However hard judges may try to base decisions purely on musical merit I would suggest it is nigh on impossible to be deaf to the cultural positioning of many of the suggested acts prior to the judging process or the possible opinions on those choices from their peers. Add into that the absence of certain musical representatives on the panel, no room for a Kerrang writer or editorial representative, and you are already in a process of self-selecting before you begin. Similarly there is a definitive absence of regional voices. No Scottish writers, no room for a Northern based figure like Mike Walsh of XFM or John Robb. Therefore Tim's argument would seem to have some basis in fact. Dotted across the panel are BBC faces, ICA types, broadsheet music editors, all based in London and all, to some extent, the very epitome of the 'London media type'.
The Mercury shortlist isn't really the point here though. The list is reflective of a trend rather than an individual example of a narrowing of scope.
In a previous post I bemoaned the lack of authentic contemporary working class voices on our televisions. Music and its attendant media share a similar problem. And before we degenerate into a Pythonesque comparison of social ills, I appreciate that there are a few faces that buck this trend but, much like the Oxbridge intake demographics, with its frantic pointing at the state school kids, those fig leaves cannot cover the reality. Transpose 'London' for 'metropolitan middle class' and the workings of not just the Mercury shortlist, ultimately a subjective assertion of what is 'good', but the whole process of the trajectory of a new band to prominence becomes less opaque.
The Mercury lays claim to existing to promote new albums from a variety of genres to a new audience. In truth, and in particular with this year's shortlist, it is concerned with 'buzz' outside of its non tokenistic (jazz and classical nominees, the cannon fodder of the shortlist) choices. Given that 'buzz' in the music industry is (like so much else in the UK) centralised on London in a feeding chain that links blogs to music sites to broadsheets and the NME to the ultimate goal of Radio One it is little surprise that London acts, on the doorstep of an industry and media increasingly unwilling and, at times, financially unable, to travel in that way that A & Rs and media did 20 years hence should draw in an ever myopic gaze on the capital. More than ever, and ironically given the supposed liberation of the internet from geographical tyranny, playing London is an absolute necessity for a band looking to get noticed.
Meanwhile access to the non-London outlets for national notice, whether the labels like Factory or Postcard or regional voices whether writers or bloggers or DJs are greatly reduced. Whilst bands like Echo & The Bunnymen, Joy Division or The Stones Roses were championed from their home areas that situation is almost impossible under current media constructs. The paucity of mainstream national media voices in even cities like Manchester or Liverpool, musical centres that have produced time and time again, demonstrates an increasingly tight grip of the London agenda on the music media and therefore, the industry itself, given its new found tendencies to replace innovation and confrontation with social media chasing and audience fulfillment - the 'how many followers?' new orthodoxy of gauging a band's worth.
Thus finance rears its ugly head. The cost for a non London based band of playing London is a self selecting barrier for all but the most well off, especially given the all consuming trend for free entry shows. But finance and background also play in more subtle ways to cement this hegemony of a metropolitan takeover of what I shall call 'visible' music.
Cultures tend to correlate. The intake across the music industry is increasingly predetermined by the internship. That has become another self selector in the make-up of our industry, excluding those kids who are ex Home Counties or from non monied backgrounds from getting their first foot on the ladder. Who can afford a three month soujourn in London post University without a free bed or a trust fund? The same is true in the media that promote music, the publishing houses, the radio stations, the BBC, the PR's and pluggers and management companies. Whilst I am not suggesting that those in positions across the music industry and media do not deserve to be there when you are selecting salaried staff from a predetermined pool (and internships are now so prevalent that this is the case) you invariably end up with an intake that is in no way reflective of the totality of the social make-up of the UK.
And that matters. Culture is not strengthened by a takeover from a subsection of society. The history of popular music in the UK is not one of any particular strata ascending, the mix of a Mondays with a Radiohead, a Depeche Mode with a Pink Floyd, a Culture Club with a Kinks, the particular melting pots of the two titans, The Beatles art school / working class clash mirrored by the Stones (Jagger posh, Richards poor)demonstrate a strength that has run through our music making, that of cross class and cross cultural experience. What the Mercury list truly reflects is a segment of taste, reflected through an increasingly homogenous media that, despite much talk of ever greater opportunities, narrows our world and prescribes a vision of music that bears no relation to that enjoyed by the wider public.
Friday 19 September 2014
EDDIE ARGOS In conversation for the first time tells you how to form a band and become famous
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE – IMPORTANT EDUCATIONAL RESOURCE BELOW
OCTOBER 22nd, The Hen & Chickens Theatre
Pop music, as we all know, can be an uncertain business. Whilst a chosen few achieve their dreams of riches, world travel and mass adoration for many a spot at their local battle of the bands is the limit of their fame.
Enter Eddie Argos, world renowned lead singer and songwriter with Art Brut, the London band that have spent the last decade redefining the meaning of stardom. For the first time Eddie is stepping into the limelight to tell the story of how he put the world beating pop behemoth together, from playing the vacuum cleaner onstage to lying to people in London about how he could sing like Aretha Franklin. This is his story.
The show begins at 9.30pm on Tuesday October 22nd at The Hen & Chickens Theatre, Highbury, N1 2NA.
Tickets for this unique opportunity are very limited and go on sale priced at only £10 on Thursday 18th September from:
http://www.unrestrictedview.co.uk/page/more-info.php?id=1757
http://www.ticketweb.co.uk/event/eddie-argos-i-formed-a-band-tickets/142775
FOR MORE INFORMATION - LOUDHAILER PRESS
Lewis Jamieson - lewis@loudhailerpress.com / @LewJam
07718 652582 / 020 8714 0139
MORE ABOUT OUR SPEAKER
Eddie Argos grew up fantasising about being the singer in a band that would tour the world, despite the fact he can't really sing. Somehow he managed it and now he is going to tell you how. Heartwarming story or cautionary tale? You be the judge.
https://www.facebook.com/eddie.argos
https://twitter.com/EddieArgos
http://www.the-eddie-argos-resource.blogspot.com
http://www.artbrut.org.uk/
OCTOBER 22nd, The Hen & Chickens Theatre
Pop music, as we all know, can be an uncertain business. Whilst a chosen few achieve their dreams of riches, world travel and mass adoration for many a spot at their local battle of the bands is the limit of their fame.
Enter Eddie Argos, world renowned lead singer and songwriter with Art Brut, the London band that have spent the last decade redefining the meaning of stardom. For the first time Eddie is stepping into the limelight to tell the story of how he put the world beating pop behemoth together, from playing the vacuum cleaner onstage to lying to people in London about how he could sing like Aretha Franklin. This is his story.
The show begins at 9.30pm on Tuesday October 22nd at The Hen & Chickens Theatre, Highbury, N1 2NA.
Tickets for this unique opportunity are very limited and go on sale priced at only £10 on Thursday 18th September from:
http://www.unrestrictedview.co.uk/page/more-info.php?id=1757
http://www.ticketweb.co.uk/event/eddie-argos-i-formed-a-band-tickets/142775
FOR MORE INFORMATION - LOUDHAILER PRESS
Lewis Jamieson - lewis@loudhailerpress.com / @LewJam
07718 652582 / 020 8714 0139
MORE ABOUT OUR SPEAKER
Eddie Argos grew up fantasising about being the singer in a band that would tour the world, despite the fact he can't really sing. Somehow he managed it and now he is going to tell you how. Heartwarming story or cautionary tale? You be the judge.
https://www.facebook.com/eddie.argos
https://twitter.com/EddieArgos
http://www.the-eddie-argos-resource.blogspot.com
http://www.artbrut.org.uk/
Wednesday 17 September 2014
A Working Class Hero Is Something To See
We live in a country that is based on inequality. That is without doubt. If you need reminding of that fact here are the numbers from The Equality Trust – the poorest fifth in the UK have 8% of the wealth, the richest fifth 41%. Go to the top 1% and that fraction becomes so stark as to be almost meaningless, the top 1% in the UK have an average annual income of £248,000 and wealth of around £1million compared to £8,628 annual income and £12,500 wealth for the bottom tenth. Go beyond that to the ultra-wealthy clustered in London and the disparities become so ridiculous as to make you wonder why there aren’t enraged neuvo-peasants at the gates wielding pitchforks.
Wrapped up as we are in the Scottish devolution vote, this inequality has seemingly fed into a disparity of influence, as best explained by George Monbiot today in The Guardian in this erudite essay on the lack of established media support for the ‘Yes’ vote and, in some quarters, blatant misrepresentation of the campaign for independence.
Whilst Monbiot rightly points out the mirroring of a Westminster political elite and a London media elite, equally remote and disengaged from real people, the runoff from his point goes beyond news gathering and feeds into our culture at all levels. It is not hysterical to suggest that unless a rebalancing of influence, representation and access to all levers of our culture is put into practice, the disengagement of the establishment from a rump populace will reach a point where harmful and potentially fatal cracks develop not just in the United Kingdom, that may already be too late, but across regions, cities and within even the smallest communities where the poor sit cheek by jowl with outrageous wealth.
A few weeks ago supporters of Middlesbrough FC unveiled a banner that read ‘Being Poor Is Not Entertainment’ in response to the arrival of Channel 4’s ‘Benefits Street’ in their area. Of course, it is. Not just ‘Benefits Street’ but a whole raft of television programming works on this principal. Think of the social class take up on an average (non celebrity) reality show and the motivation of producers behind the challenges and tasks set for them or the average social status of characters and their portrayals in high profile dramas. When was the last time a contemporary drama led with a positive working class character? When the lower orders are allowed on screen it is generally as victims. Murder victims, law breakers, social outcasts and desperate single mothers abound across our screens, painted in one dimension, raped, murdering and murdered and imprisoned for our entertainment. Soap operas, for so long a vehicle for representation of ‘normal’ people, (see ‘Coronation Street’ at its sixties height or ‘Brookside’ in its earlier days) have become caricature knockabout, stuffed with an ever revolving story set of violence, sexual misdemeanor and family breakdown that parallel the red top and middle tabloid scare stories of a lower order in our cities and towns, bent on destruction and chaos.
Spin back in time however and you can’t move for grubby working class folk seemingly demonstrating good character. ‘The Village’ styles itself as a gritty drama and posits Maxine Peake’s Grace as a proto proletarian smasher of glass ceilings. John Simm’s John plays the straight man, fashioning a working class meme as the silent type, hard working and aware of his place in the grand order gamboling around him. Various other cast members fulfil their roles as, variously, salt of the earth widow, fallen and rescued woman and young lad yearning for a better world. Whilst the first series strove for some realism, not least of all in the execution of a shellshocked deserter, this latest run is a playground version of the Britain of the early 20th century, in large part swept clean of the general strike, civil unrest and grinding pre NHS and Trade Union poverty. There are seemingly no children with rickets or TB in this idyllic part of the North.
Thus the fallen woman marries the magistrates son, some of the folk from the ‘big house’ demonstrate social conscious beyond the realms of realism, one sleeping with a maid to enable a divorce for his trapped wife (to marry the idealistic working class lad made good school teacher) and destroy the fixing of an attempt to imprison him and the yearning lad following a re-enactment of the Kinder trespass in miniature and a decade too early made violent by Socialist agitators from the city (shudder) whilst the bastard son of the youngest aristo daughter is returned to her and welcomed into the family. Only the eldest son, the gay Tory Home Secretary, resists this attempt at modernism. The working class inhabitants of ‘The Village’ are presented as simple minded good folk or deferential aspirants, looking for non confrontational outlets for their watered down financial problems and lack of real political clout. To cap it all, the plot has now switched from betterment of the workers to protecting the rural ‘idyll’ threatened by the imposition of a reservoir for the working masses of Sheffield. From the plight of the the workers to old Tory defence of the green and pleasant land in two series, all mention of the huddled masses contained in two lines from the one dimensional Labour politico, working class hero turned destructive villain via this plot device.
On ITV the return of ‘Downton Abbey’, that perfect misrepresentation of the lives of early 20th century stately home life returns next week to further pantomime-ise the period. Already way beyond the bounds of realism with its Fenian arriviste to the gentry, another bastard child story and a deferential servant class that beggars belief if you read any of the memoirs of real working class people bounded into service with their thankless, sweaty, backbreaking work, it is unlikely that this new series will travel in the opposite direction.
Arm in arm with this nostalgic view of the working class as romantic changelings or happy serviles both ‘The Village’ and ‘Downton Abbey’ promote an establishment that is, to a great degree, capable of sacrifice for the greater good. Whether intentionally or not, the confluence of this reimagining of the rulers of the past with the contemporary reality of that same social class retaining all the levers of power creates an opium to the masses that, were one inclined to conspiracy theory, could be seen as a deliberate attempt to nullify the increasing social differentials being created in the UK, but, in more temperate tones is undoubtedly a balm to the idea of the establishment being as rapacious and power grabbing as their current behaviour and the outcomes of their decisions. Like Dick Dastardly, the baddy upper and middle class characters are foiled by their social equals, the covert message being that the establishment goodies will always look after the poor downtrodden. Which, when you think about it is pretty much what the producer of ‘Benefit Street’ meant when he said this of the previous series:
"It's not demonising the poor. It's a very honest and true portrayal of life in Britain and people are frightened of it. If you are telling me that shining a light on poverty in Britain is pornographic, so we shouldn't pay attention to poor people, I think that's outrageous.”
Until the working class see their own heroes on screen and hear their own voices through the media our culture will replicate out finances; a divided and ever dividing society in which the establishment increasingly talk only to themselves and the rest are excluded from not just the spoils, but the very conversation itself.
Wrapped up as we are in the Scottish devolution vote, this inequality has seemingly fed into a disparity of influence, as best explained by George Monbiot today in The Guardian in this erudite essay on the lack of established media support for the ‘Yes’ vote and, in some quarters, blatant misrepresentation of the campaign for independence.
Whilst Monbiot rightly points out the mirroring of a Westminster political elite and a London media elite, equally remote and disengaged from real people, the runoff from his point goes beyond news gathering and feeds into our culture at all levels. It is not hysterical to suggest that unless a rebalancing of influence, representation and access to all levers of our culture is put into practice, the disengagement of the establishment from a rump populace will reach a point where harmful and potentially fatal cracks develop not just in the United Kingdom, that may already be too late, but across regions, cities and within even the smallest communities where the poor sit cheek by jowl with outrageous wealth.
A few weeks ago supporters of Middlesbrough FC unveiled a banner that read ‘Being Poor Is Not Entertainment’ in response to the arrival of Channel 4’s ‘Benefits Street’ in their area. Of course, it is. Not just ‘Benefits Street’ but a whole raft of television programming works on this principal. Think of the social class take up on an average (non celebrity) reality show and the motivation of producers behind the challenges and tasks set for them or the average social status of characters and their portrayals in high profile dramas. When was the last time a contemporary drama led with a positive working class character? When the lower orders are allowed on screen it is generally as victims. Murder victims, law breakers, social outcasts and desperate single mothers abound across our screens, painted in one dimension, raped, murdering and murdered and imprisoned for our entertainment. Soap operas, for so long a vehicle for representation of ‘normal’ people, (see ‘Coronation Street’ at its sixties height or ‘Brookside’ in its earlier days) have become caricature knockabout, stuffed with an ever revolving story set of violence, sexual misdemeanor and family breakdown that parallel the red top and middle tabloid scare stories of a lower order in our cities and towns, bent on destruction and chaos.
Spin back in time however and you can’t move for grubby working class folk seemingly demonstrating good character. ‘The Village’ styles itself as a gritty drama and posits Maxine Peake’s Grace as a proto proletarian smasher of glass ceilings. John Simm’s John plays the straight man, fashioning a working class meme as the silent type, hard working and aware of his place in the grand order gamboling around him. Various other cast members fulfil their roles as, variously, salt of the earth widow, fallen and rescued woman and young lad yearning for a better world. Whilst the first series strove for some realism, not least of all in the execution of a shellshocked deserter, this latest run is a playground version of the Britain of the early 20th century, in large part swept clean of the general strike, civil unrest and grinding pre NHS and Trade Union poverty. There are seemingly no children with rickets or TB in this idyllic part of the North.
Thus the fallen woman marries the magistrates son, some of the folk from the ‘big house’ demonstrate social conscious beyond the realms of realism, one sleeping with a maid to enable a divorce for his trapped wife (to marry the idealistic working class lad made good school teacher) and destroy the fixing of an attempt to imprison him and the yearning lad following a re-enactment of the Kinder trespass in miniature and a decade too early made violent by Socialist agitators from the city (shudder) whilst the bastard son of the youngest aristo daughter is returned to her and welcomed into the family. Only the eldest son, the gay Tory Home Secretary, resists this attempt at modernism. The working class inhabitants of ‘The Village’ are presented as simple minded good folk or deferential aspirants, looking for non confrontational outlets for their watered down financial problems and lack of real political clout. To cap it all, the plot has now switched from betterment of the workers to protecting the rural ‘idyll’ threatened by the imposition of a reservoir for the working masses of Sheffield. From the plight of the the workers to old Tory defence of the green and pleasant land in two series, all mention of the huddled masses contained in two lines from the one dimensional Labour politico, working class hero turned destructive villain via this plot device.
On ITV the return of ‘Downton Abbey’, that perfect misrepresentation of the lives of early 20th century stately home life returns next week to further pantomime-ise the period. Already way beyond the bounds of realism with its Fenian arriviste to the gentry, another bastard child story and a deferential servant class that beggars belief if you read any of the memoirs of real working class people bounded into service with their thankless, sweaty, backbreaking work, it is unlikely that this new series will travel in the opposite direction.
Arm in arm with this nostalgic view of the working class as romantic changelings or happy serviles both ‘The Village’ and ‘Downton Abbey’ promote an establishment that is, to a great degree, capable of sacrifice for the greater good. Whether intentionally or not, the confluence of this reimagining of the rulers of the past with the contemporary reality of that same social class retaining all the levers of power creates an opium to the masses that, were one inclined to conspiracy theory, could be seen as a deliberate attempt to nullify the increasing social differentials being created in the UK, but, in more temperate tones is undoubtedly a balm to the idea of the establishment being as rapacious and power grabbing as their current behaviour and the outcomes of their decisions. Like Dick Dastardly, the baddy upper and middle class characters are foiled by their social equals, the covert message being that the establishment goodies will always look after the poor downtrodden. Which, when you think about it is pretty much what the producer of ‘Benefit Street’ meant when he said this of the previous series:
"It's not demonising the poor. It's a very honest and true portrayal of life in Britain and people are frightened of it. If you are telling me that shining a light on poverty in Britain is pornographic, so we shouldn't pay attention to poor people, I think that's outrageous.”
Until the working class see their own heroes on screen and hear their own voices through the media our culture will replicate out finances; a divided and ever dividing society in which the establishment increasingly talk only to themselves and the rest are excluded from not just the spoils, but the very conversation itself.
Tuesday 29 April 2014
WHO GOES THERE? DEER SHED HOST A TIME TRAVEL PARTY
Our favourite festival, Deer Shed, is hosting a party for Time Travellers to celebrate their Time Travel Theme for Deer Shed 5. It promises to be a special end to the first day of the festival and given that the music line-up includes Johnny Marr, British Sea Power, Stornoway, Steve Mason, Pins, Wolf Alice, Georgia Ruth and a ton of others you start to wonder what more they could possibly add to make it better. That said, there's still the literature and the PG comedy tent to come so I guess we'll know the answer soon.
So, if you happen to know any travellers across time and space, forward them the invite below and tell them to come along.
22nd April 2014
DEER SHED FESTIVAL 5
FRIDAY 25th JULY TO SUNDAY 27th JULY 2014
Baldersby Park, Topcliffe, North Yorkshire
The theme for this year's Deer Shed Festival is Time Travel, and the festival organisers are going to be hosting an ambitious Time Travel Party to celebrate.
A Time Travel Party is like any other party, with music and nibbles, except that you invite time travellers from the future to attend as well as guests from 2014. You can't expect time travellers from the past to turn up because time travel hasn't been invented - this time travelling thing can mess with your head!
"Of course inviting time travellers from the future isn't an exact science", says festival organiser Oliver Jones, "but as a starting point the invitation itself has to persist until time travel is possible". With this in mind Oliver has decided to get the invitation engraved into a brass plaque which he intends to firmly secure to the obelisk in Baldersby Park where the party is to be held. The plaque contains all the party particulars including the time, the place and also a 'dress to impress' dress code. The festival team hopes that it will be discovered at some point in the future when time travel is as common as a trip to the supermarket.
However, Oliver is not sure that the invitation alone will convince the time travellers. "You have to imagine you are a time-travel-agent, why come to 2014 and not some other year?" The festival team decided to have an enormous pan-dimensional shout-out to further encourage time travellers and so built a website, www.timetravelparty.com, where people can submit a photo or an image that is dear to their heart. "We hope that this mass emotional offering will somehow arch across time and strike a chord".
So far people have submitted all sorts of imagery to the site – from favourite childhood holidays to a pair of old goalkeeping gloves, and the comments accompanying each picture are suitably heart-warming.
Why not head over to www.timetravelparty.com and submit something to the cause? Of course if you want to meet the time travellers in person then it sounds like Deer Shed Festival 5 might be the best place to do it.
Alongside the party of the centuries, this year’s Deer Shed Festival will include a range of time travel themed family workshops and activities including; the opportunity to meet and interact with our time travellers, robotic upgrades to your favourite cuddly toy or ‘Tedroid’, castle building, a full sized medieval trebuchet and the chance to build a Time Machine.
For rest of us that little bit too old to admit to still owning a teddy or not inclined to a build castle, our headliner Johnny Marr may well transport a few of us back to our teenage years. With British Sea Power, Stornoway, Steve Mason, Cate Le Bon and a host of other musical moments on the bill alongside Johnny and our PG rated Comedy, literature and cinema line up to come, Deer Shed 5 is all set to be our best yet.
WEEKEND TICKETS FOR DEER SHED 5 ARE ON SALE NOW, PRICED AS FOLLOWS
Adult Weekend Ticket (16+) £99 plus booking fee
Child Weekend Ticket (6+) £30 plus booking fee
Child Weekend Ticket (5 and under) £1 plus booking fee
Campervan / Caravan / Trailer Tent £30 plus booking fee
Tent camping and car park are free to ticket holders.
PLEASE NOTE – prices given for adult tickets relate to Tier 2 weekend tickets. There are a limited amount of tickets in each tier. When Tier 2 tickets are sold out prices will be as follows
Adult Weekend Ticket (Tier 3) £109 plus booking fee
Adult Weekend Ticket (Tier 4) £119 plus booking fee
FOR INFORMATION ON ALL ASPECTS OF THE FESTIVAL INCLUDING TERMS AND CONDITIONS RELATING TO TICKETS GO TO www.deershedfestival.com.
DEER SHED FESTIVAL FACTS
Our ethos
We are massive fans of music and the arts in general, and we all have kids. We have over the years got increasingly fed up with paying a small fortune to get our families into various festivals only to be disappointed in the music or in the entertainment, facilities and vibe for the sprogs. The Deer Shed Festival is our long considered response to this. Kids are not second class citizens at DSF.
However, we will not compromise on what's on just because we are 'family friendly'. If you don't have children to bring along you will still find a lovely chilled atmosphere in which to enjoy a great weekend.
Our history
This is the fifth Deer Shed Festival. The team behind it have been in place from the start and families are at the heart of the preparations and the activities and services on site. In the last five years we have grown in attendance but are sensible to making sure that we never get too big. Those five years have seen a host of amazing bands play including Edwyn Collins, I Am Kloot, Saint Etienne, The Wedding Present, The House Of Love and Field Music.
What They Said About Deer Shed
"Deer Shed is jam packed with quality. The organisers have clearly given much thought to what all members of the family will want within a festival and have gone a considerable way to delivering that.” EFESTIVALS
“Set in rural North Yorkshire countryside, Deer Shed festival has become one of the most family-friendly events.” THE GUARDIAN
“Deer Shed, you’ve created the perfect balance. We love you, and will be back next year" WHAT TO DO WITH THE KIDS
NOTES TO EDITORS
Please reference the event with its full title of Deer Shed Festival where possible.
FOR MORE INFORMATION AND GUEST LIST - LOUDHAILER PRESS
Lewis Jamieson - lewis@loudhailerpress.com
07718 652582 / 0208714 0139
www.deershedfestival.com
So, if you happen to know any travellers across time and space, forward them the invite below and tell them to come along.
DEER SHED FESTIVAL 5
FRIDAY 25th JULY TO SUNDAY 27th JULY 2014
Baldersby Park, Topcliffe, North Yorkshire
The theme for this year's Deer Shed Festival is Time Travel, and the festival organisers are going to be hosting an ambitious Time Travel Party to celebrate.
A Time Travel Party is like any other party, with music and nibbles, except that you invite time travellers from the future to attend as well as guests from 2014. You can't expect time travellers from the past to turn up because time travel hasn't been invented - this time travelling thing can mess with your head!
"Of course inviting time travellers from the future isn't an exact science", says festival organiser Oliver Jones, "but as a starting point the invitation itself has to persist until time travel is possible". With this in mind Oliver has decided to get the invitation engraved into a brass plaque which he intends to firmly secure to the obelisk in Baldersby Park where the party is to be held. The plaque contains all the party particulars including the time, the place and also a 'dress to impress' dress code. The festival team hopes that it will be discovered at some point in the future when time travel is as common as a trip to the supermarket.
However, Oliver is not sure that the invitation alone will convince the time travellers. "You have to imagine you are a time-travel-agent, why come to 2014 and not some other year?" The festival team decided to have an enormous pan-dimensional shout-out to further encourage time travellers and so built a website, www.timetravelparty.com, where people can submit a photo or an image that is dear to their heart. "We hope that this mass emotional offering will somehow arch across time and strike a chord".
So far people have submitted all sorts of imagery to the site – from favourite childhood holidays to a pair of old goalkeeping gloves, and the comments accompanying each picture are suitably heart-warming.
Why not head over to www.timetravelparty.com and submit something to the cause? Of course if you want to meet the time travellers in person then it sounds like Deer Shed Festival 5 might be the best place to do it.
Alongside the party of the centuries, this year’s Deer Shed Festival will include a range of time travel themed family workshops and activities including; the opportunity to meet and interact with our time travellers, robotic upgrades to your favourite cuddly toy or ‘Tedroid’, castle building, a full sized medieval trebuchet and the chance to build a Time Machine.
For rest of us that little bit too old to admit to still owning a teddy or not inclined to a build castle, our headliner Johnny Marr may well transport a few of us back to our teenage years. With British Sea Power, Stornoway, Steve Mason, Cate Le Bon and a host of other musical moments on the bill alongside Johnny and our PG rated Comedy, literature and cinema line up to come, Deer Shed 5 is all set to be our best yet.
WEEKEND TICKETS FOR DEER SHED 5 ARE ON SALE NOW, PRICED AS FOLLOWS
Adult Weekend Ticket (16+) £99 plus booking fee
Child Weekend Ticket (6+) £30 plus booking fee
Child Weekend Ticket (5 and under) £1 plus booking fee
Campervan / Caravan / Trailer Tent £30 plus booking fee
Tent camping and car park are free to ticket holders.
PLEASE NOTE – prices given for adult tickets relate to Tier 2 weekend tickets. There are a limited amount of tickets in each tier. When Tier 2 tickets are sold out prices will be as follows
Adult Weekend Ticket (Tier 3) £109 plus booking fee
Adult Weekend Ticket (Tier 4) £119 plus booking fee
FOR INFORMATION ON ALL ASPECTS OF THE FESTIVAL INCLUDING TERMS AND CONDITIONS RELATING TO TICKETS GO TO www.deershedfestival.com.
DEER SHED FESTIVAL FACTS
Our ethos
We are massive fans of music and the arts in general, and we all have kids. We have over the years got increasingly fed up with paying a small fortune to get our families into various festivals only to be disappointed in the music or in the entertainment, facilities and vibe for the sprogs. The Deer Shed Festival is our long considered response to this. Kids are not second class citizens at DSF.
However, we will not compromise on what's on just because we are 'family friendly'. If you don't have children to bring along you will still find a lovely chilled atmosphere in which to enjoy a great weekend.
Our history
This is the fifth Deer Shed Festival. The team behind it have been in place from the start and families are at the heart of the preparations and the activities and services on site. In the last five years we have grown in attendance but are sensible to making sure that we never get too big. Those five years have seen a host of amazing bands play including Edwyn Collins, I Am Kloot, Saint Etienne, The Wedding Present, The House Of Love and Field Music.
What They Said About Deer Shed
"Deer Shed is jam packed with quality. The organisers have clearly given much thought to what all members of the family will want within a festival and have gone a considerable way to delivering that.” EFESTIVALS
“Set in rural North Yorkshire countryside, Deer Shed festival has become one of the most family-friendly events.” THE GUARDIAN
“Deer Shed, you’ve created the perfect balance. We love you, and will be back next year" WHAT TO DO WITH THE KIDS
NOTES TO EDITORS
Please reference the event with its full title of Deer Shed Festival where possible.
FOR MORE INFORMATION AND GUEST LIST - LOUDHAILER PRESS
Lewis Jamieson - lewis@loudhailerpress.com
07718 652582 / 0208714 0139
www.deershedfestival.com
Friday 7 February 2014
What Goes On - Loudhailer Update
January went like this
elbow launched a film for album track 'Fly Boy Blue / Lunette'
Then they followed it up with a video for the single, 'New York Morning' featuring Dennis and Lois of NYC music scene fame. Soup Collective's finest for them to date I would suggest
The album, 'The Take Off and Landing of Everything' is out March 10th.
There's a new beer as well, called Charge. We had a little party for it last week at The Eagle in Salford. It's very drinkable.
Slowdive reformed. The web went potty. It was very gratifying for all kinds of reasons, mostly because I have known Neil and Rachel since Mojave 3 / 4AD days and it was nice to see their first band get the recognition it deserves. And, no, there aren't many places on the list for the show on May 19th. ;-)
Loudhailer started working with Deer Shed Festival, a grand boutique event up in North Yorkshire which is already way popular but now has added Johnny Marr to its undoubted delights. Fucking Johnny Marr. Headlining. That's a July highlight right there
Balthazar announced a date in London at the Hoxton Bar & Kitchen on Feb 27th and a new single, 'Leipzig'. As great as anything on 'Rats', which we all know is great yeah?, looking forward to seeing a band that impress live every time.
Tom Hickox came to London with Lindi Ortega and played a spellbinding set. The debut album is a Loudhailer fave of early 2014.
The Twang are gearing up to go on tour before the release of new album. 'NEONTWANG' in March. New single 'Larry Lizard' is a blinder
The Anchoress launched a debut single with a play from Steve Lamacq on 6 Music. Video for 'What Goes On' soon.
And Towns land in London tomorrow to play Antidotes at The Old Blue Last.
expect this kind of thing
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)