Too posh or too poor? Contrast James Blunt with The Courteeners. One is pilloried by the media for being the former, the other has a fanbase that is criticised in print for being 'yobbish', media shorthand for working class male. Both are on a blacklist at certain media. It's a funny old world.
When Chris Bryant makes the reasoned observation that entry to the arts is becoming the preserve of a moneyed elite he does us all a service. I have long argued that music, and the wider arts, is becoming the outlet for a certain view of the world, whether in television (see my previous post, that music is too centred on both London and an intern culture that is now so firmly embedded that both music and media outlets are proving self selective in their staff choices and that this self selection is proving a destructive force on musical culture as it disengages the fan of mainstream rock music in particular from the media and vice versa.
Where Chris Bryant went horribly wrong was to start naming names. James Blunt is not responsible for the narrowing of the windows of opportunity for non middle class kids on either the business end or performing end of the recorded music industry. A combination of those internships, the reduction of social welfare allowing musicians time to get their music together, a winner takes all culture and a host of other players are. Somewhat notably, many of these were the work of the very party that Chris Bryant claims membership of in its long run under Blair and Brown. Nor is Eddie Redmayne a destroyer of working class opportunities in film. Given that membership of any of the leading acting job sites racks up to hundreds of pounds per year, rep has been reduced to rubble, drama in schools is now pretty much the sole preserve of dedicated teachers giving up their spare time and deregulation of television has given rise to a host of players devaluing the core culture of television drama and therefore removing art and replacing it with cheap to air reality television (another middle class laugh at the poor trick that persists) it is little surprise that the idealism of the 60's that raised Glenda Jackson has been replaced by a low cost strategy where the only exceptions are driven by star names. Then bear in mind that the vast majority of acting jobs being fought over by far too many actors are unpaid and Eddie Redmayne's part in this reduces to nothingness.
I am glad to see a politician raise the question of culture and put it centre stage. I am not convinced that direct government intervention is the way forward. What is inescapable though is that whatever else he may be guilty of, James Blunt is not the villain of this particular piece.
Monday, 19 January 2015
Friday, 9 January 2015
Thoughts on a grey January / The Worship of metrics
In conversation with a friend in the USA last night we got onto the topic of a potential home for the phenomenally talented young band he is producing. The band, who I shan’t name as this isn’t really about them, are strident, political, engaged true believers in the power of rock ‘n’ roll to transform the dull mundanity of life in the 21st century, not least of all their own. If that sounds old fashioned to you then I would suggest that is your problem, not theirs.
In an increasingly atheistic society, music is a faith that is losing traction; to turn the language of the unbelievers back on themselves. We are all aware that choices for exposure are now made predominantly on the basis of metrics, that distribution of music, coverage, airplay, even live fees are at the mercy of a gaggle of ‘followers’ on social media, the power of the mouse click translated into an ability to shape popular culture with micro second engagement with passing tracks, bereft of context or impact, set adrift on a sea awash with flotsam and jetsam, wreckage of the next big thing or the last great movement.
In the course of that chat we discussed where we might find the new Creation or the new Sub-Pop, labels that we felt would have been a perfect fit when in their pomp for this band. The reasons were precise. In both cases these were labels that had taken the zeitgeist and shaken it at a time when rock culture, that subset of pop music that can bother the mainstream but has never set out to see it as a principal target, was in the severe doldrums. Whether it was the Mudhoney / Nirvana axis that cleared away the dead hand of hair metal in the US and the sub Smiths indie pile up in the UK or the Oasis / SFA / Teenage Fanclub / Primal Scream era of Creation that reintroduced the concepts of proper stardom, rock ‘n’ roll excess both literal and artistic and genuine joy in music and engagement that blew away the tail end, back to metal clichés of grunge’s last gasps, we concluded that there was simply no label like that in existence.
This, in 2015, seems the essence of the problem with what I will call my music culture. That culture is broad in genre, it can accommodate indie guitars with grunge metal, noise pioneering with ambient electronics, crushing techno and beats with acoustic driven sentiments but, at its heart, it is a music of belief and, crucially, at its centre is the idea. The idea that we are doing something against the mainstream culture, the idea that we are right and they are wrong, the idea that we will storm their establishment and change it for a time, the idea that our moments may be brief but they will be many and that those who journey with us will have their lives changed and enriched irrevocably and permanently. This is not an engagement with a like button.
It is easy to counteract this idea. I have released enough records, managed, pr’d and engaged with enough artists and events over 20 years to know very well that the economics of music are perilous and getting more so, that making money from promoting music in any way, from curating great talent, is not a sensible way to live but my simple response is ‘so what?’. If those at the helm are of this opinion they shouldn’t be there. Dreams are not built on certainties, culture is not transformed by careful attention to profit and loss columns. Music is not a career. It is a vocation. That applies as much to those supporting its creation as those at its centre making the stuff. Great art never came from a focus group. In truth nothing of any note came from a focus group, possibly excepting ‘Nuts With Gum’. (Ask a Simpsons fan).
January is, as ever, the month of lists. More so than ever, those high profile bands to watch countdowns, with some notable exceptions, read less like an expression of belief in the transformative power of music and more like an assessment of forward planning metric delivered by a middle manager in a mid range designer suit via Powerpoint on a wet Tuesday in a boutique London hotel. Our culture needs a counterbalance to this endless grey, to the march of the marketeers and their metric worship. If anyone does spot the new Creation or the new Sub-Pop I’d love to know. In the meantime, I’ll keep the faith and, as a wise man once said. keep kicking against the pricks.
Friday, 10 October 2014
Tatty Seaside Town
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.
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.
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.
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