Music Politics

Utopia at the Weekend

“Can music change the world?” is the question that dogs me more than any other at the moment, and suffice to say, as Simon Reynolds acknowledged during this years Mark Fisher memorial lecture, it has no simple answer. There is always the risk of a kind of theory-based wish fulfilment fantasy when addressing this, as evidenced by countless incidents wherein we will place whatever we are concerned with at the heart of some world-shifting rupture, as not only a method, but a central mechanism of change. Because my investment in music comes from a well of emotion it would be all too easy to progress from a confident affirmation of emancipatory power, to insist from the off that music is a revolutionary force as if this is a given. When I place importance on the question of music and political change, it is to avoid this assumption, but to commit to a certain confidence, perhaps misplaced but difficult to dislodge, that music is of importance, that it deserves more than we give it, and that in fact, the very act of writing about music still has a point.

This last point is something that I unambiguously take a side on, for good or ill, if only through my subjective experiences of music writing as an expansive tool, whether as a reader or writer. Without the idea, found largely in writing, of new worlds and experiences heralded through music, I probably wouldn’t have started this blog or rediscovered the value of theory in the first place. Whether it is in the form of a linking of ideas to cultural production or the heightening of emotional potential in the very sound of the music itself, the prism of the music-writer has continued to prove invaluable to me. This is something that has emerged for me particularly upon reading through Agnes Gayraud’s Dialectic of Pop, David Wilkinson’s Post-Punk, Politics and Pleasure in Britain, and attending the Simon Reynolds lecture, three “events” which have intertwined and coalesced into a series of concerns and questions.

Reynold’s lecture in particular channelled a lot of my reading through what was a stimulating if meandering excavation of Mark Fisher’s engagement with music and what it entails, as well as more specifically surprising engagement with bands like the Jam and the counterculture of the 60s, which earlier on had come under some notable ire in a few K-Punk posts. The evocation of the power of music here, and its utopian tendencies [even as often this utopia is deferred, the weekend is constantly on the horizon, the revolution is always tomorrow] emotionally channelled a lot of what I’d read not too long prior from Gayraud. Dialectic of Pop, notably, is far from an unambiguous culturalist defence of pop as utopian force, or even a defence of pop as artform as such, something that I would argue barely needs saying today, rather it is an invigorating philosophical engagement with pop-as-artform via a critique of its most famous detractor Adorno. The implications of the work I think demand further engagement, and I’m curious as to how this emerges in time, but for me it begged further questions regarding the implications of production.

By addressing technology, mediation and production as the central components of pop as a musical form, Gayraud immediately hits at something I think is key to addressing it, whether we do so as a critic or an academic or both. Derrida didn’t make an appearance in the book explicitly, but in addressing the inherent deferral of authenticity in recorded music and expression, I couldn’t help but think of him. What Gayraud implicitly deals with through her addressing of a paradoxical “grounded authenticity”, as well as her account of both pop and music concrete being arts of “fixed sounds”, defined not, as in prior forms in which the “object” was prefigured, symbolised by a score, by the particularities of the performance itself as inscribed on the recording. In this way, the idea of the authentic expression, the grounded, the lone bluesman pouring out their soul on the porch, is mediated as soon as it is played, even as its image is reproduced in the recording, the presence only occurs in its absence.

This seems to prefigure what Reynolds draws from in Fisher and others, the reference he made during the lecture of music forming identity, heralding new worlds, all in a way opposing the old conception of music expressing an authentic “soul” or emotional bedrock, rather pointing to it as a locus of production, of the new. It’s not often here that I’ve referred back to the CCRU, partly as its already such an overbearing reference point in online theory circles, but the most interesting thing about that moment today I think is how it was tied together with a cultural one. Reynolds, when talking about it, will never fail to mention how the CCRU was practically inseparable from its musical influences in Jungle, seeing in the heightened, machine-gun proliferation of drum-hits made possible via new technological openings a kind of cultural blueprint for the ideas that would eventually become attached to the name accelerationism. Whatever value we attach to that label now, and whatever’s in a name [I myself became so frustrated with the online discourse around it a while ago that I instigated a clean break on this blog, not something I’d do again but not something I regret either], the presence of jungle in the 90s as a kind of supposed sign of things to come is a marker of the ambiguous power of music. It can be argued I think that even as the excitement of new electronic forms of music, of audio-technological possibilities opened up, that power of the new failed utterly to connect with the socio-political moment, in which Blair, Britpop and a reconstituted mashup of 60s references was the order of the day.

So even as we maintain that music has power, that it can indeed herald other worlds, new possibilities, utopias, we have to question the implications of this power, and hence the implication that music is somehow inherently revolutionary or a force for change. The power it holds is one that is tied up in the changes of the day both material and abstract. As Fisher often pointed out and Reynolds reiterated, there is an uncertainty and a seeming contradiction in the kind of “realism” we sometimes find in Hip-Hop, where at the same time as being at the forefront of a contemporary modernist impulse sonically, tends towards reinforcing capitalist realist tendencies in its lyrics and relations. This, when we look at jungle, seems to manifest in the simultaneous acceleration and deceleration that occurred at that time, and what we could perhaps now see as the disappointment of that moment, that the much-vaunted heightened abstraction of capital, the kind of accelerated ruptures to the outside heralded by the intersection of cyberpunk, jungle, Lovecraft and the other host of reference points the CCRU drew from, never materialised, the 2000s instead becoming dominated by the kind of flaccid indie-pop-rock continuum that couldn’t stand in greater contrast with the rhythmic psychedelia, as Kodwo Eshun dubbed it, of Jungle, and the possibilities it suggested.

That was 20ish years ago, and now we exist in the world which seems to be the fruit of that moment, not as a kind of vivid auto-destruction of capital, but a stasis of effect. Rather than a lurid eroticism of machines, a technological rupture, the future is that of google and facebook, the reterritorialised thrill of machinic abandon made manifest instead in the billionaire figure, the tech guru, the data manager around which we gather in worship. The underground promise of technological mutation promised through genres like jungle, and the much-mythologised moment of the CCRU, remained just that, a myth, a teleology some still cling to even while we live in its manifestation. This all paints a somewhat hopeless picture, and in fact I would hold that we shouldn’t shy away from, to some degree, acknowledging a certain degree of pessimism, an emotional air of failure, in the present, not only from the left, but from the counterculture, wherever that can be found.

The flipside to this is the questioning of purpose. Something I’ve come to realise is a certain turmoil of believing in, and committing to, an emancipatory politics and some kind of future. Especially in the current climate, outside influences make themselves known, voices consistently asking you “what’s the point?”, on some level you wonder if it wouldn’t all be easier if you gave up hope, simply threw in the towel and accepted perhaps that culture doesn’t mean anything, that there really isn’t any escaping. It is here that, speaking personally, but also as something of a justification for my interest in theories and politics of aesthetics and culture, culture, and in this instance especially music, holds open the door. The “heralding of worlds” enabled through pop music must be more than a simple ability to ignore the world as it is.

This is something that, especially given the somewhat archival nature of Reynold’s lecture, and my current reading on post-punk, appears not simply in some ineffable thought-realm, but on a spatio-temporal level. When I was discovering swathes of new sounds each presented to me a world with which I wasn’t familiar, a kind of fantastical apparition of the period from which it came. I referred previously on this blog to the Pop Group as appearing like a kind of transmission from elsewhere, and indeed a lot of the music I discovered felt the same way. Gayraud puts a large amount of emphasis on the development of recorded music, describing how recordings were in those early days sometimes treated with suspicion, how upon being played a recording of a song, the voice might be regarded as a spectre, something unnatural being brought back from the grave. This sense never truly goes away from recorded music, the particulars of each recording being inscribed technologically rather than dissipating with the singer/musician. On some level, the pop song, the recorded piece of music does give us a transmission from somewhere that no longer exists, or doesn’t exist here.

This is both the hope and the melancholy of pop, the moment that it promises something else while deferring it. Something Reynold’s referred to, specifically in conjunction with a song by “the Australian Beatles” the Easybeats, was this idea of “Utopia at the weekend” contained in their lyrics, the infinitely deferred promise of good times, without worry, always appearing as soon as they disappear. This is a conflict I’ve found within the form of songs repeatedly, whose sounds and forms encourage langour, enjoyment, dance, a kind of moment in which you are encouraged to remain… yet the song finishes, it can’t not, to lead onto the next. The euphoria always prefigures the downturn, the revolution is always tomorrow. Nonetheless the promise remains.

And what does the music writer have to do with all this? Is writing about music like dancing about architecture? No more than making music itself is like talking about paintings. That ridiculous canard should have been done away with a long time ago, not simply because its a case of “apples and oranges” but because it belies a constraint, a straight-jacket on music as well as writing, which assumes that one sphere simply lies apart from the other, that any imposition of writing or thought must necessarily lessen the impact, cheapen the music itself. I have to contest this on a personal level; I would never have, for instance, listened to the cracked ceramic majesty of the Associates Sulk had the presence of their music not been drawn up in such a compelling form in Reynold’s Rip it Up and Start Again, and in this instance it ceases to matter whether the writing itself resembles the form of the music, it was never about that, but the conjuring of its spirit, its emotional resonance in the listener.

This is, to tell the truth, what I objected to for so long in the music reviews I found in the guardian, which I encountered more regularly than any other paper, in which professional critics would time and again proceed to review from a supposed position of cynical distance, where they couldn’t be seen to be too invested, where even praise came with the insistent and mind-numbing implication of white-middle-class-cool heaped on top of it, as if I was being lectured by the frontman of the latest mediocre indie-rock outfit week after week. It is the bind of the man who simply grunts in response so as not to break his uncaring facade, the same that grips the hipster, the cool-police who stalk newspaper columns everywhere and deliver packaged and manufactured snide remarks on the latest pop single not because it has any bearing on anything, but because they need to make snide irreverent comments on something lest they lose their edge.

This form of criticism is an anathema to the power of music, it aims to lessen it, to dismiss it. Even what’s good is only so because you enjoy it, or because it fits a certain standard of irreverent cool to be a credibility-booster for the critic in question. The idea that music could in fact do something, that talking about it might be something more than recommending the best product for an audience, is laughed at, hit with the same insufferable hipster cool as everything else. In contrast to this, the best music writing, encapsulated for me in the past year in Ian Penman’s It Takes Me Home, This Winding Track, holds on, not to some artificial sincerity, but the weight of culture, the commitment to its power. To oppose the empty nostalgic commodification of Mod today is not simply an exasperated old man-ism, as if they “aren’t doing mod right” or something, but an acknowledgement of the wider implications, the nostalgia-porn for instance hanging around punk and, most bafflingly today, Britpop, isn’t simply something not to be liked, something distasteful, but a sign of something broader, something powerful.

The power of music remains an ambiguous one, to be handled with care and critically, but its existence is precisely why this critique is necessary, why despite the ineffability of sound, music and music culture deserve to be taken seriously. To not do so is to let this power bend to others, to give up the ghost, to leave music at the whims of the hipster critic is to leave it to the whims of political change. If we are to accept, as we should have realised long ago on the left, that politics operates through emotional means far before it does analytic ones, then the emotional pull of culture, the establishing of its power, has its part to play. By saying this, I don’t want to insinuate a call for some kind of “left culture offensive” in the manner of Red Wedge or Grime 4 Corbyn, both of which not only failed but subscribe to the logic that only explicit political messaging and content matters. Rather, it is for a re-alignment of how we criticise, talk about, address music. We need to assume that it matters regardless of content, that the future of music has something to offer, and that the dream of a re-invented structure of feeling presented by the history of its form still lives on, in whatever form this may take.


Into the Breach

As it turned out, this election was just a continuation of the trend, a link in the chain of right wing nationalism that’s been enjoying a resurgence, albeit in some slightly more complex ways. One of the most galling elements of Boris Johnson’s ascendancy is how planned it feels; how, with the aiding and abetting of a number of media figures and commentators who loved for so long to think of him as some kind of loveable buffoon, who practically fed him material for his routine and perhaps laughed to his jokes as long as they got a light jab at him occasionally, it all seems inevitable. Mark Fisher rightly pointed to Johnson as the manifest weaponizing of satire to consolidate rather than attack, the status quo, and there have been whispers for as long as I can remember of his designs on power. Now, finally here we are. He has his wish.

The defeat was devastating, there’s no way around this, it was a massacre. Norwich the next morning felt like a graveyard and there was a kind of unspoken shock on a lot of people’s faces. In the realm of possibilities I imagined a loss perhaps, but such a landslide victory felt like a gut punch when I heard about it, and that sense of it being a bad dream still lingers. The fact that Johnson proceeded to talk about “healing”, and then [amid already stirring mentions of Scottish independence and a united Ireland] protecting the union, seemed like something of a bad joke; but then that’s what “Boris” is, a series of terrible jokes somehow crammed into a sock standing on the steps of downing street. There is little consolation to be had from the result, as much as we try desperately to pull something from it, so the question turns, now at this moment of dreary, crushing defeat, where next for the British left?

Alan Johnson has the answer. The man who wouldn’t know what class politics was if it hit him in the face with a copy of the communist manifesto suggests we have abandoned the working class. The irony of this coming from Alan Johnson, central figure of New Labour runs deep. New Labour was the utter abandonment of the working class by the Labour party. It was the pretence, moreso, that class simply didn’t matter anymore, that we were in a post-political world; the last thing we should do is accept righteous lectures from stranded political agents desperately trying to claw back the time when their world-view still made sense, when they had the hegemony of support and nothing could ever change.

Righteous lectures aplenty however from centrists everywhere, columnists who would probably be better off admitting their desires and aligning with the right if it means that they’ll stop pretending they’re constantly opposing the left out of some kind of limp moral purpose. What we are supposed to believe is that it is over for the left, that the centrists, the moderates have all won the debate. Can’t we get back to some good old sensible politics now, abandon all this… hysteria about fighting for the powerless, building a better world, roll back the utopian ambitions a tad and settle back into the dull, plodding, empty, hopeless and deteriorating limbo of Capitalist Realism. This is supposed to be a thrashing for stepping out of line, for thinking above our station. Does this line up however with the people I’ve spoken to and seen online who disliked Labour BECAUSE of New Labour and Blair, under the mistaken assumption that they remained unchanged? Does this speak to the fact that Blair and co fundamentally cemented a universal distrust of politicians in the British psyche? What left politics tries to do is provide agency to those who have none, and in that matter, New Labour abandoned left politics wholly, coasting by election after election on low turnouts rather than inspiring any confidence, ensuring that the horizons remained closed even as people ceased to care, resigned to their fate.

What we have to do first of all is reject wholesale this idea, that if only we had a “sensible” candidate we would have won. We can’t know for sure of course, but by all accounts this simply isn’t true. We only have to look at the Lib Dem performance this election and the hasty immolation of Change UK in the European elections to see how much people are supposedly flocking to that kind of politics, and what is being suggested here is that we follow the same route. We suffered a disaster this election, of course, but are we really suggesting that the only alternative is to embrace a tactic that is now failing everywhere, that is out of ideas and out of support, facing embarrassment everywhere it plays its hand. No. For one thing this roundly ignores the far better performance Corbynism put forward in the prior election [the missing element Boris Johnson, which is key to understanding this one] which does somewhat mitigate the idea that there was something fundamentally rotten that people rejected about the project, and for another it ignores the rather obvious point that Johnson’s landslide was won on anything but the kind of moderate, Cameronesque, centre-right platform this might suggest is the only route to victory, rather we have seen the fringe right offer their near blanket support, hard right rhetoric and talking points becoming somewhat accepted fare among the Conservative party.

Does this mean that the British electorate are all fascist lunatics? No, it doesn’t, and we shouldn’t sink to such easy and clumsy answers. That Johnson’s appeal to the right wing of the Tories and beyond was constantly disavowed and hidden behind BORIS the character, the clown, the court jester, speaks to a rather well-executed campaign of misdirection. That people fell for this shouldn’t be surprising, not because they’re plain old idiots, but because it appeals directly to their fears and anxieties in a way that Labour sadly failed to accomplish. Johnson was, to those who supported him, a heterodox figure, an anti-establishment, punk rock figure who didn’t give a damn about the press or well-groomed speeches. This has always been at the heart of the project of BORIS, a degree of flippancy and carelessness that feeds into an image of British eccentricity and avoids what are seen as the typical politician’s evasions all while plying us with dreams of affable upper class englishmen.

Against this, what was seen as Labour’s constant triangulation all too often fell into the trap of appearing to be “like the rest of them”, too much like what was innately distrusted. This is despite the best of foundations, the pleas to “bring the country together” and a strong Manifesto of genuinely meaningful positive changes, things which were lovely, and admirable, but we now have to tackle not that they were completely misguided missteps, but that they failed to cut through the indeterminate paste of Brexit and political disillusionment. The reasons are, honestly, complex. While guardian columnists are busy admonishing the Labour left and recommending that we re-install the Blair auto-pilot, and some are making much of how many votes were lost to leave, a host of issues, many of them contingent, emerge. When it comes to Brexit, we lost votes to both leave and remain; on top of this there’s little to suggest many 2017 Labour voters stayed home this time, which all lends itself to a slightly confusing shifting picture.

So if we have established that capitulating to the sensible middle is off the cards, which, let me re-iterate, I will establish a thousand times, how can the Left survive this? A partial answer is that it already has. Unexpectedly I found on Friday a strong network of support and solidarity that I can’t see disappearing overnight. There is now an active, enthusiastic left contingent in British politics that for its flaws is remarkable for simply existing where there was a void not so long prior. If we are to continue into this long dark night, we have to brace ourselves for a series of oncoming crises which I can only see wracking the Tories and their support from top to bottom. The umbrella of these crises is the impossibly fragile base material of the Tories recent majority, and that is the promise of “Get Brexit Done”, three words which in their simplicity play directly towards all our fatigue, our wish to move on to different, perhaps greener pastures. The idea of getting something like this “Done” is however deeply questionable at best once we consider the length of time we will be stranded negotiating trade deals in varying scenarios, the very real possibility of the complete breakup of the union, a global recession, and the knock-on effects of all of this in at least mild social unrest and even breakdown. We have to come to terms at some point with the impossibility of this simple wish, and I hate to say this but it may take the active deterioration of life for this to dawn. The point however, is that “Get Brexit Done” is a house of cards and a promise of an ineffable utopian middle England that will collapse with the slightest pressure.

It is at this point that we cannot repudiate the need to fight for the dying, the dispossessed and the powerless, for they will be at a greater risk than ever, without recourse. This is central to what we should consider on the left, and was central to that crushing feeling of defeat when I heard the exit poll. What bothered me about the shrugs of some was that this isn’t just about my football team losing, millions of lives and their wellbeing are at stake in an election, so the cost of this runs far beyond my own feelings of discontent. In effect, vast amounts of people did end up voting for their own repression yet again, and that, for me, is profoundly depressing not simply because of some failing on their part, but because of the avalanche of piss that they themselves are going to have to endure. Of course, this question; “Why do men fight for their servitude as stubbornly as though it were their salvation?” can be found running through Deleuze & Guattari in Anti-Oedipus, and continues to be a primary issue for the Left to counter. To many, there is nothing innately attractive about emancipation, again they are resigned to their fate through a series of impersonal drives.

It is here that that Lacanian injunction also becomes apt “The only thing of which one can be guilty is having given ground relative to one’s desire”, this becoming of course a key realisation as to how elections like this work. The vote for BORIS was jouissance, a capitulation to the demands of desire at the expense of shared value or support, and this is no surprise given the emaciated sense of political agency of the British electorate. We want better lives, but we can’t see how. We may have thought or hoped that a programme of social democratic reform might have spoken to people in this regard, but truth is its never about the ideas, its how you sell them, how you eroticize them. The BORIS programme presented that in spades, no matter how unpleasant it seemed to us, a sunlit uplands beyond Brexit as objet petit a, even the cartoon buffoonery of his projection was an appeal to a kind of unsubstantiated British ideal, the Prime minister who embodies a kind of little england aristocrat. In this way this election becomes about the past more than the future in so many regards, that wish to retreat, to return. As in Brexit, via a subconscious post-colonial melancholia a dark strain of nationalism seized the moment and implemented itself behind the mainstream dominance.

All of this may be of little consolation right now, but its key I think to at least understand not only what the Left failed on, but how the right succeeded. We may have done far better two years ago, but that was against Theresa May, Boris Johnson was always going to be a different, far more dangerous proposition precisely because of his blunders and fuck-ups. There was a tendency to take aim at him for things like snatching the image from the journalist, hiding in the fridge and generally doing the things that were precisely the pull for many supporters. He’s not Trump, but like Trump, its his “not a politician” demeanour that was a huge draw, precisely that he isn’t bound by such things as decent political conduct and will just do things. There is an excitement to that for many that simply became far more important than any list of policies or political programme.

The key thing now I think is to establish that “Corbynism” as a term is dead, but the Left is not. The worst mistake we could make is to attach socialism to one man, as if he is the last representative, the final gasp of left politics. We are not going to progress with “Corbynism”, but with socialism, and keep pushing. If I’m perfectly honest I reach points of thinking what’s the point, really. I imagine how it must feel to have your political side win consistently by hook or by crook for so long that you can’t even remember not winning and a certain degree of despair beckons. The left are never going to win are we, the right will always be a step ahead I tell myself. But really, this is only true as long as we let it be. Physically, materially, there is nothing to stop us building a better world, but it is always the impersonal mechanisms of politics, of desire, that stymie this modest goal. Moving forward, we have to work with this, to try and mould ourselves around these mechanisms and learn their operations. We have to make sure than when push comes to shove, we are waiting with a new offensive, and this time, the tide of feeling won’t be so easily stemmed. The Tories have won, and they’ve won big, but all this means is that the pressure has built to unsustainable levels. We are at a point where things cannot remain, where the immortality of capital has become an impossible dream, and at this point the last thing we should do is retreat, back down, cede ground and accept reality.


Music Politics

You Too Will Learn to Live the Lie – The Pop Group’s Subterranean Transmissions

“It had everything that I thought rock and roll should have. It was violent, paranoid music for a violent, paranoid time “

The shrieking, disjointed funk of the Pop Group is something I distinctly remember discovering via a Nick Cave interview at some stage, during a long trawl through the archives of youtube in which I spent a great deal of my time. Indeed a similar quality immediately excited me in the Pop Group to much of the earlier Bad Seeds output, and it comes back to this sense that it was all on the verge of falling apart. Cave is at his best when the music and his singing exhibit an almost unbearable tension between fantasy and contact with reality [I am reminded when I was playing Tender Prey once and a friend remarked that it sounded like “bad karaoke”, YES, exactly]. The tight rhythmic stabbing and falling-apart dub-noise crescendos of the Pop Group existed on a level of tension which was far more formal than character driven, driven by a kind of abandon which you can only imagine some kind of stuffy muso calling “sloppy”, you get the constant sense that the sound hangs together on a thread. You can FEEL the tears and cracks in the recording, through which bleed the paranoiac screams of a political present.

A political present not of now, but of the 80s. When Cave called it “violent, paranoid music for a violent, paranoid time” could he have been referring to any other moment? Indeed, its interesting to note that for many the 80s, and in fact the 80s of our ballroom-decadence-consumer-wonderland fantasies, the entire simulacrum of neon, shoulder pads and analogue synthesizers, it is anything but violent and paranoid. The 80s which we now experience, lifted from its moorings and floated somewhere out into the ocean of time-locked pathologies, is one drained of this paranoia, a grainy VHS filter on a time of excess where the political and social horrors of Thatcher and Reagan become at best historical markers, at worst just a kind of background fuzz to the never ending carnival of glitzy fitness regimes and faded primary colours. The Pop Group seem then to speak more to a subterranean unrest, and indeed existed as a vestige of anger and refusal of this sickly-sweet vision that we can now recognise as the dreamscape of the new capitalism, the promise of a future of endless neon, shoulder pads and synthesizers becomes the vanguard of a stifling regime of individual competition.

Mark Fisher pointed to the Pop Group as holding on to art as Marcuse’s “Great Refusal” of the status quo, as something that still contained something of that negative power against the increasing realist dogma of acquiescence. When I found them in the sprawling bootlegs and leftovers of the internet it was, like so much I found there, like a kind of radio transmission from a subterranean, buried history. The jagged, screeching lines of the dub-cracked, distorted guitar tones, the voice like some kind of detournement of not only political but ontological proportions, burst through the earth. A sense of urgency that still resonated in that expansive chamber that couldn’t be entirely extinguished, a thread of an impulse could be drawn out of the well and couldn’t simply be hung on the wall as a museum piece without reducing it to an empty simulation, a diorama in a glass case.

Part of this is the simultaneously open-ended yet sharp and contained nature of this sound, the apparent contradiction that keeps it in motion, that tension.. Its something that few groups now allow themselves, that level of disjunction, perhaps even inventiveness, where each musician comes from a different corner and what seems like it shouldn’t work combines into a tight yet cacophonous textural schizophrenia [a similar loose-discipline can be found in the Fall’s best material]. The best thing about the Pop Group, and what really got me about them back then, was that element of refusal, the refusal to recycle or replicate, the refusal to allow a kind of simple reconciliation with the pop mainstream and commitment to marginal pop appeal, a refusal to iron out tension and hence to dull an edge which is so needed to slice through the thick, muggy atmosphere of the present. Their “violent, paranoid music ” is something that seems to act like a kind of spatio-temporal disuption of sorts, its yelped proclamations and warnings, fractured dub funk and driving confrontation seeming more, not less immediate, as if these transmissions from a lost underground have appeared through the radio static, directly beamed from some remote outpost on another planet into the violent, paranoid present.. they become part of a barely-perceived scattered world that lies concurrently to this one, where subversion was still something that could convince.

Isn’t the problem today that subversion has become something of a hobby, like satire? We have a free reign to subvert, as long as we don’t get anyone into trouble, as long as we do fall within the lines enough to dissolve any actual confrontation into a meaningless bonhomie and stultified politeness; it’s ok to throw things about a bit on Jools Holland as long as you don’t go too far and undermine the structure of the show, the idea of punk transgression, at some point still believably a powerful spectacle of detournement, fully assimilated and thrown back up as another riff, another tic, another form we can endlessly throw up onto an audience. It is demanded that we become caricatures, that we play towards the so-called authenticity behind the mask, the iconoclasm we are supposed to have believed in wafting and mingling with the clouds of stupefaction and similitude. Even Punk has to grow up, right?

The distinction here is what is implied by “grow up”. It isn’t that there is no value in a kind of slowness and reflection that comes with.. well, living, but that this is expected to arrive with a kind of ubiquitous cynicism, the implication that we used to be idealists but then found out about the reality of the world. This is why in putting our ears to the rock and hearing these buried transmissions, in perceiving the vibrations of something that now seems impossible or hopeless, an important metamorphosis can be attempted. The paradoxical intersection of time, space, of entire worlds, begins to weave a tapestry of galvanized potential. It is indeed in rejecting this association of age, or life with disenchantment, from rejecting the incompatibility of a youthful rebellion and an aged reflection, that we can begin to piece together these fragmented broadcasts, and re-orient ourselves not only culturally but in time and space itself.

Capitalism Politics

We Should Not Wish for Normality, but for Socialism

I, and others like me who were born after a certain point in the late 20th century, have never known anything but the long dark night of neoliberalism. The first time I ever became aware of politics it was Tony Blair’s innocuous grin in the newspaper, perhaps 9/11, the Iraq war.. New Labour, for many now, has been the limitations of our horizons, the extent of what “left” has ever meant. Shorn from the long experience of defeat altogether, is it hardly any wonder that, setting forth on the task of rebuilding leftism practically from the ground up, we struggle and falter?

What is “electability”? Those who often throw it around talk as if it were some kind of impartial judgement delivered from somewhere above, perhaps by some political demigod, but beyond that what can it really designate besides an ideal, a mould against which all politicians are measured? Of course what brings this into much clearer focus is the assembly lines of immaculately coiffured replicants pioneered under the New Labour brand of politics, wherein your average politician was a shiny, branded white male android programmed on demand to deliver a series of relatively believable platitudes to the public and perhaps emote to specifications. Politics appeared as, and was expected to be a branding exercise, a slick, well produced sheen akin to an apple commercial wherein the future was contained in the perfectly ironed folds of a suit and the “relatable” grin of a young prime minister. Tony Blair’s administration very much pioneered this more-human-than-human approach and you can see its innovations all over the off-putting smarm of David Cameron.

What this has done is nothing less than building the image of the ideal politician that now we either wish to escape or return to. It seems reasonable to think that this is a huge reason why Ed Miliband was given such a hard time both as Labour leader and in the 2015 election for reasons often beside his politics. Many references were made to the “wrong brother” being put in that position, and this speaks to a particular expression of the political hegemony. What was it that made David Miliband a supposed preferable option to his brother? Simply put, he looked and seemed correct. David fit perfectly into the model of the New Labour politician, the cloned appearance, free of blemishes or hiccups, the look of a car salesman with a healthy salary. “Red Ed” was simply a faulty model, and deviated from what we were supposed to be looking for in a politician, the effortless PR gloss that reeked of finance capital.

This really seems to lie behind the idea of electability; it is an idea of what we are supposed to expect, a baseline. Tony Blair became a kind of original from which all must be cloned, each time with just enough differences that we mistake them for another person… this vision of the default, the baseline test to ensure we don’t stray too far from our purpose, is something familiar to all of us in the form of the everyday etiquette of work, of interaction, the conformity of ritual that defines the rhythms of postmodern capitalism. It is the ideological hegemony, contained in a million repetitions; kneel and clasp your hands as if in prayer, and you shall believe, to paraphrase Pascal, and once we know nothing but the action of prayer, any deviance from this motion is an unacceptable break in rank..

This model of the politician may no longer hold the sway it did, but it plays into a certain hankering for the times of old, the supposed glory days of the 2000s from which we have been so violently torn. How else could we explain that some in fact think this era was some kind of golden age than that we have no direct experience of anything better than its profound mediocrity?

I disagree with Paul Mason on a lot of things [and will proceed to do so here], but I think his reference to Eric Fromm here is worth picking up on. I think it’s very true that the ruling classes are now very much relying on a deep despair and frustration to consolidate their position. They are gambling on the assumption that we will all be too fed up with the situation surrounding Brexit to do anything to stop them. But then, should our aim here be “the road back to normality”? Bluntly put, no, and I think this is a misstep if we are intending to move forward. The wish to restore normality has been the driving force behind political hegemony for decades now, the pull to the centre. If we have any commitment to the socialist project we must if anything resist the pull of the normal. This return is surely the most reliable gesture of the reactionary?

“Normality” like “Electability” in politics are values we should move away from entirely at this juncture. If there is something the populist right have picked up on and steamrollered ahead with, it is the realisation that these paradigms no longer hold the all-encompassing sway they did. We on the left should not oppose them by countering this realisation, as surely the situation of normality here is, if we are to understand it in terms of power dynamics, hugely damaging. We may look back to the pre-crash era of the 2000s with fondness, when there was the illusion of prosperity [for some], but surely in the long term we must take into account that such recessions are a regular an inherent feature of Capitalism, never mind the bloated debt fuelled economies of today. All we’ve been doing is living on borrowed time, as borrowed time is the only time capital can offer; the time of work, frittered away worrying about whether you can make the next payment, until the next time your landlord decides to up the rate of blood extraction.

Any point of normality we might hanker towards is defined by this, it was never going to last, and was simply the moment of decadence before the fall. What Blair and his cohorts may have sold to us as a time of plenty, what some who still stand by their politics seem to hold as a golden age, was a time, if we look under its surface, thick with the viscous sludge of ruling class excess, an edifice at the brink of collapse. I’m sure some of us would love to simply undo the crash and all its particulars, but this belies its place in the historical continuity of capital, the events that led up to it, ignores the sheer economic despondency, the depressive impotence of the left New Labour represented in all its pomp and hubris. Indeed, we now stand upon the edge of what might, by some accounts, be a global recession many times more serious than that 11 years ago, demonstrating that in all this time we simply pushed forward the inevitable, that all this pretence that underpinned the brutal program of austerity and the “Fiscal responsibility” of successive Tory governments is nothing but a pathetic sham.

9 years. That’s how long we’ve now been under conservative rule, and taking into account the broken promise of new labour, we can reach back through the millennium into the 20th century and find that it may have been at least 4 decades since the left was a meaningful political force in Britain. Given this context, it is indeed understandable why many now believe that New Labour is simply the best we can expect.. what else have we to go on? But it is imperative that we create something new, and glimmers of this already exist today. Of course the surges in leftism among younger people have been imperfect, the organisations and parties they underpin have made mistakes and will continue to do so, but given that we are trying to build something that has lain shattered on the ground in a million pieces for decades, this is understandable and to be expected. Right now we must avoid condemning what little we have to go on for its imperfections and try collectively to move politics to the left. The socialist project today remains fragile and ready to fall apart, but if we ensure its further success into the future we may in fact be able to see something beyond the vapid, empty forms of normality.