It is tempting to believe, after the recent local elections in which the UK Independence Party was virtually wiped off the political map, that something good has happened. Douglas Carswell, UKIP’s erstwhile sole MP, left the party earlier this year, leaving UKIP with no parliamentary presence; another putative blow to the far right’s mainstream credibility. As Nigel Farage stepped down from the party’s leadership, the mantel was passed to Paul Nuttall, who was almost immediately embroiled in a scandal over claims he was present at the Hillsborough disaster. Taken together, one might claim with some surety that these developments, all worthy and delectable as sound bites, spell the demise of UKIP’s brand of reactionary dog whistle politics, like the British National Party before them.
There is, however, a crucial distinction between the BNP and UKIP. The former represented, in the run-up to the 2010 election, a protest vote in the wake of revelations regarding MPs from both the left and right fiddling their expenses. Popular disgust with the so-called political establishment manifested itself centrally as a surge of interest in a number of smaller parties, with the SNP, the Greens and the Liberal Democrats ultimately benefiting from the electoral fallout. The BNP caught the scraps of this popular disenchantment with mainstream politics, though their brief surge in popularity failed to translate into votes. Correspondingly, Nick Griffin and his fascist cohorts have been absent from prime time TV and radio slots since the formation of the Conservative/Lib Dem coalition. Continue reading
This is an album I made, with a group of hard-working and committed friends, under the moniker <Herons!>. I put pen to paper 10 years ago, beginning the composition of the songs without any grand scheme or fixed idea of what the result should be. The motivation was simply to create a piece of work that challenged me, and the listener, to do our best. I wanted to make something really human. I think of being human as a challenge: you’ve got all these unusual parts, so, make the most of them. The challenge is figuring out what the hell to do with all these unusual parts. I’m not too good at it. Judging by the state of the world, neither are you.
Since that first ink stain 10 years ago, I’ve lost a lot of friends. Some of them died, some of them stopped calling or writing, and some of them simply keep away. Some of them I’ve had to decide to keep away from. People are full of contradictions. I spent years smoking cigarettes, and there’s nothing better I’d like right now than to light up. But smoking kills you. Why would I want to kill myself?
The older I get, the more I realise that I don’t know diddly-squat. I know about five things in total:
- People are capable of untold cruelty
- People are capable of untold beauty
- If you push people hard enough, they push back
- Sometimes they push one way, sometimes another
The fifth thing I know is more like a suspicion, so I left it off the list. I suspect that there’s some kind of interplay between these above four things, and that a really clever person could work out exactly what it is, like in mathematics. But maybe that would be terrible. Maybe if someone or something knew the ins and outs of those four things, we’d be in even bigger trouble than we already are. I don’t know. And that’s why I don’t believe in God.
I used to believe in God. Now I don’t believe in God. I think to believe in God you have to accept a fifth addition to that list, a kind of certainty (even just a potential certainty) that undermines and deflates the dynamic of the previous four. God, as a notion, is like a black hole that sucks all possibilities into itself. One of the unusual parts of a human is that we can function dynamically, enduring these contradictions and uncertainties and turning them into something else. Like using shit to grow flowers. Or vegetables. Whatever you prefer. Everybody sees something different when they see a pile of shit.
Anyway. This record is free, if you want it to be. You can pay for it, too. Either way, I don’t mind. Its production was made possible by the generosity of strangers, so I’m hoping I can pay that forward. Personally, I mistrust the process by which goods and services (including art, which are just flowery goods and services, and flowers come from shit) are denuded of their use value, for the purpose of applying to them an exchange value. I don’t mind it so much as long as the goods and services remain intact for the people using them, as opposed to the people selling them. With art of any kind, even throwaway pop culture, I think it sparkles a little brighter when it’s a kind of community project. So here’s my little community project. I’m not really selling it. It’s yours.
Woke up to the clockwork herring gull alarm: a fight for territory, one gull swooping repeatedly in a pendulum swing over the other, who cawed three brainless blasts in perfect time over and over.
I never want to forget this day, this bubble bursting, this slow cooking oppression in which me-in-the-abstract is an object of vilification. I never want to forget this day when stupidity reigned so supremely that even the stupid were dumbfounded, holding the remnants of their piñata of a country in their hands, asking—how?
How to be radical now? Not to talk to yourself in a way that pleases people to overhear.
How to take anger and use it? Not indulge in the palliative fix of reconciliation and liberal sense-making.
How to be radical? And to whom? Not ignoring or mansplaining to the bungled and the botched about the streamlined curviture of necessity, in a dead language spoken by people with nothing to say to anyone but themselves.
We are eavesdroppers in our own national dialogue, making sense of a violent din just to feel that all this talk must mean something.
How to be radical? And to whom?
By representing the violence of the mundane.
To the very ones who have forgotten how to listen.
Unmasking the illusion of choice for what it is: violence and necessity.
“Poetry is the art of economy and surprise.” I falsely attributed this pithy aphorism to my stepfather, a high school English teacher who, in my memory, passed jewels like these on to me, often in the car, with take-out coffees and buttered rolls, on long, wide roads of suburban America with the AM radio chattering in the background. My America largely consists of such car journeys and snippets of formative conversation, because I left the United States before I became what is usually referred to, without a whiff of European irony, as a fully formed adult.
Living abroad can be a confusing experience for everyone involved. As my British and Irish friends never tire of reminding me, my accent hasn’t gone away. Where it would go, I don’t quite understand. On the other hand, when I visit the US, people ask me what country I’m from. Nobody sets out to wear the dunce cap of a Transatlantic accent, for the simple reason that one sounds neither British nor American anymore but a freakish, uncanny cousin of both, without the respective charms of either. To Americans, you sound like William F. Buckley, Jr. and to Brits you sound like Lloyd Grossman.
“Poetry is the art of economy and surprise.” Recently, I reminded my stepfather of the time he gifted this nugget of wisdom to me, to which he responded, “I’ve never heard that before. Who said it?” Who said it, indeed? I have no idea, and neither does Google. Maybe I made it up. When I was younger and more certain of essential truths, I employed it glibly in a comparison between canonical writers and terrorists. The pairing went as well as you’d imagine. Being a foreigner, I struggled to recover from what I perceived as the handicap of my background, a common immigrant anxiety. What is an American, after all, but the genius of immigration? No American abroad likes to be reminded of the earnest and unself-conscious manner of his countrymen as they appear on TV, so I blithely quipped my way into the social conversation.
I left the US a short time before 9/11, and came of age in its aftermath. Before 9/11, the place where I grew up had seemed a decidedly dreary and boring place. Watching the Twin Towers fall in a sitting room 4,000 miles away, I thought back to the first time I ever ate curly fries, standing at the South Tower observation deck overlooking Manhattan and Long Island Sound. As the dust spread over downtown, everything took on new meaning: the country, the buildings, the city, me. Out of the mundane we derived a new potency, as in poetry. In two swift and horrible gestures the whole world changed around us, faster than a human can realistically form a narrative. You could argue that we’ve spent the past 15 years re-reading compulsively, trying to make sense of what Arundhati Roy calls ‘the terror of the mundane’, trying to work out how we fit into the story.
Narratives emerge like hashtags in a Twitter stream. Where they intersect, the language of social media fails us. Gun violence and terrorism, the US and the West, the US and the Middle East, the Middle East and the West, the Middle East and Islam, fundamentalism and Islam, fundamentalist Islam and the West, fundamentalism and homosexuality, homosexuality and the West, the West and gun violence and terrorism and homosexuality. This is not a story one person can tell, nor even one country. We are all foreigners in this conversation.We bring our countries, and our languages, with us.
When Omar Mateen walked into the LGBT nightclub Pulse in Orlando on Sunday with a handgun and an assault rifle, he spoke a gibberish language none of us understand. But it is clear to whom it was spoken. Whether you call it an issue of US gun violence, domestic or jihadi terrorism, it is an act of translation. Opportunistic politicians will translate it one way, lobbyists another. Media outlets will translate these translations. In all likelihood, we will grow to favour one translation over the others. But it’s worth remembering the original language of murder. What is language after all but a system of symbols? Let’s begin with this one: a Sig Sauer MCX “Black Mamba” civilian assault rifle firing 24 rounds in nine seconds at LGBT people. The Black Mamba is a brain with only one neural pathway. The Black Mamba is starving but is easily fed. The Black Mamba loves a fight. The Black Mamba doesn’t care about winning the argument. The Black Mamba has two parents like everyone else: Mother Hatred and Father Apathy. The Black Mamba gives nothing, not even a shit. The Black Mamba will always believe it is right. The Black Mamba is absolute certainty. The Black Mamba is the brother of fear. The Black Mamba sings GLORY BE with eyes and ears closed. The logical conclusion of the Black Mamba is the user turning it on himself.
It’s been 21 years since Kurt Cobain was found dead, with a suicide note that sounds less like a swan song than a letter to fans explaining why he didn’t want to be the “spokesman of a generation”. Since then, Nirvana have become an institution — which is funny, because most music doesn’t really sound like that anymore. After the band went into the studio with alt-legend Steve Albini to record their last studio album, In Utero, he disparagingly referred to them as “R.E.M. with a fuzzbox”. And he wasn’t wrong: Nirvana took the turd-like underbelly of American rock music and polished it just enough to be popular. Like, really popular.
Lots of bands are quick to cite Nirvana as an influence, from Bat For Lashes to pretty much every band on Radio 6 — though you’d be hard pressed to find a trace of this influence anywhere in their sound or lyrical content or attitude or basically anything about them. Whatever else it is, you can bet it is in part The Narrative. Kurt Cobain has achieved the Romantic Legend status that is measurable by cheap Camden t-shirts with his face on them, punctuated with an uncontextualized quote. Continue reading