Since 9/11, terrorism has, of course, been an all-pervasive issue. But an interesting aside to the traditional narrative of fear, hatred and polemic with which terrorism goes hand in hand is capitalism’s capacity to incorporate such horror into traditional market structures. Much has been made of the branded nature of al Qaeda, and the carefully timed video clips of al Qaeda representatives spouting extremist rubbish has all of the finesse of a well planned viral advertising campaign. Indeed, for an organisation which has no concrete identity (no offices, no official staff, no payroll) it has been incredibly “successful,” if such a term can be applied.
So, it was with little surprise that we found this, a list of the top ten strangest anti-terrorism patents. All are genuine, and all display a keen nose for profit come the expansion of the war on terrorism. Perhaps the most apocalyptic is the Biohazard Suit with Built-In Toilet, an invention that suggests a world where un-gassed public conveniences are few and far between.
This year’s Glastonbury reminded me why I first fell in love with the festival. I have been one of the faithful, having slogged my way through the last five Glastonburys, even declaring 2007’s Helm’s Deep of slush and sewage to be a success. But this year was faultless. The intricacies of on-site weather meant that Thursday’s downpour was in fact a blessing, preventing the site turning into a dustball in the ensuing three days of sunshine. Jay-Z was predictably brilliant. Neil Diamond was unpredictably brilliant.
But there was more to the experience than enjoying good weather and seeing good acts. For this year, I was one of those acts. Having played in bands since I was 18, I was asked to fill out a friend’s alt–country/folk outfit. We were due to play the Park stage at 11am on Friday, a small beer tent later that evening, then an even smaller green tea trading tent in the healing fields on Saturday afternoon. The first of the three gigs was great—four or five hundred people sitting down, enjoying breakfast, then kindly standing for an ovation, of sorts. The other two were fun, relatively low key, and pleasantly experienced through the warm fuzz of organic cider.
But the most intriguing thing about playing at Glastonbury is the strangely relaxed perspective it grants. A combination of soundchecks and gear-lugging means that instead of the endless walking involved in being a punter, racing from stage to stage, you’re coerced into drinking with a bearded sound engineer who has worked at the tiny tea tent every year for the past 15, and who in all that time has never even seen the Pyramid stage. Our gig in the healing fields, an area devoted almost entirely to alternative medicine, was watched by no more than 30 people, all of them happily drinking herbal tea. Yet, when we finished, the proprietor of the bar forced a plate of lentil curry in our hands, leaving me with the feeling that I had had a definitive “Glastonbury moment.”
Of course, I’m not suggesting that such experiences are reserved for the likes of Jack White and Amy Winehouse, just as I am in now way comparing my own foray onto the stage with theirs. It’s merely that in previous years I have been guilty of wanting to ‘make the most’ of the festival, by squeezing in as many bands as possible. This year I saw fewer than ever, and at the risk of sounding like an old hippie, experienced more than ever. And the backstage toilets were clean. Let’s not forget that.
After the promotional giant Mean Fiddler took over organisation of the Glastonbury festival in 2004, cynics argued that the move was symbolic of the demise of music festivals in general: once a bastion of anti-establishment sentiment, Glastonbury had become complacent, corporate and disingenuous. The fact that Glastonbury’s organiser, Michael Eavis (now succeeded by his daughter Emily), pioneered the very concept of a music festival has, if anything, worked against him. How could a man responsible for capturing so much revolutionary spirit concede to the pressures of sponsorship and security? Critics branded the new Glastonbury as an overpriced, cocaine-fuelled blowout for thirtysomething media types, proclaiming its originality while slipping into bland homogeneity.
So Emily Eavis’s decision this year to book rapper Jay-Z as the Saturday night headliner should have been greeted with the respect such progression deserves. For me, the most enjoyable part of Glastonbury has always been the sense of discovery and surprise which wandering around the site grants you. Avoid the main stages and you’ll come across anything from a capella hip hop to comedy groups. By booking Jay-Z, Eavis junior has extended that element of surprise, displaying the type of innovation that made Glastonbury famous in the first place. Yet many commentators have blamed the Jay-Z booking for the festival’s sluggish ticket sales—they’re still available a month and half after going on sale, compared with last year when they sold out in an hour and a half.
Continue reading ‘In praise of Jay-Z’
Three news stories concerning the Democratic nominations have left a “bitter” taste in my mouth. First, an aide to Michelle Obama was caught ushering young black students off the stage she was due to speak on in Pittsburgh, only to replace them with young white students. All campaigns employ such crowd control (Hillary Clinton’s camp will ensure that there is a distinct lack of grey hair sitting behind her in an attempt to widen her youth appeal), and Obama, who has won the majority of the black vote, was concerned about appearing too black to the predominantly white working classes of Pennsylvania. This does, of course, run against the grain of his campaign message that he can bring together the nation in a way Clinton cannot.
Similarly divisive is the story of Linda Ramirez-Sliwinski, an Obama delegate to the Democratic convention from Illinois who was forced to resign by the Obama team after telling some African-American children outside her house to stop playing in the trees “like monkeys”—a phrase that some claimed carried racist connotations. Concerned about negative press coverage, the campaign swooped on Ms Ramirez-Sliwinski in an attempt to pre-empt the media. Ironically, a negative news story was created anyway—in disgust at such an Orwellian attempt at censorship.
Of course, it was Obama’s own choice of words, in the so-called “bittergate” row, which has stirred up the most dust. Although his comments were badly worded, the overexcited cry from Clinton that this was a clear sign of Obama being “out of touch” smacked of desperation. Clearly, both sides are tired, and with fatigue will come more slip-ups and more ill-advised decisions. As Mary Fitzgerald has argued elsewhere on this site, the longer the Democratic campaign continues, the less airtime John McCain will receive and the more voter information the Democratic party gathers, which can only be good for the party. But the relationship between both camps and the media is becoming increasingly spiky, and one wonders just how much press the Democratic party receives will continue to be good press.
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