This is an article I wrote for ISH (Irish Scene and Heard) Magazine, back in 2003.
A Volatile Mix
Michael Synnott maintains that music and politics don’t always go together like hand and glove.
Let’s try a little thought experiment. Picture yourself sitting in your living room, flicking through the satellite TV music channels. Got the image? OK, now imagine you stumble across a live gig by your favourite band. Result! You settle back in your chair, crank up the volume and rock out.
Now picture yourself listlessly surfing through the other channels. Through some horrid twist of fate you happen across Prime Minister’s Question Time or the televised coverage of the Dáil sessions. What do you do? Well, if you’re anything like me, you switch channels as quickly as your tired surfing-thumb will allow and thank your lucky stars you didn’t see anything that might have polluted your delicate artistic mind.
Now, how did these two scenarios make you feel? Again, if you’re anything like me the answers are ‘elated’ and ‘detached’, respectively. Music and politics: subjects at opposite ends of the social spectrum, diametrically opposed belief systems, freedom versus control, lifestyles never to be mixed. Or are they?
As long as there has been political intrigue, there has been music supporting, condemning or ridiculing it. But how do we feel about musicians crossing the boundary from entertainer to politician, or at least to political commentator? After all, the politicians rarely cross the line in the opposite direction, with the exception of Bill Clinton, who was an aficionado of ‘oral sax’ and numerous Irish politicians who, judging by their characters, have never been averse to twanging out the occasional solo tune on the ol’ one-string banjo.
Here’s another thought experiment: think of as many outspoken musical artists as you can. Off you go. Done? OK, even without knowing your age and political views, I bet I can name at least two of those you came up with:
Bob Dylan, Eminem, Joan Baez, Zach de la Rocha, Frank Zappa, Madonna, Bono, The Wolfe Tones, Stiff Little Fingers, Ice-T, The Dixie Chicks, John Lennon, errmm …. Well, there are shitloads more, but you get the idea. Now, let’s take two of these people, Bono and Eminem, and do a little compare and contrast.
Ask twenty U2 fans how they feel about Bono’s outspoken political views and lyrics and you’ll probably get half of them saying he’s a champion of the people and the other half saying they wish he wouldn’t bother and that he should get on with the business of making rock music. Ask twenty Eminem fans the same question and, notwithstanding the obvious demographic differences, most, if not all, of them will say ‘Yeah, he’s bang on.’
So what’s the difference here? Those of us who saw ‘Self Aid’ in 1986 remember the shock, embarrassment and disdain we felt as U2 played ‘Maggie’s Farm’ and Bono fell around the stage, using his microphone lead as a tourniquet as he mimed the act of shooting a syringe full of smack into his arm. ‘He’s lost the plot’, we said, and we prematurely predicted his demise as an Irish rock icon. Yet, we now watch Marshall Mathers lurching around the stage like a demented Quasimodo, spitting vitriol at a world he hates yet has to live in, and we nod our heads in approval—at the message if not the music. What’s going on here?
It’s an honesty thing. We understand someone like Marshall Mathers, for whom politics and the message are his entire raison d’être. He burst onto the scene with an in-your-face delivery and a lyric sheet that reads like the court transcript of a pub argument, and he was political from the get-go. We scoff at the likes of U2, who came from privileged backgrounds and seemed to jump on the political bandwagon to sell a few records. I know it’s a harsh judgement, and anyone who has listened to ‘Boy’ will know that Bono’s political sensibilities were present in his art from the outset, but nonetheless, it is the prevailing attitude. We seem to be mentally categorising politically-outspoken musical artists depending on their backgrounds and adjusting our tolerance levels accordingly. To reinforce this point, go back to your mental list of outspoken musical artists and divide them into ‘always political’ and ‘occasionally political’ camps. You’ll be surprised how your attitude to the members of each differs.
Not since Vietnam have people been more divided politically than they were over the Second Gulf War, or the recent illegal invasion of Iraq, depending on your viewpoint. The fair-weather politicos in the music industry came out of the woodwork like cockroaches, and it became, quite frankly, boring.
“Just so you know, we’re ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas.” So said Natalie Maines, proud Texan and member of The Dixie Chicks, at a concert in London during the invasion. She recanted after stations boycotted their records and 76% of listeners to Atlanta station KICKS 101.5 said they would return their Dixie Chicks CDs if they could. Hmm… ten-out-of-ten for effort, Love, but you certainly won’t make a successful politician with this propensity towards career-destroying public comments.
On the other hand, System of a Down got out in the streets, joined an anti-war protest and released the song “Boom!”—a sensible approach to protest, I have to say. Zach del la Rocha of Rage against the Machine and his ilk, totally vindicated, looked on quietly, shaking their heads and saying ‘I told you so.’
But what happens when politics encroaches on music? The most memorable example of recent times is the infamous PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center), founded by Tipper Gore in reaction to hearing the lyrics to Prince’s “Darling Nikki”, from the album Purple Rain which she had bought for her 12-year-old daughter Karenna. The PMRC claimed that ‘virgin minds’ were being poisoned by “hidden messages and backward masking” but quite how the notion of a sexually self-assured woman ‘masturbating with a magazine’ would poison the mind of any 12-year-old remains a mystery. The PMRC, or ‘The Washington Wives’—so called because their husbands were prominent politicians—appeared before the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science and Transportation on September 19, 1985 with a list of outrageous demands designed to censor the music industry. Every time you see that ‘Parental Advisory’ sticker on an album or wonder why Kerrang TV has specific late-night slots for certain videos, you can thank Tipper Gore and the PMRC. Protecting children or the most blatant contravention of the First Amendment ever seen? The jury’s still out.
But the PMRC didn’t get it all its own way. Frank Zappa and Dee Snider vigorously defended free speech and Zappa famously declared, “Censorship here would be like using decapitation to deal with dandruff.” He went on to warn that censorship “opens the door to an endless parade of moral quality-control programs based on Things Certain Christians Don’t Like. What if the next bunch of Washington Wives demands a large yellow ‘J’ on material written or performed by Jews?”
Now, these are the kinds of musicians we need in politics. Unfortunately, the good guys like Frank and Sonny Bono seem to die off prematurely.
Where does that leave us? Well, in exactly the same place we came in: there will always be politics in music and there will always be musicians in politics. It’s our duty to support those who deserve to be there and to ridicule those who don’t.
2003-12-16
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The opening chapter of Part II of my forthcoming older children's book 'Tír'
GPS Ground Control Station, Diego Garcia, Indian Ocean.
“Master Sergeant, there goes another one!” shouted Airman Taylor.
In the dim control room, the glow of the computer screen threw deep shadows across his face.
The Master Sergeant’s head snapped up from his console.
“Report.”
Taylor looked frightened.
“Another satellite has disappeared, Sir.”
The Master Sergeant crossed to Taylor’s station and peered over his shoulder. Taking in the information on the display, he picked up the phone handset beside Taylor’s keyboard and punched in a number.
“This is Steinmetz at Diego Garcia. We’ve lost signal from three GPS birds in the past fifteen minutes. We’re running … hold on.”
Taylor was gesturing to the screen and holding up four fingers. Steinmetz raised his eyebrows and Taylor nodded.
“Make that four; all four satellites in orbit-plane C have gone dark. We’re running diagnostics now, but the degradation of accuracy and intel from other ground stations is consistent with shutdown of four birds.”
The voice on the other end spoke briefly.
“No sir, we have no idea. Terrorist action is not presumed at this time.”
Again, Steinmetz listened.
“No sir, they could not be shut down by a foreign power. We encrypt all the tasking commands. It would have to be done from within our own control systems.”
The voice barked down the phone again then rang off.
Over the next two hours, ground-control stations around the world monitored the failure of every satellite in the GPS system.
The world felt the effect immediately. Airline pilots and ships’ steersmen reported failures in navigation systems. Cellular networks that relied on timing signals from the GPS system collapsed. NATO countries went on high alert and the United States went to DEFCON Three.
The assumption was that the satellites had shut down. It did not occur to anyone they were physically gone. They presumed such a thing was impossible.
They presumed wrong.
Goddard Space Flight Centre, Greenbelt, Maryland, USA.
The ground controllers of the Hubble Space Telescope were the first to see the strange craft. When the first GPS satellites had gone offline, the US Air Force had requested the telescope be re-tasked to look in the direction of the failed birds.
Dr James King and a few colleagues were huddled around a cluster of computer monitors, examining the area of space where they expected the GPS satellites to be. A US Air Force Major stood behind them.
“Wait a minute,” said someone. “What’s that?”
There was an object near one of the GPS satellites. It might have been an optical glitch until it shifted slightly and glinted in reflected earthlight. King zoomed the telescope in for a closer look.
It was a spacecraft.
From a distance, it looked like a dark metal disc with gold strips traversing it. They zoomed closer until the craft filled the screen. At first, the image was blurred, then the computers finished their sharpening algorithms and revealed the craft in exquisite detail.
“No freaking way!” said one of the observers.
The Major pushed between two civilian scientists and leaned into the screen. As finer images of the craft arrived, the particulars of its construction became clear. None of them could believe what they were seeing.
“Is that … wood?” asked the Major.
The craft was constructed of huge planks of timber, treated until pitch black, and overlapping like a clinker-built rowboat. The planks must have come from trees that were in excess of five-hundred metres tall, and the designers had curved and shaped the planks to make a perfect wheel-shaped craft. Along the fascia of every third plank was a strip of bronze embossed with geometric patterns.
“This is incredible! Look at those symbols,” said Dr King. “They’re all Celtic. That’s a triskelion, and that’s a triquetra.
“I don’t know what we’re seeing here,” said one of King’s associates, “but I doubt the Irish are sending up flying saucers made of wood – or any other spacecraft for that matter.”
A snicker went round the group. The Major cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Dr King. King’s eyes flicked back and forth, his mind racing.
“Well, this is a trick,” said King. “It has to be. Someone’s playing an elaborate practical joke on us.”
The Major bristled.
“Our GPS systems are offline, and we have a bogey parked in the same orbit as our satellites – I don’t see any joke here, Doctor.”
“With respect Major, that’s not what I’m saying. This can’t be real. A wooden spacecraft is not viable, so it’s more likely someone is interlacing these images into the video feed from Hubble.”
“Yeah? And how do you explain the GPS failures?”
They were arguing amongst themselves when the Major got his answer.
“What the hell is that?” said King, pointing at the screen.
A bubble of energy appeared at the edge of the craft, at first indistinct and almost hidden by King’s finger on the screen. The Major slapped his hand out of the way. In seconds, the bubble elongated and flattened out into a shimmering vertical disc. It looked like a thin film of soapy water in a child’s bubble-blowing loop. The disc moved away from the craft towards the nearest GPS satellite, growing all the time. It intercepted the satellite and scrubbed across it like a cosmic eraser. The satellite and the shimmering disc winked out of existence.
The Major strode away and reached for a telephone.
“Did anyone else just see that?” asked King.
Everyone had, but no one could believe it.
And then things got stranger.
As they watched, many portals opened in the edge of the craft, and from each opening protruded a long pole with a flattened blade on the end. Energy fields arced and danced around the blades. In perfect synchronisation, the poles started an elliptical rowing motion. After a brief pause, the craft rowed away smoothly away toward the next satellite.
“Master Sergeant, there goes another one!” shouted Airman Taylor.
In the dim control room, the glow of the computer screen threw deep shadows across his face.
The Master Sergeant’s head snapped up from his console.
“Report.”
Taylor looked frightened.
“Another satellite has disappeared, Sir.”
The Master Sergeant crossed to Taylor’s station and peered over his shoulder. Taking in the information on the display, he picked up the phone handset beside Taylor’s keyboard and punched in a number.
“This is Steinmetz at Diego Garcia. We’ve lost signal from three GPS birds in the past fifteen minutes. We’re running … hold on.”
Taylor was gesturing to the screen and holding up four fingers. Steinmetz raised his eyebrows and Taylor nodded.
“Make that four; all four satellites in orbit-plane C have gone dark. We’re running diagnostics now, but the degradation of accuracy and intel from other ground stations is consistent with shutdown of four birds.”
The voice on the other end spoke briefly.
“No sir, we have no idea. Terrorist action is not presumed at this time.”
Again, Steinmetz listened.
“No sir, they could not be shut down by a foreign power. We encrypt all the tasking commands. It would have to be done from within our own control systems.”
The voice barked down the phone again then rang off.
Over the next two hours, ground-control stations around the world monitored the failure of every satellite in the GPS system.
The world felt the effect immediately. Airline pilots and ships’ steersmen reported failures in navigation systems. Cellular networks that relied on timing signals from the GPS system collapsed. NATO countries went on high alert and the United States went to DEFCON Three.
The assumption was that the satellites had shut down. It did not occur to anyone they were physically gone. They presumed such a thing was impossible.
They presumed wrong.
Goddard Space Flight Centre, Greenbelt, Maryland, USA.
The ground controllers of the Hubble Space Telescope were the first to see the strange craft. When the first GPS satellites had gone offline, the US Air Force had requested the telescope be re-tasked to look in the direction of the failed birds.
Dr James King and a few colleagues were huddled around a cluster of computer monitors, examining the area of space where they expected the GPS satellites to be. A US Air Force Major stood behind them.
“Wait a minute,” said someone. “What’s that?”
There was an object near one of the GPS satellites. It might have been an optical glitch until it shifted slightly and glinted in reflected earthlight. King zoomed the telescope in for a closer look.
It was a spacecraft.
From a distance, it looked like a dark metal disc with gold strips traversing it. They zoomed closer until the craft filled the screen. At first, the image was blurred, then the computers finished their sharpening algorithms and revealed the craft in exquisite detail.
“No freaking way!” said one of the observers.
The Major pushed between two civilian scientists and leaned into the screen. As finer images of the craft arrived, the particulars of its construction became clear. None of them could believe what they were seeing.
“Is that … wood?” asked the Major.
The craft was constructed of huge planks of timber, treated until pitch black, and overlapping like a clinker-built rowboat. The planks must have come from trees that were in excess of five-hundred metres tall, and the designers had curved and shaped the planks to make a perfect wheel-shaped craft. Along the fascia of every third plank was a strip of bronze embossed with geometric patterns.
“This is incredible! Look at those symbols,” said Dr King. “They’re all Celtic. That’s a triskelion, and that’s a triquetra.
“I don’t know what we’re seeing here,” said one of King’s associates, “but I doubt the Irish are sending up flying saucers made of wood – or any other spacecraft for that matter.”
A snicker went round the group. The Major cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Dr King. King’s eyes flicked back and forth, his mind racing.
“Well, this is a trick,” said King. “It has to be. Someone’s playing an elaborate practical joke on us.”
The Major bristled.
“Our GPS systems are offline, and we have a bogey parked in the same orbit as our satellites – I don’t see any joke here, Doctor.”
“With respect Major, that’s not what I’m saying. This can’t be real. A wooden spacecraft is not viable, so it’s more likely someone is interlacing these images into the video feed from Hubble.”
“Yeah? And how do you explain the GPS failures?”
They were arguing amongst themselves when the Major got his answer.
“What the hell is that?” said King, pointing at the screen.
A bubble of energy appeared at the edge of the craft, at first indistinct and almost hidden by King’s finger on the screen. The Major slapped his hand out of the way. In seconds, the bubble elongated and flattened out into a shimmering vertical disc. It looked like a thin film of soapy water in a child’s bubble-blowing loop. The disc moved away from the craft towards the nearest GPS satellite, growing all the time. It intercepted the satellite and scrubbed across it like a cosmic eraser. The satellite and the shimmering disc winked out of existence.
The Major strode away and reached for a telephone.
“Did anyone else just see that?” asked King.
Everyone had, but no one could believe it.
And then things got stranger.
As they watched, many portals opened in the edge of the craft, and from each opening protruded a long pole with a flattened blade on the end. Energy fields arced and danced around the blades. In perfect synchronisation, the poles started an elliptical rowing motion. After a brief pause, the craft rowed away smoothly away toward the next satellite.
A poem that forms part of a puzzle, from my forthcoming older children's book 'Tír'
Against the sable backdrop of the night,
The starry actors glide across the stage.
In jewelled costumes sewn with threads of light,
They read their parts, then turn tomorrow’s page.
The earthly audience watches from the dust,
As cosmic players tread Forever’s boards.
Our bearing on our travels we entrust,
To these bejewelled heroes of the Gods.
The Hunter leads the lambent stellar ranks;
His faithful Dogs attending his foray.
His hunting grounds are Danu’s fertile banks;
The Unicorn and Hare his timeless prey.
The Hunter tempers Man’s conceited traits,
And teaches him the limit of his worth.
And Man in turn has sought to emulate,
The august Hunter’s works on artless Earth.
And thus on Earth the Hunter can be found,
In structures placed to emulate his form.
Where Vikings and St Patrick came aground,
The Hunter’s shape conceals a secret door.
Prone, he spans the village like a plan,
From which the ancient builders drew their schemes.
They plotted out his measure on the land,
And placed their covert lodges at his limbs.
Three hallowed houses sit along his belt.
His sword affords a haven from the seas.
His shoulders rest up high along the hills.
His head is where they hid the secret keys.
Above a lofty crag, a Regal keep
surmounts a grotto hid by time and tide,
wherein the keys are placed to then reveal
the secret door that’s hidden Saiph inside.
Geek Humour
Putative designs for geek T-Shirts.
"If there's no chance of a fsck, I'd settle for a cron job ..."
"fsck you and the host you route in on."
"If there's no chance of a fsck, I'd settle for a cron job ..."
"fsck you and the host you route in on."
Chris Eubank
Chris Eubank was wandering around Brighton one day repeating "Fee Fi Fo, Fee Fo Fi Fo" over and over. A bloke walked up to him and said: "What's up Chris? You practising your lines for Jack and the Beanstalk?" "No," said Chris, "I'm memorising my mobile number."
Spoonerism
Uproar in the office this lunchtime as one of the girls spoonerises 'Barefoot Contessa' as 'Barecunt Fontessa.' Hilarity ensues.
Lie about how you met me.
One of my good friends, Gavan, recently put up an interesting and amusing post on Facebook. It went like this:
I would like my FB friends to comment on this status, sharing how you met me. But I want you to LIE. That's right, just make it up. After you comment, copy this to your status, so I can do the same. I bet half won't read the instructions right.
This was my response:
It was the Agency's second black ops mission in the border areas. When it all went south we had to be extracted by chopper. I was in a pretty bad way and don't remember much about the flight back to base, but I do remember the cool, steady voice of the chopper pilot telling me to hang in there. I passed out again, but as I faded, I somehow knew, with this guy at the controls, everything was gonna be OK.
I got out of the Agency medical centre six weeks later and found myself out of contract and walking with a cane. The mission had been a success, but I didn't feel much like the hero they said I was.
As I stepped through the tinted doors of the centre into blinding sunshine, I heard his unmistakable voice:
"Hey, Machete - wanna get a beer?"
Limping down the street to the nearest bar, with this guy to whom I owed my life, I felt like I'd made a true friend; not an easy thing when you work for the Agency.
We stepped into the cool interior of the bar. The early-afternoon musk of sour beer and wood polish smelt like coming home.
We sat at a table bathed in sunlight filtered through the stained glass of the bar window and shared our first beers.
Gavan, you served us those beers.
I would like my FB friends to comment on this status, sharing how you met me. But I want you to LIE. That's right, just make it up. After you comment, copy this to your status, so I can do the same. I bet half won't read the instructions right.
This was my response:
It was the Agency's second black ops mission in the border areas. When it all went south we had to be extracted by chopper. I was in a pretty bad way and don't remember much about the flight back to base, but I do remember the cool, steady voice of the chopper pilot telling me to hang in there. I passed out again, but as I faded, I somehow knew, with this guy at the controls, everything was gonna be OK.
I got out of the Agency medical centre six weeks later and found myself out of contract and walking with a cane. The mission had been a success, but I didn't feel much like the hero they said I was.
As I stepped through the tinted doors of the centre into blinding sunshine, I heard his unmistakable voice:
"Hey, Machete - wanna get a beer?"
Limping down the street to the nearest bar, with this guy to whom I owed my life, I felt like I'd made a true friend; not an easy thing when you work for the Agency.
We stepped into the cool interior of the bar. The early-afternoon musk of sour beer and wood polish smelt like coming home.
We sat at a table bathed in sunlight filtered through the stained glass of the bar window and shared our first beers.
Gavan, you served us those beers.
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