Budgeting for the past: The Hauntology of Labour

Given the scale and profile of the current recession, the recent budget, traditionally the most trying of times for commentators (a great deal of numbers and infinitesimal changes in the price of fags do not a good 'angle' make) has become a goldmine for the boosters and gravediggers of 'New' Labour. The Guardian's Polly Toynbee alternates, with alarming frequency, between these two positions, but for a swift kick up the arse to the government, hers, with its close detail and wounded tone, is one of the best. In general, the conclusion drawn by commentators of the soft left and right is that the increase in tax for people earning over £150,000 a year is the death of 'New' Labour, given that not increasing tax on the rich was one of its key policy positions.

The tax raise is tiny, and largely symbolic. Labour has lost its funding from the very rich, as the hyper-rich now see Labour as an unsafe investment. As a result, 95% of its current funding comes from the trade unions, and with wage freezes/cuts and job losses clearly on the cards for the public sector, increasing tax a fraction on 1.5% of the population is considerably easier way to curry left favour than, well, raising wages and creating jobs. This symbolic murder of 'New' Labour is also an attempt to re-create the 'Brown bounce', when horror at the style of government of Tony Blair led people to hallucinate that Gordon Brown was authetically 'Old' Labour. The political problems of this are compounded by the fact that any hope in Brown as 'Old' Labour are an hallucination of 'Old' Labour as being a model of social democratic government.

If we take an actual appraisal of the last Labour government of 1974-1979, rather than a thumbnail one (beer and sandwiches, unions running the country, ill-fitting suits and regional accents), Brown is inarguably 'Old' Labour. Wage freezes, spiralling unemployment, global economic crisis - all very retro. The major discontinuity is the fact that, way back when, Labour hadn't dragged us into two absurd and disgustingly bloody wars. Brown has spent considerably less than fuck all on protecting jobs and wages, trillions on bankers and this is a 'left budget'?

Margaret Thatcher said her greatest achievement was 'New' Labour - undoubtably that is the case. But just as true is the fact that the greatest achievement of the pre-Thatcher Labour government was to soften the unions through collective bargaining, legal restriction and the argument that the unions should accept cuts in the 'national interest'. Maybe history the legacy of 'New' Labour will be to have killed, or at least critically wounded, the idea that Labour works for the working class. Sparks of resistance to the notion that the crisis is above and beyond control (we regret to inform you that we have to let you go) are burning. Let's hope Labour have lost the power to snuff them out.

Album of the Week: 'Grrr'

One of the stupidest ever aphorisms is "don't judge a book by its cover". You only have to look at the cover of say, 'Articles of Faith' by Russell Brand to know it's going to be a lot of cobbled together, self-obsessed shite. Albums covers are the same. An album covered with a picture of members of a band, soberly dressed, staring in various directions, will generally be directionless and plodding. However, an album with a cover like that above, can only be good. It has a trumpet, and a fucking LION!! (Cub).

So I bought it. It didn't disappoint. By the radical anti-aparthied South African (lion) trumpeter (trumpet) Hugh Masekela, it's constantly sunny, and a reminder of a tradition different to the dour blues funk of most feted African artists - Fela Kuti springs to mind. Partly out of necessity (Masekela was exiled in the US for his opposition to aparthied), it mixes traditional African rhythm with more conventional jazz musicality. If North American music is Europe saying "hello" to Africa, what Masekela provides us with is Africa saying hello to a mixture of Europe and Africa.

So far, so nice. But where the 'Grrr' of the title comes in is with Masekela's trumpet playing. Absurdly overblown, the notes bend, warp and growl, providing a childish thrill - sometimes it resembles that most comic of instruments, the trombone. Of course, being a trumpeter, Masekela, can't ramble like Fela Kuti about the injustices done by his government, but the vehemence of his playing leaves us in no doubt that he's absolutely furious.

Approaching Gore Vidal: Part 2, 'Selected Writings'

Gore Vidal's politics are probably the most intriguing thing about the man. An odd kind of Democrat, he has vehemently opposed America's intervention in all wars including WWII, correctly regards the US an empire, and believes in the legalisation of all drugs. When his personal life is factored in, it is impossible to believe that he was a friend of the Kennedys and Clintons, and a congressional candidate. But, class counts in the States, despite the lunatic pronouncements of pro-Americans on the subject of the American Dream, which is, and has always been a dream.

'Selected Writings', never less than entertaining, collects Gore's writings on books and politics, largely sidestepping Gore's name-dropping, aristocratic side. Of course, these are more than one side of the man (probably nearer 2/3rds), and they creep in - an eyewitness account of 50s Egypt is by turns a travelogue of the kind popularised (?) by Michael Winner and a breathtakingly detailed exposition of superpower rivalry, coming to the then radical conclusion that money, not politics, was the determining factor. A brilliant, before-its-time (1981!) attack on the homophobia and racism of one of the original neo-cons, Norman Podhoretz, 'Pink Triangle and Yellow Star' (exerpt here), is marred by Vidal's compulsion to mock Podhoretz and his wife, Midge Decter, for being nouveau riche, of 'the new class' - not Mayflower originals like the Grand Old Gores.

Vidal's radicalism is absurdly wide-ranging, ranging from attacks on what he calls The Family to ending an essay on 9/11 with a simple, and gigantic, table of US interventions in the 10 years preceeding the attacks. In the same essay, the pre-9/11 Bush is compared to Hitler. Reading Gore's more recent work, the motivation behind his surreal election night face-off with David Dimbleby becomes blindingly clear.

Vidal has bitten off a large chunk of extreme libertarian thought - during the Clinton years, he famously associated with the survivalist convicted of the Oklahoma Bombings. He therefore expresses his anti-imperialism in the tones of one who accepts the Israel Lobby thesis, with touches of New World Order 'theory'. Added to this a fierce (and inexplicable) support for the Democrats, Bush became, to Gore, a fascist dictator, clamping down on dissent, launching criminal wars. While Bush undoubtably did this, Gore saw Bush and the Republican party as cancers on America, and not a logical outgrowth. When the Republicans were defeated at the polls, all the totalitarianism that had been determined by Gore - the theft of the 2000/2004 elections by Republican 'criminals' vanished into smoke. A fascist party that gets peacefully replaced by its rivals, isn't a fascist party.

Album of the Week: 'Armed Forces'

Elvis Costello is perhaps the most respected songwriter to emerge from the punk era - a status he has achieved by spending the last 15 years or so behaving like an apprentice Paul McCartney. He has recorded albums with string quartets and Allen Toussaint, written orchestral music and, most recently, acted like King Music on his good but grating 'chat show' Spectacle. Much of his more recent work has involved carefully rounding off the razor-sharp edge that his music previously had, and re-presenting himself as an all too conscious 'musician'. He is not, however much he may like to think he is, a middle-of-the-road tunesmith - his music is not made for wedding receptions. Costello famously remarked, around the time of the release of his first 3 albums, that he was capable of two emotions - guilt, and revenge. 'Armed Forces' deals with these, brutally and relentlessly.

One reason 'Armed Forces' stands apart from the other early Elvis albums, is hinted at in its title, and blugeoned home in the thankfully discarded provisional title, 'Emotional Fascism'. As well as referring to snatches of broken, destructive relationships, the ghosts of World War Two and the stasis of the social contract that emerged following are pressed into service. In perhaps the album's weakest track, 'Chemistry Class' - a poor, disjointed song of obsessive love and heartbreak - the chorus runs "Are you ready for the final solution?". Fortunately, this disgrace is a rare blip - the interplay between the political and personal is more stylishly done in the glittering 'Oliver's Army', which draws a parallel between the drunken rambling of an old soldier and the decline of the British Empire. The political extremity of the coming Thatcher revolution and the rise of the NF is dealt with in the itchy, fearful 'Green Shirt' and the fabulous 'Sunday's Best', which imagines a particular British seaside fascism of "Songs of Praise and Reader's Wives", where natives "beat up strangers who talk funny - take their greasy, foreign money".

Of course, this all sounds rather worthy, which is where the other half of the album's content comes into play. During the recording of 'Armed Forces', Costello is on record as having been under the influence of Abba. Unlike the dry, clattering, Americanised rock of 'My Aim Is True' and 'This Year's Model', 'Armed Forces' is a lush, harmonied and synthesisered work. This explains the enduring status of 'Oliver's Army' and 'Accidents Will Happen' as his most recognizable songs. It also acts as a glorious counterpoint to the grime and sweat of the subject matter - the peppy sequencing and cut glass chords of 'Green Shirt' makes lyrical punches like "better cut off all identifying labels/before they put you on the torture table" easier to weather. The grand horror of the lyrics next to the horror of the subject matter fits into the famous 'Peep Show' framework of brown toast for dinner, and white toast for dessert. The joke is on him, because I actually love brown toast.

Something to believe in.

The 'New Atheist' movement - Dawkins, Hitchens, assorted others - is thoroughly detestable. Using all the insight that they acquired in Smug School, they blandly condemn religious beliefs, and religious believers, without considering the reasons why such belief might exist. Well, sometimes they do consider why, but the shit they come up with is less than pathetic. Hitchens blames the ever shifting sequence of rituals, the Notre Dame cathedral on "our idiot monkey brains".

Atheism is not a mirror image of religious belief - not believing in that which cannot be proved is not the same in believing in that which cannot be proved. However, New Atheism can be hilariously similar to an extremist religious belief. Common to all religions is the notion that the evil that exists in the world is due to erroneous belief, which leads to sinful action. At the core of the particular criticisms of religion put forward by the New Atheists, is the idea that bad things are caused by religious belief - terrorism, war etc. - and that these would disappear if religious belief was exorcised, and rationality reigned.

Dawkins departs us before our next stop, but Hitchens' New Atheism has a millenium - 9/11 provided the pretext for an overtly religious war - and Hitchens argues for the destruction of religious believers - describing cluster bombs used against the people of Afghanistan as having a "heartening effect". But of course, the 'anti-theist' beliefs of Hitchens, are in no way comparable to those of Abu Hamza. They are rational, if fucking insane - scientific, if profoundly anti-human.

As such, I enjoy people sticking the boot into these idealist swines. So, Brendan O'Neill, flaying Bill Mayer's terrible-sounding film Religulous, and, more skilfully, John Molyneux mapping the Marxist response to religion.

Album of the Week: 'Dark Side of the Moon'

Having attacked the 'Holy Album' school of music appreciation, it seems absurd to focus on perhaps the holiest of holies, Pink Floyd's 'Dark Side of the Moon'. However, 'Dark Side of the Moon' is as much a victim of the 'Holy Album' way of listening as any number of stellar soul singles and non-Bob Marley reggae tunes. Its particular myth entirely precedes and overshadows it - stoners' plaything, synchronises with Wizard of Oz etc. etc.. If anything backs up the argument that the worship of the album puts commodity over content, it's the pants pictured above. You cannot listen to them.

Were you able to listen to the album through those pants, what would assail you would be music that is rocking and 'spacy' but also harsh and experimental. The alternating vocal parts of David Gilmour and Roger Waters' sum up the two different poles that tracks veer between. The sequencing of the heroic and absurd 'The Great Gig in the Sky' next to the biting, aggressive and not very good 'Money' make it obvious. In their inept, hippish way, 'The Floyd' strive for the transcendent, but the mundane and the downright awful keep exercising a pull.

The Syd Barrett-era, and post-'Dark Side' Pink Floyd albums, are packed with lyrics, which are not their forté - just thinking of the phrase "shine on, you crazy diamond" should make you shudder. But on 'Dark Side of the Moon', the lyrics are, for the most part, sparse - it's over 2 minutes into the first track that singing makes its first appearance. The lyrics that are left to stand in this space are better than most - the peerless 'Us and Them', deals with the horror of war in a way that's distant, tragic, and far from the idealism of 60s pacifism. In gloriously effette tones, the line "With, without/Who can deny it's what the fighting's all about?" sounds as though it comes from a suicidal, non-interventionist god. 'Time', while dealing with wasted lives and shattered dreams, as all good songs do, notches up one gem and one clanger - "hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way" and "the Sun is the same, in a relative way but you're older".

'Dark Side of The Moon' is not trippy, and not appropriate for the branding of novelty underpants. It is a measured, beautifully recorded, ambitious and stylish rock album. It created a synthesis between classical music (experimental and conventional) and popular music that was the well-spring for the self-conscious ambition of Radiohead (perhaps a mixed blessing), and its lyrical razing of the British post-war consensus laid the foundations for punk. It is not a relic or an icon, it's an album that remains relevant, and deserves consideration.

Approaching Gore Vidal: Part 1, 'Palimpsest'

Approaching Gore Vidal is no easy task, as David Dimbleby recently discovered. He's the last man standing from the era of the mega-celebrity author, Norman Mailer and Truman Capote having died. He's also older than most American houses, if not the Sun. Reading his autobiography, 'Palimpsest', you would not be surprised to read a withering put-down of Jesus, or an anecdote about Julius Caesar cruising for rough trade.

Given Vidal's absurdly interesting life story, 'Palimpsest' is a pallid, sporadically interesting work. In large part this is due to Vidal's aristocratic background, and the tiresome focus on family (or family tree) that follows. One of the best anecdotes in the book is of Princess Margaret watching a film about the fall of the last Tsar and Tsarina of Russia, and exclaiming "They're so ordinary. They're just like us!". When Vidal is in aristocratic mode, the book becomes tiresome - clearly, nobody ever told him that an Upper Class name dropper is not a thing to be. This mindset also leads him to effectively end the book with the assisination of JFK, in 1963. The book was written in 1994, and Vidal, seeing himself as the sum total of the company he keeps, considers very little of the 30 intervening years to be worth recording.

More's the pity, as the first half of the book, dealing with his adolescent love affair with a boy named Jimmie Trimble, his ongoing homosexuality and World War II, is riveting. Vidal's style, alternately acid and profound, suits the subject matter perfectly. Jimmie dies in WWII, and Gore undertakes a pre-AIDS marathon of loveless casual sex, etching over a thousand notches into his proverbial bedpost. Despite the evidence to the contrary, Vidal is reticent to consider himself homosexual - one of his most famous aphorisms being "there are no homosexual or heterosexual people, there are homosexual and heterosexual acts". In Gore Vidal's case, there are an epic amount of homosexual acts, and next to no heterosexual acts.

Animating the section is Vidal's dedication to creating an historical record of an existing homosexuality (or homosexual acts) in the mythic past beloved of American conservatives. In Vidal's alternative history, WWII becomes a festival of enforced homosexuality, which demobbed soldiers re-enact with glee. The emergence of the USA as the world's hyperpower provides Gore and his contemporaries with more places to cruise. Allusions are made to the homosexual leanings of both JFK and RFK.

The aspect of the autobiography that is most striking is the distance with which he views his friendships. He draws a scathing comic sketch of the author Anais Nin, drawing on his dislike for her prose, her rampant lying and narcissism. All very amusing, but obviously posing the question of why he was a very close associate of hers for several years. Tennessee Williams has a slightly less sharp assessment, but then they were friends for decades, and the portrait is still cutting. The last years of his life story as he tells it, spent as a courtier in the JFK White House, follow a similar pattern - Bobby Kennedy and Jackie Onassis bearing the brunt of his spite. Ultimately, the impression that Vidal creates is of the consumate observer-writer - dispassionate, non-interventionist and not averse to shaping a narrative to his greater glory.

"Ask not what your country can do for you"

The BBC have recently been showing a profoundly disturbing advert, as part of the promotion for their thoroughly ill-judged 'Britain's Got Talent' style search for the next great orator. Disturbing, first, for the shift between the ordinary voice of a child and the voice of the corrupt mayor of Springfield, Joe Quimby. But also disturbing in its content - the end of John F. Kennedy's inaugural address, in which he beseeches his citizens not to ask him for things ("ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country).

JFK is seen by some as a lost liberal hero - his assassination an attack on a reforming politician by the forces of reaction. The unimpeachable Marvin Gaye and Bill Hicks fell down on this camp (in fairness, Hicks had reservations). He was none of these things. Like Tony Blair, he took it upon himself to be more hawkish than the hawks, sending troops against Cuba and Vietnam. Two major invasions in just shy of 3 years is an impressive record.

The section of his speech chosen by the BBC to highlight great oratory is in fact apocalyptic, nonsensical and platitudinous. He tasks himself with "defending freedom in its hour of maximum danger", assuring the audience that "I do not shank from this responsibilty". Of course, this proved not to mean the freedom of Cuba and Vietnam to determine their own futures, although both of them managed to achieve an impressive degree of self-determination faced with the greatest military force the modern world has known. Aside from these churlish objections, what can Kennedy mean about freedom being in its hour of maximum danger in 1961? Surely we can agree that was, in modern history, when Hitler's armies had an iron grip over the vast swathe of continental Europe, with Kennedy's father's full support?

After dropping this millinarian clanger, he tries to sweeten his audience by praising their generation - "I do not believe that any of us would exchange places with any other people or any other generation". This is, over human history, largely true - the fact of technological progress, and the impossibility of time travel make exchanging places with other generations both undesirable and impractical.

But the most arresting phrase, and the most infuriating, is his call for Americans not to ask what their country can do for them, but what they can do for their country. The state behaves, at its most basic level, as a parasite. In the feudal era, the state acted as a protection racket, demanding taxes, and punishing those who refused to cough up. Fortunately, things are less one-sided now, following demands on the state to provide essential services, and a degree of security. Arguing for self-sacrifice in the name of the glory of the nation, must have, should have, sounded slightly kamikaze to an audience of people, many of whom had been detrimentally impacted by the struggle against oriental despotism.

Given that the rise of Obama is clearly the impetus for the BBC's search for an orator, the choice of this speech is highly ironic - Obama's arguments are almost opposite to those of Kennedy. Obama argued against fearful patriotic fervor in the form of the Iraq War, and for state intervention to help create jobs and widen health-care provision. Not counting the incongruity of JFK's nasal, Bostonian tones issuing from the maws of clearly British children, the speech hits the wrong notes.