Normally such a move would provoke all the derision this writer can muster. Live at Shea is an exception, however, for two reasons. One: this is The Clash! This is the band that politicized punk rock from its very inception, and brought rebellion back to rock ‘n’ roll in a way that still inspires to this very day.

Two: the album is a glimpse into a period in the band’s history that was simultaneously exalting and tragic — between things begun and ended, between the power of great music and ideas and the power of right-wing fear and reaction.

The Clash’s decision to open up for the Who on the mega-stars’ “farewell” tour of American stadiums in the fall of ‘82 was itself an ideological quandary. The Clash was the biggest they had ever been, and were arguably one of the biggest groups in the world. Combat Rock was proving to be their most successful release to date, and was fast on its way to platinum status.

It seemed that the band’s incendiary message was reaching more people than ever before. For a group poised to take over the world, a stadium tour seemed the logical next step. For a group that had always taken an unflinching radical stance, though, stadium tours represented all that was wrong with rock ‘n’ roll. Everything from the flashy stage shows to the overpriced tickets smacked of how capitalism was ruining music.

Furthermore, as biographer Pat Gilbert puts it, “The group had always preferred the intimacy of medium-size venues. It was this philosophy of being able to see and communicate with their audience that lay behind their week-long residencies at modest venues . . .” In other words, stadiums were where all the democracy and solidarity of music was crushed by piles of cash and elitism.

The Clash justified the move by figuring (and rightly so) that the tour was a way to reach even more people. Sound logic, no doubt. The America that The Clash was returning to had entered a new and scary era. The rightward drift of official politics in the US mirrored the same in Britain. A year and a half into his presidency, Reagan had already crushed the air traffic controllers’ strike and signaled that he had more of the same in store for women, Blacks, and anyone who dared defy the new Washington consensus.

Combat Rock was filled with impassioned calls-to-arms, urging young people to dig their heels in and resist the upcoming onslaught. In an interview years later, Joe Strummer would recall his thoughts on the advent of Reagan/Thatcher: “[When] Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister of England and Ronald Reagan became President of the U.S. . . . it was hard to tell who would be worse, but we knew that a tremendous struggle was ahead . . . their tendencies leaned to the far-right if not fascism.”

* * * * *

When The Clash took the stage at Shea on October 13th, rain was coming down in sheets. The prospect of playing in front of 50,000 screaming fans was indeed daunting. Bass player Paul Simonon recalls that “it felt a bit like miming because there were so many people there.”

Yet listening to the album today, one would never guess that the group was so nervous. Footage of the gig shot by documentarian Don Letts shows the four members throwing themselves around the massive stage with the same swagger and confidence that they brought to the countless club dates they had performed in previous years. Strummer even jokes with the audience at one point: “Will you stop talking at the back, please? It’s too loud. It’s putting us off the song, here! We’re trying to concentrate so stop yakking!”

The moments of raw power and vitality are numerous on Live at Shea. The opening notes of “London Calling” are punched out so forcefully they could shatter concrete. “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” possesses a rolling raucousness that can’t even be heard in the studio recording. And “Career Opportunities” — the only song from their first album played that night — carries all the immediacy it had when it was first performed by four unemployed punks in North London five years previously.

By the time the group finish off their set with a blistering version of “I Fought the Law,” they are holding the audience in the palm of their hand.

And yet, it’s also apparent that this is a band not too far from disintegration. Just prior to the tour the group had sacked drummer Topper Headon due to his growing heroin addiction, thus putting an end to the “classic” Clash lineup. Terry Chimes, drummer for The Clash on their first album, had been brought in as a last minute replacement.

The sudden change in personnel is evident on some tracks. While Headon had a background in myriad musical styles, Chimes was much more of a straight rock drummer. While he pulls-off the rap and dub beats during the group’s medley of “Magnificent Seven” and “Armagideon Time,” his playing is hollow and often sluggish.

Other more prominent schisms within the group are evident too. Those familiar with the group’s version of Eddy Grant’s “Police On My Back” will notice a section of the song when Mick Jones’ lead guitar part is strangely missing. The story here is that Strummer had walked up to Jones and physically grabbed the neck of his guitar to prevent him from playing.

The rift between Jones and the rest of the group had been growing for quite some time. He had disagreed with bringing original manager Bernie Rhodes back on board. He claims to have merely “gone along” with Topper’s sacking. And his original mix of Combat Rock had been shelved in favor of bringing Glynn Johns in to produce the final version.

Chimes was privy to how this bitterness was affecting the daily workings of The Clash: “By then Joe and Mick obviously had a difference of opinions on a range of things . . . They had devised a system where they didn’t have to confront each other all the time — there was an avoidance going on, which covered up the fact there were deeper issues there.”

* * * * *

Less than a year after the concert at Shea, Jones was kicked out of The Clash. That a founding member whose songwriting and virtuosity on the guitar had been an indispensable part of the group could be kicked out was evidence that their existence had become increasingly rudderless.

Combat Rock’s defiant protest hadn’t been enough to stave off the consolidation of Reagan/Thatcherism. As the heated struggles of the ’70s were pushed into bitter defeat, anyone with The Clash’s firebrand left-wing politics was forced into either abject obscurity or milquetoast compromise.

Compromise was never something The Clash was good at, and they continued to soldier on sans Jones. But with the movements that had long inspired The Clash — from the anti-racist forces to the Sandinistas — fighting for their very survival, the ground on which they stood became shakier by the day. It didn’t take long for one of rock’s most relevant groups to become a caricature, a music industry parody of what a “left-wing” band is supposed to look like.

“The worst moment was realizing that there was no way forward,” said Strummer some years later, “like the gap between rhetoric and the actuality. For example, talking about all the issues that The Clash raised and what your daily life would have been like if we’d have stayed together. . . You know, you’d never really have a life that would be real and yet you’d be expected to say something real about life to real people and make some real sense.”

Not long after the release of their universally panned follow-up to Combat Rock, the group would call it a day. The concert at Shea would simultaneously be their apex and the beginning of the end for The Clash.

One can’t help but listen to Live at Shea Stadium without remembering Strummer’s quip that “rock ‘n’ roll is played on enemy ground.” If a group like the Clash can walk into the belly of the beast and bring the same verve and immediacy that they delivered to anyone who ever listened to them is a testament to the power of truly great music. Knowing that they would be among the many brilliant political acts that imploded in the Reagan ‘80s makes these fleeting and final moments of greatness all the more prescient.

The choice of music and entertainment at these conventions speaks volumes. The Democrats had Kanye West, a significant choice considering this is a party that still seeks to keep rap’s more controversial elements at arms’ length. But West’s own limitations mirror those of the Democratic Party all too well: too star-struck by the system to really do anything about it.

As for the Republican Convention, they were entertained by Styx. That’s right . . . Styx! The power-ballad dinosaurs who have never been afraid to inhabit music’s lowest brow for the sake of making money. For the Republicans, a better choice could not have been made!

Compare these artists to those who played for the unwashed masses outside. While politicians hobnobbed with corporate executives and turned the dreams of the American electorate into so much political chum, students, workers, artists and musicians were raising their voices to bring real immediacy to the issues of war, racism, poverty and inequality.

The sheer diversity and dynamism of these musical acts make the “official” entertainment look like a yawn-fest. Punk, hip-hop, soul, reggae, folk, indie-rock — the multitude of genres was almost too much to keep track of. From the indie reggae-rock of State Radio to the jazz-funk inflected rap of the Flobots, to the ubiquitous presence of Rage Against the Machine.

The large amount of varying acts at these protests shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise. The past several years have seen an increase in political music from artists both established and up-and-coming; musicians who, like most in this country, think the world is heading down an increasingly unequal and dangerous path. If the protests are any indication, then there may well be many more artists to come who are willing to give new meaning to the term “popular music.”

Recreate ’68?

Convention season opened with the certainty that the Democrats would nominate their first African-American presidential candidate — a historic announcement that has inspired a lot of hope past the mere personality of Obama. And so, protesters were of all different mindsets about a candidate whose rightward shift flies in the face of his slogans for “change.”

Veteran rocker and radical Wayne Kramer, who remembers when his own group the MC5 were caught up in the police riot at the ’68 convention in Chicago, said in an interview that he plans to vote for Obama, but wants to hold his feet to the fire: “I do this [protest] out of a sense of participating in democracy,” Kramer proclaimed. “Democracy requires participation, it’s not just a theory.”

Kramer’s presence wasn’t the only thing reminiscent of those heady days forty years ago. Organizers were aware of the deliberate resonance with the ’68 protests. Indeed, one of the slogans thrown around the most at the protests was “Recreate ’68.”

In that vein, there was an effort to recreate that same spirit of resistance that reached into every aspect of culture during that red-letter year. Throughout the convention activists participated in the “Tent State Music Festival,” which treated attendees to an eclectic lineup: Kramer, State Radio, Son of Nun, radical folk stalwart David Rovics, the genre-bending Michelle Shocked, Jill Sobule, The Coup and Jello Biafra were just a sampling of the artists who participated during Tent State.

Certainly not all these performers were of the same mind about voting Obama, however. One of the most recognized radical hip-hop acts of our time, dead prez, performed in front of the Colorado state capitol in downtown Denver right in the thick of the protests, where both stic.man and M1 made their thoughts on the elections very straightforward in a freestyle later posted on YouTube:

“You expect me to vote for the lesser of two evils? Never!
It’s more the evil of two lessers
That’s like saying to M[1] choose your oppressor
Pick one: Jeffrey Dahmer or Hannibal Lecter
You want crack or coke, Pepsi or Dr. Pepper?
They’re all fucked up and neither one of them better!”

Whether those marching and bobbing their heads were planning to vote Obama or not, the one thing unifying every voice on the streets was the idea that no matter who is in office, they must be held accountable by pressure from below. That was made very clear on the final night of protests as Tent State was given a send-off by Rage Against the Machine.

Thanks to a lot of overblown hype from the mainstream media, it’s feasible that Rage were the most high-profile aspect of the DNC protests. It was a frustrating development considering that their show, which also featured the Flobots and other artists, was intended as merely a prelude to the march lead by Iraq Veterans Against the War. Nonetheless, RATM was willing to put actions behind their words when they brought members of IVAW onstage with them before beginning their set.

By all accounts, the show was electrifying. More importantly, the IVAW march perfectly displayed the kind of strength that veterans can have in this movement. Directly defying orders not to approach the Pepsi Center, the vets and the thousands following them simply walked right through the line of police, who stepped aside rather than risk the embarrassment of having to beat up a former soldier.

Police On My Back

It was in St. Paul, however, that the police showed their true colors. Given the amount of physical repression doled out to activists at the RNC, there’s a certain amount of irony in activists’ application of the “Recreate ‘68” slogan to the Democratic convention.

A doubly sick irony was that the Republicans kicked their soiree off on Labor Day. Given the eight-year onslaught on workers’ living standards overseen by the Bush White House, choosing this date seemed to be rubbing it in the face of those anyone who has worked hard for so little.

Protest organizers saw very little humor in this. That same night the “Take Back Labor Day” concert took place on the south bank of the Mississippi River. Once again, the night brought a varied bunch of highlights. Billy Bragg lead the crowd in “There is Power in a Union.” Tom Morello, in his Nightwatchman alter-ego, brought anti-war vets onstage to sing “This Land is Your Land” (including the much more explicit “lost verses”). Mos Def dedicated “Undeniable” to New Orleans, possibly besieged once again by the specter of Hurricane Gustav. A recently reunited Pharcyde performed all their classics.

Even as attendees departed this relatively calm event, cops were still waiting to hassle them, even shutting off bridges to the mainland until finally and inexplicably letting people pass. This kind of craven intimidation characterized the whole convention. Democracy Now! journalist Amy Goodman was arrested along with her crew while covering the protests. Innocent bystanders were often brutalized and arrested as cops and protesters clashed. And of course, there were the ridiculous charges of “terrorism” leveled against activists arrested the night before the events even began!

Sure enough, musicians were also caught up in this atmosphere of heavy manners. At the IVAW conference held in the days running up to the RNC, Baltimore political MC Son of Nun was among many activists harassed, and was even singled out by police himself after being tailed by a hotel manager. As it played out, eight officers held him for a half-hour before letting him go, but it was a blatant example of racial profiling and police repression that smacked more of the Jim Crow south. As SON himself put it, “I’ve never been kicked out of a hotel before.”

The crackdowns extended throughout the whole weekend. At a rally/festival that Tuesday, as Anti-Flag finished their set, the rumors that RATM would also be playing at this demonstration were quickly dashed by the police, who fallaciously claimed that the permit for the park had expired. The entire crowd erupted into a defiant chant of “fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!” Not to be deterred, Zack De la Rocha and Tom Morello took the stage nonetheless to perform an a-capella version of “Bulls on Parade” that humorously featured Morello mouthing his iconic guitar part into a megaphone before joining the march to the convention center.

The Sound of Rebellion

When asked by Rolling Stone why he participated in the march, Morello simply stated, “I think it’s important to call out the economic crimes at home and the war crimes abroad while they’re [the Republicans] are here… Not to let them get away with it while the media is focused here. It’s important to get that message out . . . to have that amplified alongside the B.S. messages being spouted from the podium.”

In the days of and directly following the RNC, newspapers were filled with all manner of B.S. Those arrested were written off as “anarchists,” “violent.” Mainstream media treated protesters and musicians with either indifference or contempt. To some, the large amount of radical music acts was simply proof that these activists weren’t “serious,” and were only there to “cause mischief.”

It wasn’t only a slander against the already bruised and battered protesters, but a slight against the role music can play in movements. More than a hundred years ago, Wobbly songwriter Joe Hill famously explained that “a pamphlet, no matter how good, is never read more than once. But a song is learned by heart and repeated over and over.”

In the thick of protests, with the urgency of injustice passionately felt by all the participants, and the threat of violence and repression looming overhead, the strength and inspiration that can be gleaned from these songs can be almost as important as the ideology and tactics.

By now, it’s obvious to all but the most cynical of commentators that people are fed up with the direction of this country, and growing numbers are willing to put real action behind this frustration and anger.

Where this goes past the election is anyone’s guess, but one can hope that these protests are only the early rumblings of something bigger. If that’s the case, then popular rebellion can’t help but bring large sections of the artist and musician communities with it.

Truly popular music. What a concept.

On his long-awaited followup The Art of Struggle, released August 6th, he manages to do both extremely well. A committed socialist and revolutionary, SON admits that the album is “a reflection of the time that I’ve spent working with different movements. The Art of Struggle is a political album that encompasses my perspective on a lot of different issues: from immigrant rights to the death penalty to the way that children are impacted most by issues like debt on the African continent… and also pride for the rebels that are in my heritage…”

This is far from being “just another political album,” though. It is layered, intricate, often subtle, defiant and a lot of fun to listen to. SON’s skills as a rapper and lyricist are substantial, and unlike many artists willing to sloganeer into a mic and call it “political,” SON simply allows his firebrand radicalism to infect every rhyme, note and beat.

That’s evident on songs like “My City,” where he seamlessly weaves together the stories of an inner-city kid pressured into joining the army and the Iraqi insurgent he’s sent to kill. Lines like “my high-school never had many computers / but they always had plenty military recruiters” are the kind of “oh, snap” moments that fill this album, where SON isn’t so much speaking truth to those in power as schooling power itself.

DJ Mentos’ beats add real power to these moments. Whereas Blood and Fire’s beats showcased SON’s own affinity for drum ‘n’ bass, The Art of Struggle employs Spanish guitar, string sections, even woodwind samples for a more organic sound, adding a visceral intensity to SON’s already stellar story-telling and wordplay.

Tracks like “Speak On It” are driven by thick, menacing undertones. As the lyrics draw parallels between struggles taking place half a world from each other–from New Orleans to Oaxaca to Beirut–there’s a clear sense on this track that resistance is far from an isolated phenomenon, and always has the potential to become a full-fledged global explosion.

It’s here that Son of Nun’s skills as both an activist and lyricist collide. While describing his process for writing “Speak On It,” he asked says he asked himself, “how can I open up these issues and in some way try and put them up against each other in one piece… and try and do it in a way so you can’t get around the way that this same administration, this same system, is responsible for all of them?”

At its core, this is a track with a simple message: where there is oppression, there will be resistance. And really, this could also be said about the album itself. “The Fire Next Time” is the pinnacle of this theme, taking a confident, almost threatening beat and putting it under SON’s recounting of Black resistance through history, ending with the possibility of soldiers in Iraq today.

“You can call Bectel on your Nextel
And tell ‘em that their pipeline’s about to catch hell
If they think I’m gonna die for them they ain’t well
I’m the fire next time and I’m at their doorbell!”

These are much more than images and stories; they’re invitations to rebellion. During the song’s hook, SON encourages the listener to join in with a call and response: “when I say ‘fire,’ y’all say ‘next time’ / We the fire… We the fire…”

If the listener can stop themselves from actually shouting back, I recommend they check their pulse.

This sums up The Art of Struggle: the idea that a fundamentally different planet isn’t only possible, but necessary, and that instead of waiting for some Moses to create it out of thin air, it’s ordinary people who have the only power to create it. Radical? Of course. But at a time like ours, when a growing people are searching for some alternative to the status quo, it’s also very much needed.

At the same time, though, it’s an album that conjures up a profound sense of longing and nostalgia for days long since past when Phair’s brand of personal expression could gain much more of a hearing.

In the early-to-mid 90s, “alternative” actually meant something. It’s cliched to talk about what a shift it was when Pearl Jam and Nirvana forced their way into the mainstream because, in many ways, the word “shift” is something of an understatement. After years of pop-dominated airwaves, the rise of grunge and indie was a catharsis of mammoth proportions. Music was allowed to be gritty again: loud and pissed off. And by proxy, so were we.

To young people alienated by the world that sought to put a giant “X” on every single one of us, music gave us permission to experiment with the novel concept of having a voice.

For Liz Phair to release an album like Guyville was an expression of how wide the gates had been opened in modern music, but also how much wider they needed to be. Phair played in a music scene based in Chicago’s Wicker Park, a scene that produced great acts like Smashing Pumpkins and Urge Overkill, but like most others was incredibly male-dominated.

When it was released, Guyville (whose name was an obvious takeoff of the Rolling Stones’ Exile on Mainstreet) quickly became a staple, a defining moment in alternative music. True enough, it was an album that brought a well-needed woman’s voice to the musical milieu, but it did so in a way that fit perfectly into its time and place.

Music journalist Alan Light, in the liner notes of the reissue states that “[o]f course, there had been female rock stars before, but from Janis Joplin’s blues mama to mystic shaman Patti Smith, they had always been larger than life in some way. Liz Phair, though, seemed alarmingly normal, utterly real.”

The album caused a small-scale frenzy in the media upon release. TV shows and magazines harped on the naughty language–lines like “I want to be your blow-job queen”–to rank Phair among the supposed rise of the “fuck-me feminist.”

Such lines were completely taken out of context. If journalists had actually listened to the album, they would have heard something much more complex: Phair’s struggle to find a voice as a woman in the “post-feminist” world, and how lyrics like the blow-job line were, to an extent, a skewering of the sexual politics so prevalent at the time.

Phair’s defiance against being lumped into any convenient category is evident from the first note on Guyville’s opener “6′1,” where she takes proudly declares that “I kept standing six-feet-one instead of five-feet-two.” It’s a statment that just about says it all. Like most of the album, the music is stripped-down, the distorted, loose guitar a nice compliment to Phair’s frank, I-see-right-though-your-bullshit delivery.

Her dressing-down is much more pointed on tracks like the sparse, airy “Soap Star Joe.” Much later in the album, it’s by now become clear that Phair hasn’t been taking on the blatant forms of male chauvanism so much as the subtle expectation that women are still willing to play the damsel to a knight in shining armor.

He’s just a hero in a long line of heroes
Looking for something attractive to save
They say he rode in on the back of a pick-up
And he won’t leave town till you remember his name

Check out the thinning hair
Check out the aftershave
Check out America
You’re looking at it, babe

At the same time, Phair shows a very different side in songs that like everyone else, in the end she too is looking for love. Or, as she puts it in songs like “Fuck and Run,” “the kind of guy who tries to win you over.”

The contradictory experiences that Phair expresses on this album–that desire to find someone who loves you but respects your voice, to be accepted for who you are but also to not give a shit what others think–was the very thing that made Guyville such an honestly human piece of work.

In the 90s, a full generation into the backlash against the women’s movement, women identified with Phair’s emotional quandaries. After all, men had been allowed to express such contradictions in their music, but to hear a woman go through the same was something different for the “slacker generation.”

“What Phair and the rest of the world didn’t expect,” wrote the LA Times‘ Ann Powers in a recent piece, “was just how many women would hear ‘Guyville’ and think, ‘Hey, I live in a man’s world too, and that’s a problem.’ In situations where equality is assumed but men still dominate, women occupy a strange space between the center and the margins. They can express opinions, but they’re not dictating the terms of the conversation.”

Phair wasn’t the only strong woman artist to force her way into the mainstream in the 90s. From Alanis Morisette to Lauryn Hill, strong women seemed to be gaining a large hearing. The Lillith Fair, the first completely woman-powered music festival, proved that the girls could rock out just as well as the boys. It was a perfect musical backdrop for a new generation of young women seeking to pick up where the movement had left off.

These artists clearly struck a nerve. Guyville would eventually go gold and be counted among Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Albums. Several other outlets have ranked it as an important and iconic record, and its lo-fi sound and brutal honesty was a schematic for countless indie acts in years to come.

Phair, however, has been unable to recreate the success or emotional connection of Guyville. Her most recent big hit a few years back, “Why Can’t I Breathe,” though thoroughly listenable and enjoyable, was like a night to Guyville’s day, completely lacking the inner turmoil that allowed the album to speak to a generation of young women. “Phair found a way to live with her own psychic disparities,” says Powers, “which is what women do when they want to get on with life.”

Phair has indeed evolved, both musically and personally. In a recent retrospective on NPR she admitted that the anger she once felt isn’t there anymore: “my heart goes out to the person I was.”

That doesn’t mean, however, that the kind of anger on Guyville isn’t still desperately needed. Today, as the backlash against women continues, the same strong female artists that abounded in the mainstream of the 90s increasingly find themselves sidelined in favor of a million Britneys, Christinas and Beyonces. A message is being sent that in order to “make it” in music, women need to aspire to a the frail and sexualized nightingale.

While it’s on some level tragic that Exile in Guyville is still relevant today, it’s also invaluable to have it back in print to inspire a new generation of women fight for their voice too.

Banner is certainly not alone as a rapper, either. The frustration, sadness and outrage provoked by the verdict has radiated through the entire hip-hop community, reaching even the upper echelons of the industry. Russell Simmons has spoke about the need for the police to be more accountable. His heir-apparent Jay-Z has set up a charity for Bell’s fiancée, Nicole Paultre Bell. As always, though, the most meaningful solidarity hip-hop has to offer is that of the artists themselves.

This solidarity has, notably, not just been limited to the sector of “conscious hip-hop,” that artificial category created by the music industry in order to cheapen the genre; a diverse array of artists have verbally trounced the verdict, ranging from Ice Cube to Immortal Technique to Chamillionaire. By now, it’s become something of a cliché to repeat Chuck D’s line about rap being “CNN for black people,” but the staggering hypocrisy and gutter racism of the case has once again pushed artists into that role.

In the month since the verdict, there have been enough recordings dedicated to Bell to fill a compilation album. Posted on YouTube, Brooklyn MC Papoose (who also penned a song directly following the original shooting in November 2006) calls for a new civil rights movement in “We Shall Overcome.” Though lyrically awkward at times, the track almost serves as a blow-by-blow of the entire trial, highlighting the arrogance of Judge Arthur Cooperman, the flimsy defense of the officers, and the complete dismissal of all witness testimony. As the song progresses, Pap lays into the past racist brutalities of the NYPD, bringing up the shooting of Amadou Diallo and the police torture of Abner Louima, and broadens the story even further to immigrants’ rights and the shipping of poor black kids to fight in Iraq: “How can they find find freedom in south Iraq? Please! / They can’t even find freedom in south-side Queens.”

Papoose is only the tip of the iceberg. The web has been swarmed by tracks dedicated to Bell, sometimes released within mere hours of the verdict. Major-label artists like The Game and Joell Ortiz have released songs on the web. Unsigned artists have been able to chime in too. Pittsburgh rapper Jasiri X (whose song about the Jena Six was named by hip-hop journalist Davey D as the best political rap of 2007), posted not one but two tracks about Bell on his MySpace page the very next day. A simple Google search for “Sean Bell” and “hip-hop” will yield literally thousands of results.

Artists who haven’t necessarily had the chance to hit the studio in recent weeks have nonetheless done what they can to protest the verdict. The Roots, performing on the David Letterman Show three days afterwards, wore all black in mourning for Bell as well as pins with Bell’s face on it. And then, of course, there is dead prez, whose first show after the verdict in Amherst, Massachusetts was performed in the memory of Bell. Stic.man, speaking from the event on “Breakdown FM,” radio show of hip-hop activist Davey D, summed up the all-encompassing question “what now?”: “That verdict’s been cast down on us since slavery. We’ve been denied justice way before April 26th, 2008… But it’s not a time to be demoralized . . . it’s a time to organize.”

It’s been two and a half years since Kanye West appeared on an NBC-televised Katrina benefit to tell the world the obvious: “George Bush doesn’t care about black people.” Last year, after the news that a group of black teenagers were being unjustly thrown in jail in Jena, Louisiana, many in hip-hop also protested the town’s style of Jim Crow justice. Now, with the killers of Sean Bell getting off the hook, artists and MCs are once again raising their voices. The sentiments coming from artists like dead prez — that more organizing, more activism, is needed — are for obvious reasons finding resonance not only in the studios, but in the streets and communities. Hip-hop, born out of the deliberate neglect of black America, is finding itself pushed into the political arena more and more. Its message is simple: Enough is enough. Maybe this is the reason politicians find are so threatened by the mere presence of hip-hop.

Rising Down does indeed fit the chaotic and frustrating times we live in. It is sonically dense, often dark and atmospheric, emotionally fraught and confrontational. And the lyrics? Well, the subject matter isn’t exactly light. On the contrary, it is hard-hitting, unflinching, and serious as a heart attack. The group waste no time setting the album’s tone on the opening title-track, employing steady-flowing drums and a simmering guitar-line as MC Black Thought, along with guests Mos Def and Styles P, take on the wealth gap, urban racism and global warming:

Between the greenhouse gases and earth spinning off its axis
Got Mother Nature doing back flips, the natural disasters
Its like 80 degrees in Alaska, you in trouble if you not an Onassis
It ain’t hard to tell that the conditions is drastic
Just turn on the telly check for the news flashin’

The Roots have long represented the leading edge of “conscious” hip-hop. In fact, Rising Down seems to be almost a gathering of some of hip-hop’s most political artists, from Common and Saigon to Mos Def and Talib Kweli. According to drummer Ahmir “?uestlove” Thompson Rising Down is “probably our most political album to date dealing with addiction, nihilism, hypocritical double standards in the prison system and overall life in Philadelphia.”

While the group’s hometown of Philly plays a central role on many tracks, the sheer scope of issues taken on means these stories could be about almost anywhere in America and even the world at-large. The track “Criminal” puts the very term on its head, telling a story of being forced into a world of violence by powers bigger than yourself. In a recent interview, Black Thought described the song’s message: ”It’s about being persecuted and having no other alternative.” ”You could also see it from the angle of the Rockefeller [anti-drug] laws,” adds ?uestlove, ”certain groups of people get persecuted and others get away with it.”

The same repression and violence surrounds this album’s much more unsettling stories. The subjects of “The Singer” are, in order, an American school shooter, African child soldier and suicide bomber in Iraq. The track is at some points disturbing, but its utter frankness and willingness to get inside the heads of the alienated and oppressed make it hard to disagree with.

Moments like these have lead some in the music press to label Rising Down a downer. Most reviews understandably have focused on the album’s harsh soundscapes and brutal honesty. Rolling Stone criticized Black Thought’s lyrics as being “so terminally stern that even his jokes sound like harangues.” Then again, the Roots have never really given much credence to what outside forces have to say about them, including the music industry. In rap, a genre constantly painted into a corner, this is not easy. “[T]he new minstrel image of black people is in vogue now,” says Black Thought, “that’s the image that’s being sold to you. It’s really hard to hold on to your dignity and not resort to shucking and jiving to sell records.” This is taken up on “I Will Not Apologize,” a proudly defiant track that refuses to back down from one’s artistic principles. The track is also one of the album’s most eclectic and catchy songs, relying heavily on contributions from Talib Kweli and samples from Afrobeat pioneer Fela Kuti.

What most reviews miss is that by unabashedly portraying life as it is, Rising Down raises the possibility of something better. Positioned close to the end of the album, with its buzzy synthesizers and snare-rolls, “The Show” (featuring Common and Dice Raw) is positively militant in its sense that another world isn’t just possible but necessary:

They got hopes and plans of gettin’ rid of me
I’ll hit ‘em like Ethiopia hit up Italy
Swift as the bullet that killed King and Kennedy
You know the battle is on for infinity

For the Roots to maintain this kind of uncompromising outlook, even strengthen it, in this kind of political climate had undoubtedly been a challenge. In an interview with Vanity Fair, ?uestlove recently ruminated on the demoralization that many politically conscious artists (especially of color) have taken through the hard-knocks of the Bush administration: “It’s just a numbing period for artists left-of-center. Why did it take Erykah [Badu] eight years to do a follow-up record? Why haven’t you heard from [Rage Against the Machine’s] Zack de la Rocha? D’Angelo? Lauryn Hill? Bilal? All the left-of-center, politically charged minority artists–Dave Chappelle included–like, what happened?”

The Roots, like many others in the hip-hop community, have thrown their lot in with the Obama camp recently. How much faith the group has in the Illinois senator is unclear, but listening to the lyrics one gets the feeling they would like to see something a lot more fundamental than Obama is capable of. Despite all the talk of this album being a po-faced lecture to a world that doesn’t get it, Rising Down delivers a lot more truth and hope than you possibly could from anything on the campaign trail.

For similar reasons, the soundtrack of the film has garnered a great amount of attention in the music press. Young himself selected the songs that would tell his story. The result is a two-disc set entitled Body of War: Songs That Inspired and Iraq War Veteran. Young recently wrote about why he took the time to compile these songs on journalist Bill Moyers’ blog: “[M]usic like the songs I chose for the Body of War CD compilation inspired a particular emotion in me that made me want to act towards the goals of ending the war and bringing light to the need for better veterans’ health care. These things are bigger than all of us and need to be paid attention to, so I can only hope that music of any kind helps and inspires you as much as it has helped me.”

He had plenty of help along the way, from Donahue and Spiro through what was often a grueling film-making process, but also from those in the music community itself. While filming the project, word got around to none other than Pearl Jam’s Eddie Vedder, a musician who has never been shy in his own opposition to the war. Vedder requested to meet Young, and was inspired afterwards to write what has ended up being the keystone of the soundtrack.

The song, “No More”, is noticeably stark. Vedder’s familiar voice is accompanied by little else than acoustic guitar and the background vocals of Ben Harper, who performed this song live with Vedder at this past summer’s Lollapalooza festival. Though it is obviously a song written in opposition to the present war in Iraq, its passion and simplicity are reminiscent of the late sixties, those iconic years that belonged to protest-singing folk heroes like Dylan, Phil Oakes, Joni Mitchell.

Originally, “No More” was meant to stand on its own in the film, and the producers had no intention of releasing a full soundtrack. But Young is a big music fan. “Eddie asked if there was anything he could do for me,” he told Rolling Stone; “[i]t dawned on me that there was the possibility of making an album with songs that inspired me to keep going through the anti-war movement.” Before long, Young was getting in touch with all manner of artists, some of whom had been heroes of his, to contribute to the soundtrack. Almost instantly there was a great amount of enthusiasm among artists to contribute. Many offered their work free of charge. “Rage Against the Machine wanted to contribute, and so did Roger Waters. If you’re an anti-war activist–or a music fan–how do you turn that down?” Young asks.

The connection drawn between old and new in Vedder’s “No More” is an important one. While there is a direct tip-of-the-hat to the protest music of yesteryear (John Lennon’s “Gimme Some Truth” is present, as is Neil Young, though one of his more recent tracks), the bulk of the two discs is very much made up of artists familiar to today’s youth. Given that Tomas Young is himself only twenty-seven, this is hardly surprising. Many music journalists and activists have wondered over the past five years where the protest music is for today’s generation. With this album it would seem these folks have their answer.

Young was in no short supply for artists able to articulate his own righteous outrage against the war machine. Indeed, that outrage is peppered throughout the discs. There’s the maniacal anger of System of a Down’s “B.Y.O.B.” when they ask why presidents “always send the poor” to die, the confrontational boom of Public Enemy’s “Son of a Bush,” the folky sarcasm of Bright Eyes’ “When the President Talks to God.” Those who came up in the mosh-pit will be pleased to hear the anti-empire rant of Bad Religion’s “Let Them Eat War,” as well as the Bouncing Souls’ “Letter From Iraq” (a song notable for its lyrics, which were penned by anti-war vet Garrett Reppenhagen). Hip-hop heads can hear contributions from Lupe Fiasco and Dilated Peoples, as well as Talib Kweli’s collaboration with radical scholar Cornel West: “Bushonomics.” And of course, no protest record would be complete without Rage Against the Machine’s “Guerilla Radio.”

The emotional depth of this album goes well beyond anger, though. Bruce Springsteen’s contribution, the introspective “Devils and Dust,” is told from the point of view of a soldier trying to hold onto his humanity in a world of utter inhumanity:

“I’ve got my finger on the trigger
And tonight faith just ain’t enough
When I look inside my heart
There’s just devils and dust”

At the same time, it would be patently false to call this a collection of “downer” songs. Given that these are songs that inspired an Iraq war veteran, Young treats the listener to a good helping of uplift. Though Michael Franti’s “Light Up Ya Lighter” delivers some hard truth, its reggae-infused bounce delivers the kind of hope Franti thrives on. The simple indie-folk of the Moldy Peaches’ Kimya Dawson does the same.

Young has called these songs his “personal soundtrack of survival.” “They keep me going every day to continue in this struggle… They remind me that there are things bigger than myself.” If that’s true, then this soundtrack can serve the same purpose for the rest of us. Tomas Young has seen and experienced the unmentioned cost of war the way few in this country have. This film, and its soundtrack are testaments to how powerful troops’ voices can be when they speak out against war. To highlight that, the proceeds from Songs That Inspired are going to Iraq Veterans Against the War. As we cross the grisly threshold of 4,000 troops killed, and as opposition to the war reaches an all-time high, the voices of these men and women become more important every day.

All of these are characteristics seem to come at a premium in modern music, and over the years they have earned Badu a loyal fanbase. But perhaps what fans have missed the most during Badu’s absence has been the musical legacy she represents. The video for her playfully groove-based single “Honey,” leaked onto the internet this past November, highlights this legacy. In it, Badu holds up iconic albums from Diana Ross, Funkadelic, Earth Wind and Fire, De La Soul and others. In each case, the cover-art has been altered to feature Badu’s face singing the lyrics of the song.

In other words, Badu consciously sees herself as building on the best traditions in African-American music. With the help of such producers as Madlib and 9th Wonder, 4th World War doesn’t just integrate these traditions, but does so extremely well. Soul, R&B, funk, the beats of hip-hop and rap, all are woven together into an often mind-bending eclecticism.

Furthermore, Badu has culled each genre’s latent tendency of rebellion and outspokenness. As a result, 4th World War is easily Badu’s most political album to date. The opening track “Amerykahn Promise” kicks off with a funky bass-and-guitar line plucked straight from the ’70s and used as background for the sideshow that is Amerykah, a humourously backward country of big promises and little pay-out. The song is blatantly tongue-in-cheek, featuring a deep-voiced authority figure demanding that folks “respect their country.”

While “Amerykahn Promise” plays with up-tempo humor, most of the album shows off a thoroughly serious and contemplative side. “My People” features a slow-yet-confident beat accompanied by confidently righteous lyrics that are almost gospel-like in their repetition and use of call and response: “When they start throwin’ fire (My people, hold on) / Chant chant chant you down now (My people, hold on) / Oh you got to hold on and on (My people, hold on).”

To be sure, Erykah Badu has always made clear her opposition to inequality and injustice. This hasn’t exactly made her popular in a music industry that keeps the politically conscious at arms’ length. Music journalists poked fun at the headwrap she wore in her early career; some have harped on about her “inflated ego” and her “arrogance.”

Thankfully, none of this has fazed her desire to speak out. During a concert in Tel Aviv, Israel this past January, Badu made a brave statement by hanging a specially made banner onstage featuring the word “peace” in both Arabic and Hebrew. Not stopping there, she spoke out against the Iraq war, and declared her affinity for Palestinian hip-hop over its Israeli counterpart. “[Palestinians] use [hip-hop] as a form of liberation, as a form of pre-resistance, as a form of therapy.”

Most controversial in the run-up to the concert was her support for Nation of Islam leader Minister Louis Farrakhan, who she pays tribute to in her song “Me”. When Tel Aviv journalists confronted her about Farrakhan’s history of anti-Semitism, she simply stated “he’s not anti-Semitic, he loves all people.” Indeed, 4th World War was released on February 26th, the NOI holiday of Savior’s Day–though it should be pointed out that the 26th is also Badu’s birthday. Badu is not an NOI member, and has insisted that her music is her religion. However, in a country riven with open racism, she clearly identifies with anyone who puts themselves in opposition. This is what motivated her to give her time to the Millions More Movement in the fall of 2005.

For all the controversy, though, Badu clearly stands on her own two feet when railing against society’s many injustices. This is most obvious on “Soldier,” the pinnacle song on 4th World War. The song is a pulsing, flowing groove accented by a gentle flute track. In it, Badu’s soulful voice expresses both sympathy and solidarity with those affected by and fighting oppression:

To my folks in Iraqi fields
This ain’t no time to kill…
To my folks on the picket line
Don’t stop till you change they mind
I got love for my folks
Baptized when the levy broke
We gone keep marchin’ on
Till we hear that freedom song…

Though it would be easy to see this as simple platforming, 4th World War goes much deeper. The best points on this album are when the politics and the music become one and the same. When Badu uses her musical prowess to deliver a much-needed message, both become more powerful and poignant. Badu has already proven herself a fiercely relevant artist. If the second two parts of New AmErykah are as good as the first, then she may prove to be one of the most important artists of 2008, and the the musical tradition she stands in can only be strengthened.

At that same rally a clip was played that has become among the most viral of videos online. The “Yes We Can” video, produced by Black Eyed Peas front man and producer will.i.am, is something unlike anything I have seen from a mainstream presidential candidate. Various figures from film, television and music, speaking or singing lines from Obama’s speeches. It has to be said: there is something inspiring about seeing people like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Common saying that “it was whispered by slaves and abolitionists as they blazed a trail toward freedom: ‘yes we can.’”

The precedent is notable: when was the last time that a mainstream presidential candidate openly embraced the work of a hip-hop artist? John Kerry kept Sean Combs’ “Vote or Die” campaign at arms’ length. I have no recollection of Al Gore dancing to Lauryn Hill (thank god!). And Bill Clinton made it a point to denounce hip-hop artists during his 1992 campaign. As for the Republican side, it goes without saying that they can’t even begin to understand a music genre about the Black experience in America, let alone embrace it.

And yet, in a certain sense, it is fitting for a man with Obama’s past. It’s worth noting that, if elected, Obama would be not only the first Black president, but the first to be a teenager at the dawn of the 1980s. Before he was the polished, silver-tongued, self-appointed harbinger of hope, he was a student transferring to Columbia University in a New York City smack in the middle of a hip-hop explosion. Rap had busted out of the Bronx and was sinking its roots into the culture of NYC. Even for the ambitiously studious Obama, it would have been impossible to escape the phenomenon. One can only speculate if he spent nights in his dorm room digging to Zulu Nation, or bobbing his head to the sounds of Fantastic Freaks.

Far fetched? Perhaps. But the evidence suggests that he could not have been sealed off from the dynamic beats sweeping the city. In his autobiography he speaks of his involvement in campus activism against apartheid in South Africa and in favor of affirmative action.

This was no mean feat in the Reagan ’80s, and yet similar movements could be found on campuses across the country. Furthermore, being open anti-racist struggles, they had a profound effect on the development of hip-hop’s politics. As the ’80s progressed, Afrocentrism continued to be a theme in the rhymes of many an MC. South Africa’s segregation would feature prominently in the music of the most politically outspoken hip-hop artists.

Today, Obama treats his activist years with a dismissive attitude we’ve come to expect from politicians. Yet he cannot deny them. Indeed, he seems to have tapped into the experiences of those days in recent weeks. He has invoked the history of the movements against slavery, past union struggles and the women’s movement. He has spoken in favor of immigrant and gay rights, and denounced the priorities of prisons before schools. His words against the war have hardened. And he has actually been telling attendees at his rallies that, “this is what change from the bottom up looks like.” While most candidates prattle on about how change comes from “great men,” this is certainly a breath of fresh air.

Have the past months re-ignited Obama’s days as a campus activist? Might this, coupled with his own relative youth, provide him with an understanding of music’s power in inspiring and mobilizing? Or is it that he has simply read, better than the other nominees, the writing on the wall of a nation that is itself changing? The past few months have seen a sharp swing to the left among the population on a wide array of issues. Most Americans hate the war in Iraq, they want decent healthcare that won’t empty their pocketbooks, they want the government to intervene in creating jobs and are angry at the banks foreclosing on their houses.

This hits home even more for the youth of this country, the first-time voters who have known nothing but Bush and Clinton, and know very well what each president’s policies have done to themselves and their families. This is a generation who have come of age during a war to which they will be the first sent. They are staring in the face a job market that has little to offer in the way of security. And they have grown up around the biggest diversity of cultures and racial backgrounds that this country has ever seen. They have also grown up during hip-hop’s reign as a global phenomenon. Their hunger for change is widespread, and very, very real.

But just like any song, flashy production cannot make up for flimsy substance. The harsh reality is that Obama is part of a Democratic Party that has always put the interests of business before those of ordinary people. Like all other candidates in this race, the vast majority of his campaign money comes courtesy of Corporate America. Maybe this is why he has yet to mention taking on the insurance companies when talking about healthcare. When asked how he would end the war, he states that it would be important to keep some presence in Iraq long-term. And as long as his ideas on hip-hop are on the table, it is worth mentioning that he towed much of the mainstream line on rap in the post-Imus backlash.

In short, the kind of inspiring change talked and sung about in “Yes We Can” is something that Obama himself cannot bring. The shift in his campaign, though, has opened a door. By openly talking about the history of struggle in this country, Obama has created space to talk about what that struggle might look like today. The question is what will happen to the excitement he has tapped into after the primaries, after November, and beyond. It is up to ordinary people to maintain that excitement, and fight for the kind of change that both they, and hip-hop itself, have craved.

And so it seems fitting that Jamie-Lynn’s older sister Britney personifies women’s role in the modern music business. Britney Spears’ present function is not so much to be heard as seen (more like ogled). Only in a society where women are viewed, first and foremost, as sex objects could such an artist become one of the highest-selling female singers of all time. Never has there been a more pressing need for a new women’s rights movement in music and the world at large. Never has there been a more pressing need for the return Rock 4 Choice.

“Rock For Huh?” “Who For Choice?” Perhaps I should back up a little. Let’s go back about fifteen years to the early nineties (do you feel old yet?). The Soviet Union had fallen, and the US had taken its place as the world’s only superpower. An economic boom was underway, and all the mouthpieces were shouting about how lucky we are to be living in such a superpower. And those same mouthpieces had finally found the perfect label for the generation coming of age: “Generation X.” Thinking back, the moniker still leaves a bad taste. That “X” was their way of writing us off as the do-nothing generation. We were lazy, self-centered, apathetic, and simply didn’t appreciate “all the things we had.”

Such platitudes were pure bollocks. If the same pundits had bothered to scratch beneath the surface, they would have found very palpable anger, and some very good reasons for not wanting to buy into the system. Young people were the last to share in the new economy. They were the first to be sent to Iraq in America’s first post-Soviet war. They were the first to take to the streets of LA in the outrage following the Rodney King verdict. And many of the gains made by the movements of the ’60s, which young people would have benefited from, had been rolled back during the ’80s.

This was just as true for the gains of the women’s movement which had fought through the 1970s. Susan Faludi, in her book Backlash, describes the phenomenon beginning in the ’80s: “Just when women’s quest for equal rights seemed closest to achieving its objectives, the backlash struck it down. Just when a ‘gender gap’ at the voting booth surfaced in 1980, and women in politics began to talk of capitalizing on it, the Republican party elevated Ronald Reagan and both political parties began to shunt women’s rights off their platforms. Just when support for feminism and the Equal Rights Amendment reached a record high in 1981, the amendment was defeated the following year… Just when women racked up their largest percentage ever supporting the right to abortion, the U.S. Supreme Court moved toward reconsidering it.”

It was in this atmosphere of trying to shake off all the repression of the ’80s that Rock 4 Choice came into being. If credit were to be given to one band for its existence, it would no doubt be the all-female punk group L7. L7 were the kind of group that completely shook up the accepted notions of women in music. They were tattooed, loud, brash, and man could they rock! Uncompromising feminists, they were the kind of group that wore the enmity of the Christian right as a badge of pride.

In 1991, they told LA Times journalist Sue Cummings that they were horrified by the rash of clinic bombings by anti-abortion groups. In typically in-your-face fashion, they announced they were organizing a “Rock for Coat Hangers” benefit, the proceeds of which would go to a local pro-choice group. Cummings was inspired, and encouraged the group to bring other artists on board. After meeting with the Feminist Majority Foundation, the idea found enthusiastic support, and the first Rock 4 Choice show was held in LA in October of ‘91 with L7, Sister Double Happiness, Hole, and Nirvana.

The inclusion of many of grunge’s biggest names wasn’t accidental. Grunge’s raw intensity and back-to-basics, DIY approach had pushed the decadence of hair metal and synth-pop to the sidelines. In doing so it also had created space, a pressure release valve for all the frustrations of Gen-Xers. Even groups like L7, who weren’t technically considered part of the genre but shared in its confrontational spririt, began to find the recognition they had been denied in the ’80s. For that reason, Rock For Choice sought to tap into grunge’s anger and incorporate it as a platform for their message.

Donita Sparks, L7’s lead singer, elaborated the need to mobilize young people with their own music: “It used to bum me out as a kid when I would go to peace or ERA rallies with my mother, and there would be people singing ‘Kum Ba Ya, my sister, Kum Ba Ya,’ it was so unmotivating. So we decided that we just had to rock the house. That was a good way to get more people involved…”

Rock 4 Choice grew in the ’90s. Eddie Vedder’s outspoken support for abortion rights pushed Pearl Jam to become early supporters. “[A]ll these men trying to control women’s bodies are really starting to piss me off,” Vedder told Rolling Stone. “They’re talking from a bubble, they’re not talking from the street, and they’re not in touch with what’s real. Well, I’m fucking mean, and I’m ugly, and my name is reality.” It actually was impressive how many male rock bands were willing to lend their voice. Along with Pearl Jam and Nirvana, there were alternative mainstays like Stone Temple Pilots and Red Hot Chilli Peppers, punk groups like Rancid and Fugazi, even Iggy Pop wanted to–and did–play Rock 4 Choice benefits.

But because the group was dedicated to fighting for and protecting women’s rights, it rightfully incorporated female acts that could rock just as hard as (if not harder than) the guys. Along with L7, Babes in Toyland, 7 Year Bitch, Liz Phair, Joan Jett and many others were front and center in promoting Rock 4 Choice. This wasn’t so much a tactic as a center-piece of R4C’s politics: women’s voices in favor of the right to control their bodies. It was so effective that R4C was often mentioned in the same breath as the burgeoning Riot Grrrl movement. Though Bikini Kill were the only band from that sub-culture to regularly play shows for Rock 4 Choice, such a connection speaks volumes about the common mission of both movements. As the decade progressed, artists from outside the “alternative rock” crowd became involved. Sarah McLachlan became a proponent. Inlcusion of the newly out-of-the-closet Melissa Etheridge illustrated a common interest between women’s rights and those of the LGBT community.

If one criticism could be levelled against the group, it would be that it was almost lily white. Just as grunge had galvinized the discontent of white youth, so had the insurgent sounds of hip-hop in the black community. Though rap was hardly a new concept, it had taken over a decade to shake the mainstream perception of of the music as a novelty. The gutter-level racism that characterized the Reagan ’80s had certainly given rap artists a great deal to lash out against. But aside from the inclusion of Salt n’ Pepa, the best-known female rap group of the time, the potential for making Rock 4 Choice into a multi-racial musical force was barely explored.

Nonetheless, Rock 4 Choice had clearly found plenty of artists willing to, well, rock for choice. The LA show in ‘91 became an annual event, bigger and more dynamic each year. The concerts were covered and debated in Rolling Stone and on MTV, leading music fans to ask themselves why some of their favorite artists were supporting this cause. At its height, R4C wasn’t just a collection of artists, it was a platform. Such groups, though, can only be truly effective when allied with a strong movement. Rock Against Racism had been vastly successful fifteen years before, but that was because it had teamed up with the Anti-Nazi League, who had as its mission the literal elimination of fascist groups from the streets of England.

An in-the-streets movement to protect abortion rights was definitely needed in the ’90s. Bill Clinton’s election to the presidency had rightly been welcomed after twelve years of Reagan and Bush the first. However, Clinton began backing down on many of his campaign promises from the very beginning. His Freedom of Choice Act, which had earned him the endorsement of the biggest women’s groupts, was never even mentioned after he took office. This emboldened the anti-choice right to chip away at Roe v. Wade, passing one restriction after another. In the last days of the Clinton administration, it had become more difficult for a woman to have an abortion than it had been under twelve years of Republican rule.

Unfortunately, most of the mainstream women’s rights groups did not mobilize for fear of alienating the president. Even as a wave of “partial birth” bans swept the country, opening the door for even more restrictions, groups like the National Organization for Women and NARAL Pro-Choice America urged the movement not demonstrate. By the end of the 1990s, much of the pro-choice movement had switched tactics to finding “common ground” with abortion opponents. As the movement became drawn further away from the streets and deeper into the back-rooms of congress, Rock 4 Choice faded from public view.

Today, the group still exists, though it limits itself to small, local concerts, and even then only as a fundraiser for Feminist Majority. Indeed, the last annual concert Rock 4 Choice held was in 2001. The irony of this is that while the group made its voice heard the loudest under a nominally pro-choice president, they have remained totally out of the spotlight under a very openly anti-choice one. George W Bush’s presidency has seen even further erosion of abortion rights. His two nominations to the Supreme Court have stated openly their willingness to overturn the Roe decision. Today, 87% of US counties have no abortion provider. Despite the very real possibility of Hillary Clinton becoming the first woman president this election season, abortion rights haven’t even been mentioned on the campaign trail. And mainstream pro-choice groups are so withdrawn from the streets that when thousands of anti-abortion protesters marched in Washington on the 35th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, no call was made for a counter-demonstration.

When women are denied the right to control their bodies, the repercussions are felt throughout society. They are felt in the workplaces, in the homes, and, yes, in our music too. Today the airwaves are choked by dime-a-dozen divas: the Britneys, the Jessicas, the Mariahs. The dominance of such artists sends the message that if women want to make in music, then their talents come secondary to their waistline, bust-size, and their willingness to pose in front of the camera. In other words, they are commodities first, artists second, human beings a distant third. When this is the standard, we all suffer… if for no other reason than the fact that the music sucks.

This does not mean that strong woman’s voices in music have disappeared, though. Though we may not hear them on the radio or television daily, they are still out there. From the Gossip’s Beth Ditto, to Erykah Badu, to the ever-notorious Ani DiFranco, there continue to exist women who are willing to rock out, and would be more than happy to lend their voices to a renewed push for women’s rights. If Rock 4 Choice, and the movement it seeks to inspire want to make a comeback, then now’s as good a time as any.

Please allow me to start out by expressing my full and enthusiastic support for your cause. At a time when employers are permitted to run roughshod over what little working people have left, and so many unions crack under the pressure, your strike against the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers has given us a small glimpse of what a real labor movement might look like. Almost three months in, your pickets have remained strong, few members have crossed, and you have gained the vocal support of other artists and unions. I have rarely been more proud to call myself a writer.

The strike has also given lie to the stereotype that all those who work in the entertainment industry live a life of luxury and glamour. At any given time 48 percent of your membership, almost half, are unemployed. As a freelancer, I know the feeling. Studios make billions off the their shows and movies, but without the hard work of the actors, musicians, designers, technical workers and writers, not a single reel would turn.

You showed that brilliantly two weeks ago during the Golden Globes. You picketed, the nominees would not cross, and as result one of film and television’s biggest nights was reduced to a half-hour news conference! No doubt the studios were more than a little irked, but the message came across loud and clear.

Which brings me to the point of this letter. Last week you announced that you would not be picketing the 50th annual Grammy Awards on February 10th. Brothers and sisters, I tell you out of utmost respect and support that I think this is a mistake and a missed opportunity.

The Grammys are the biggest televised night in the music industry. More than 20 million people tuned in last year. The National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences (NARAS) relies on the program as a boon for its funding, and major TV studios are all too happy to add it to its award season lineup. If NBC took a hit as the Golden Globes withered, you can bet CBS will feel the heat from losing the Grammys.

It is true that the strike has suffered setbacks in recent weeks. Chief among them would be the deal struck by the Directors Guild, which compromised on royalties for programs viewed online, the central issue of your own strike. Then there is the fact that despite relying on WGA members’ script contributions, the Grammys do indeed represent a different industry, and the leadership of both the musicians and TV performers union have urged you not to picket. Perhaps with all of this combined, the decision to not picket seems a reasonable move, an olive branch for the studios as you head back into negotiations.

It is my fear that the studios will see this move not as a sign of good faith, but as a sign of weakness. Over the years we have seen countless strikes and other struggles go down to defeat trying to “make allowances,” or find “common ground” with employers. The most immediate example would have to be the disastrous agreements reached this fall between the United Auto Workers and the Big Three auto-makers. If the studios haven’t shown any flexibility, then it seems there is no reason for your union to do so.

Neither can Neil Portnow, the President/CEO of NARAS, have his words taken at face value. Portnow may talk a big game about the Grammys “always being a union show,” but this comes from the same man who mere days before had the gall to approach your union with a strike waiver for the program. I suppose it comes as no surprise that he has no idea that solidarity just doesn’t work that way.

Despite NARAS’s claim to be an organization made up of both artists and executives, it has repeatedly shown its sympathies to lie with the latter of the two. This past October, Portnow wrote an editorial in the San Jose Mercury News calling on tech companies and record labels to unite in ending “illegal” downloading in the music world.

Portnow of course insisted that he was thinking of both musicians and record companies. But nowhere in his article did he bring up the more fundamental issue of how artists are actually treated by their label. Nowhere did he mention how little has been paid to artists from “legal” downloading so far. Nowhere did he bring up that artists are paid a mere ten to fifteen percent of each album sale. And nowhere did he mention that most artists are lucky if they aren’t in debt to their label after their second album!

Musicians are taken for granted by major labels, much the same way that writers are by the studios. As the more people are choosing the internet as the place to go for their entertainment, both studios and labels are searching for ways not to pay their artists more, but to grab an even bigger piece of the pie for themselves. For this reason, it is my genuine belief that, despite being in a different industry, you may find a large amount of solidarity among the musician community.

Even among this year’s Grammy nominees, most of whom could hardly be called starving artists, you may find a great amount of support. You already know that several of this year’s nominees are members of your sister union, the Screen Actors Guild, and would be prevented from attending if you chose to picket. Jack White, Beyonce, 50 Cent, even Kelly Clarkson and Justin Timberlake have publicly grappled with the choice of staying home on February 10th, and there is little to indicate that they would hold any anger toward the WGA if they had to do so.

Furthermore, there are several nominees this year who have a long history of supporting progressive causes. There is, of course, the obvious example of Bruce Springsteen (who had already said he will not be attending this year’s awards). But there also are artists like Steve Earle, John Mellencamp, Joni Mitchell, the Beastie Boys, all of whom have refused to cross picket lines in the past.

I bring up these examples not to give the impression that strikes are won on star-power, but to highlight the very real solidarity that exists for your struggle. A recent Los Angeles Times poll showed that two out of three Americans support your strike for the very simple reason that they are sick of seeing their own living standards chipped away. As we head into what looks to be a nasty recession, there is no telling how much more we have to lose if we don’t fight back. A victory for you, the old adage goes, would be a victory for us all. Your strategy and tactics are of course the choice of your own union. However, it is my belief that by not making your presence felt at this year’s Grammys, you are passing up an opportunity to further galvanize not only your cause, but the cause of other artists, and the labor movement in general.

In Solidarity,

Alexander Billet

The announcement that NiggyTardust would be released in direct-to-download format came right on the heels of the release of Radiohead’s In Rainbows. That album went platinum within three days of hitting the web in a similar format. Williams, though well respected in the slam poetry and alternative hip-hop scenes, is hardly the household name of Radiohead. This makes Niggy all the more brave. It is a test on whether musicians can do without the ever parasitic record industry.

It was a test fervently taken up by Nine Inch Nails brain Trent Reznor, who was on board as Williams’ producer for this project. The teaming up of these two is a meeting of minds from two different ends of the spectrum. Williams is the consummate hip-hop poet who has never shied away from articulating both the pain and promise of rap. Reznor is the intense studio virtuoso whose albums gave industrial music a new lease on life in the 1990s.

When he hasn’t been chastising Bush and Fox News, Reznor’s been trashing his label. This past summer he became so fed up with Universal Music Group that he started telling fans to steal his albums, either online or straight from the store.

So it comes as little surprise that the direct-to-download release of NiggyTardust would come at Reznor’s urging. “From the start, I remember Trent saying ‘let’s give it away for free,’” Williams recalled in a recent interview. “At first I was like ‘this dude is out of his mind.’ But then it really started making sense, and, of course, with Radiohead doing it, we were like ‘what the fuck? The idea we had was great, and we should really follow it through.’”

The idea would undoubtedly be a gamble. Radiohead, having already sold millions of albums, had little trouble bringing the mountain to Moses. Would Williams and Reznor be as successful?

This was, in essence, the question asked in an early January Salon.com article, written two months after NiggyTardust’s release. The article cited a post on Reznor’s website stating that while over 150,000 people have downloaded the album, less than 29,000 opted to pay the five dollars. As the post points out, that’s about 4,000 less than went out and bought Williams’ previous album three years ago.

It’s hard to say that the percentage of people who paid isn’t low. Reznor himself admits that the numbers are “troubling.” There are things to keep in mind, though. Firstly, not a dime of those 150,000 people’s money for this is in the hands of Sony, EMI and the like. All went to Williams and Reznor to recoup recording and online costs.

Secondly, it would be somewhat crass to view an experiment like this solely in terms of money and raw numbers. Williams and Reznor are both unique voices that could never fit into the cookie cutters on which the music industry makes its bank. This album is an attempt to show what is possible artistically outside those shallow interests. At that, it succeeds brilliantly.

For one thing, NiggyTardust blatantly defies any easy label. Williams himself is hesitant to fit it into any genre: “Gosh, I don’t know, ghetto gothic? I guess I’d characterize it as hard-core dance. I don’t know if I’d include spoken word in it actually. It’s so danceable. I have a lot to say, but I wanted to find a way to say it that didn’t get in the way of me dancing my ass off.”

Williams understands how this album breaks the mold. His confrontational-yet-playful brand of slam poetry could easily land the record in the rap section of any record store (albeit among the best in any record store), were it not for Reznor’s own contribution. Overdriven guitars, keys, temple-pounding drumbeats and abstract samples all blend into a mesmerizing soundscape that is more trademark NIN than anything else. It’s most definitely a weird mix with Williams’ firebrand rants against everything from racism to the modern hip-hop nation, but the end result is something unique.

Song’s like “Black History Month,” “Convict Colony” and “Break” invoke a kind of controlled chaos that mimics both monotony and repressed rage at the same time. The distorted backgrounds make Williams out to be the lone voice of sanity in a world quickly careening toward the edge of oblivion. Williams has always played this role with fearless ease and good humor. His politics have always been stylishly worn on his sleeve, and this album is no exception.

Pulling heavily from Public Enemy, “Tr(n)igger” would inevitably provoke a tsk-tsk from the censors. There’s no mistake that it’s Chuck D’s powerful vocals declaring “from the hand of a nigger, pull the trigger,” while Williams’ forceful voice bounces overhead about ghettoes and bombs falling on Lebanon. What Williams has done is put the post-Imus backlash on its head. He puts it in the context of war, racism and poverty, a world that can only provoke outrage and frustration.

Yet both artists take time on this album to show off some surprising versatility. “Scared Money” incorporates an Afrobeat sound, complete with sampled horns and congas. The intimate “No One Ever Does” is little else besides quiet keyboards and Williams’ singing.

Perhaps the most intriguing song would be the one the album is named after. Of all the tracks that might make the major labels balk, “NiggyTardust” is first and foremost. Throughout the song Williams constructs the title character as a mockery of the modern circus of big-business hip-hop. There’s even a thinly veiled jab at 50 Cent (”you can call him Curtis”). Williams’ parody is topped off by the acerbically witty chorus: “When I say Niggy, you say nothin’. Niggy… Niggy…” It’s a funny song that, in its own twisted way, speaks some truth that the BET’s and P. Diddies would rather ignore.

Perhaps it goes without saying that you won’t normally hear all this on MTV. That’s ultimately what makes NiggyTardust an important album; the example it sets for musicians and fans sick of the music business-as-usual. As long as music is reduced to mere commodity in this system, then the creativity of artists and musicians can only be limited. But outside the realms of profit-shares and marketability, there’s an alternative where that same creativity can find a voice. NiggyTardust is an early example of what that alternative might look like.

In late november, the former Smiths singer blurted in an interview with the NME that “the gates of England are being flooded. The country’s been thrown away.”

Moz didn’t stop there. In the interview he seemed troubled by what immigration meant for British culture. “Other countries have held onto their basic identity,” he said, “yet it seems to me that England was thrown away . . . If you walk through Knightsbridge [in London] on any bland day of the week you won’t hear an English accent. You’ll hear every accent under the sun apart from the British accent.”

It’s the kind of remark that smacks of Eric Clapton’s 1976 comment that England was becoming a “black colony,” where he urged fans to vote for anti-immigrant Member of Parliament Enoch Powell. Those comments would be one of the reasons for the foundation of Rock Against Racism, the forerunner to today’s Love Music Hate Racism campaigns against the fascist British National Party.

Ironically, Morrissey himself had only days prior agreed to endorse LMHR, and have its logo present at all UK shows in 2008. Yet he sees no conflict between formally being against racism, and letting slip remarks that make out immigrants to be a threat of some kind.

It brings up a fundamental question: who does Morrissey exactly think the BNP are whipping up their racist drivel for in the first place? Racism isn’t an abstract concept in the UK. Like the US, it has a large immigrant population that hails from places as diverse as Jamaica and India, and a large number of hate crimes are directed against these communities. “Paki-bashing” isn’t infrequent. Since the London bombings of 2005 the profiling of immigrants (mostly folks of color) has been quite common.

This is not the first time Morrissey’s racial politics have been questioned. In 1992 he draped himself in the Union Jack at a carnival in Finsbury where a sizeable neo-Nazi turnout was expected. The NME also took him to task for that move. His 1988 song “Bengali in Platforms” was immensely condescending toward its South Asian immigrant protagonist. Moz ends the song by saying it may be best for the young man to “shelve his western plans.” And his “National Front Disco” hardly seemed to take any kind of clear stance on the National Front.

His politics haven’t always been in question, though. Songs like “Margaret on the Guillotine” and “The Queen is Dead” were rather open protests against Thatcherism. More recent songs like “America is Not the World” have taken Bush to task. He has even been investigated by the FBI and British intelligence, so vocal is his opposition to Bush and Blair.

His alliance with LMHR was rightly welcomed. But these comments throw his actual commitment to the cause into question. While Moz hardly identifies himself as a racist, the fact is that putting British culture on a pedestal and trying to hermetically seal it off from “outsiders” creates an us-versus-them dynamic that Bush and Gordon Brown are all too happy to take advantage of.

Moz has given little sign of backing down from his comments. In fact, the ever-litigious rock star is now suing the NME for speaking ill of him. His behavior is that much more regrettable when one considers the fact that Stephen Patrick Morrissey was himself born to Irish Catholic immigrants. The culture he comes from seems to pose no threat to Britishness, but evidently those from non-English-speaking, brown-skinned countries do. No doubt, Morrissey hardly recognizes this as racist.

That recognition is also completely absent from the immigration debate in the US. Presidential candidates like Mike Huckabee can take advantage of the Pakistan crisis by exaggerating the number of Pakistanis here “illegally.” Lou Dobbs makes outrageous claims that Mexicans bring leprosy across the border. Though both may be called out for being incorrect, the media rarely has the guts to peg them as bigoted.

Morrissey is hardly as bad as these buffoons. Nonetheless, when an artist who enjoys sticking it to the worst politicians in society starts to sound like those very same politicians, it is, to say the least, disappointing.

The line needs to be drawn as boldly as possible: if you are an anti-racist, then you stand up for the rights of immigrants. As for Moz, one can hope he’ll apologize for what he said, but I’m not holding my breath. It’s going to be a while until I can listen to his stuff again.

We watched the murder trial of the most influential producer in modern music unfold. Phil Spector, creator of the “wall of sound,” has long been infamous for his control-freakery and abusive behavior, going so far as to point guns at artists in the studio: from Dee Dee Ramone to John Lennon to his own ex-wife Ronnie Ronette. This courtroom drama could have been an opportunity for the music press to ask tough questions about the industry. If big record companies truly cared about their artists, then why subject them to such obviously dangerous people? Instead, the biggest mags ducked the question, devoting more ink to Spector’s eccentric wardrobe than the actual trial. That it ended in a hung jury means we may not have heard the last of it.

We saw pop stars melt down in front of our very eyes. The tabloids were clearly out for blood this past year, gawking with mean-spirited fascination at Britney Spears’ shattered sanity, Pete Doherty’s legal troubles, and Amy Winehouse’s battles with addiction. Though it would be wrong to pin it all on the red-tops, one wonders if these artists might have more success tackling their troubles if they were, in the words of Chris Crocker, simply left alone.

The Imus debacle was cynically twisted into an opportunity to go after hip-hop. While the sacking of a well-known radio bigot was a victory against sexism and racism, his “nappy-headed hos” comment ended up being an examination of rap culture’s trumped up depravity. All of a sudden, pundits began acting like the first sexist words ever uttered came from Grand Master Flash in 1979.

This pseudo-debate was even brought into the halls of congress. Representative Bobby Rush accepted Imus’ logic hook line and sinker when he held his “From Imus to Industry” hearings in September. Not only did these hearings completely miss the root of sexism, but further targeted rap through myths and half-truths. As a former Black Panther, Rush should have known better.

Last year saw the music industry set out to criminalize ordinary music fans. The Recording Industry Association of America began penetrating college campuses, demanding that administrators hand over lists of students who had downloaded “illegally.” The RIAA brought outrageous lawsuits against peer-to-peer file sharers, on average demanding $7000 a song! Jammie Thomas, a single mother in Minnesota was ruled against and ordered to pay $220,000 to the same record companies who keep artists in debt until their third release. If anyone needed further proof that the courts aren’t on our side, this was it.

At the same time, the stranglehold of big business over our airwaves wasn’t loosened one bit. Terrestrial radio carriers (Clear Channel chief among them) found yet more ways to make a buck off of independent artists struggling to get airplay: take away their digital royalties. They also didn’t get any more comfortable with anything smacking of dissent, as evidenced by AT&T’s censoring of Pearl Jam’s Lollapalooza rant against George Bush this summer.

And yet, 2007 also saw some very measurable cracks in the industry’s well-polished veneer. They might have come from artists or fans. Either way, they showed that there is a lot more to music than the business side of it.

One of the biggest bands in the world released their album via direct download, with the option of paying absolutely nothing. Not only was Radiohead’s In Rainbows a masterpiece in its own right, it proved that artists may actually stand to make more money by giving the finger to the major labels and going straight to the fans. In short, it was yet more proof that the industry is talking out its ass, and is ultimately and archaically outdated.

Despite the fire that hip-hop was under this past year, we saw MCs and artists take a stand in the case of the Jena Six. Mos Def, Talib Kweli, and many more of today’s most eloquent rappers took a vocal stand in what may prove to be one of the most important civil rights cases since the Scotsboro Boys, and in doing so showed what the real face of hip-hop is.

Furthermore, 2007 was the year we saw the first rap group allowed into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame. Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five were inducted despite great controversy, showing that hip-hop has indeed had a great effect on our culture. And as much as some may abhor it, rap isn’t going anywhere.

And, of course, Pearl Jam weren’t the only artists railing against Bush and his policies this past year. Nine Inch Nails, Tori Amos, the White Stripes, even Linkin Park threw in their two cents of dissatisfaction with Dubya and his ilk. It certainly didn’t come out of thin air. Musicians write about the world around them, and if a significant number of them are willing to vocally take issue with the war, poverty and racism, then it shines light on many others who feel the same.

This is why, despite the roller coaster ride that was music in 2007, there is reason to be hopeful this year. The RIAA, Clear Channel, the pundits who smugly write our side off; none will be going away anytime soon. But we do know that you can’t keep a lid on resistance forever. The more you try, the more heated it gets… and it also gets a lot more fun. This seems the best reason to keep the faith in 2008.

There’s no doubt that Joe deserves every drop of praise for his contributions to popular music and culture. But for those of us moved by his call that “anger can be power,” it’s hard to take the flash-and-fanfare seriously. The pop-music myth-makers love dead rock stars. Dead men can’t argue, and in the case of Joe, can’t protest while their legacy and message are picked apart and made safe for consumption.

This past spring’s Doc Martens ad sums it all up: Strummer, complete with halo and angel’s wings, playing his guitar atop a cloud, joined by angel versions of Hendrix, Vicious, Joey Ramone and Kurt Cobain.

It’s a trend that can easily take a much more insidious tone. Joe himself recalled how he could only weep when “Rock the Casbah” was played by US forces during the first Gulf War. This February, Rudy Giuliani had the nerve to use “Rudy Can’t Fail” as his campaign kickoff song. And none other than Tony Blair once thanked “bands like the Clash” for creating (and I am not making this up) a much undervalued source of British exports!

The irony is absolutely stomach-turning. The man who warned against “turning rebellion into money” is now turned to fodder for marketing firms and politicians.

Joe Strummer had a different legacy, and it has absolutely nothing to do with export ratios. He was an artist profoundly shaped by his time and place. In a 1970s Britain wracked by racism and unemployment, Strummer chose to put himself squarely in opposition. The newspapers called the Clash “degenerates,” “hoodlums,” “anarchists.” To young people, they were “the only band that matters,” and it wasn’t because they sold a million records or made the most money. They mattered because they were the first band in a great long while that tapped into how the majority of youth actually felt.

And how did they feel? Quite frankly, they were pissed. Comedian Mark Steel was one of many radicalized during those tumultuous years, and he’s honest about the role the Clash played: “The Clash didn’t just legitimize anger, they politicized it, giving meaning to the directionless rage that drove early punk. They celebrated multiculturalism and supported the Sandinistas; they weren’t just against, they were for. And where most adult advice involved how to earn a few bob or save a few bob, they sold their records so cheap that they threw away a fortune.”

While politicians blamed immigrants for joblessness and gave cover to neo-Nazis groups, the Clash embraced the roots reggae of the Caribbean community. It was a gesture of solidarity that would inspire countless groups, including those of the soon-to-follow “2-Tone” movement. If not for the Clash, we might never have heard of Rock Against Racism or its successor Love Music Hate Racism.

Their embrace of hip-hop a few days later came from similar motivations. “When we came to the US,” said Strummer, “Mick (Jones, guitarist/vocalist for the Clash) stumbled upon a music shop in Brooklyn that carried the music of Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five, the Sugar Hill Gang… these groups were radically changing music and they changed everything for us.” The band’s controversial decision to have Flash and the Five open for them at the legendary Bond’s Casino shows in NYC lent a great deal of credibility to a burgeoning genre that has shaped popular music ever since.

Their identification with working people didn’t just translate into cheap album prices. During the miners’ bitter strike against the Thatcher government, the Clash were among the many acts that lent support and played benefits for the National Miners Union. These types of events were standard fare for Strummer. One of the last shows he played with his new band the Mescaleros (where he famously reunited with Jones onstage) was also a benefit for the British Fire Brigades Union.

This might be one of the most truly outrageous things about Strummer being claimed by the likes of Blair. Joe’s entire catalog rails against Blair’s ilk. One of the last songs he ever recorded was a collaboration with reggae legend Jimmy Cliff. “Over the Border” combines the righteous swagger of reggae with a steadfast punk outrage, and directs both against the horrors of war. Strummer’s gravelly growl and Cliff’s smooth patois bounce off each other:

“They’re shedding blood over the border

So who came first to these hills?

Only the drums remember

‘Cos the hand of the drummer was stilled

Oh, will chaos and disorder

Always rain through these hills

Peace will be slaughtered by anger

And the blood of the lamb will be spilled”

This is what Joe (who wrote the song’s lyrics) did best. He cut through the rhetoric and got to the meat of what ails the planet. Strummer tragically died several months before the US went into Iraq. But his urgent plea rings even more true as his thoughts during the run-up to the post-9/11 invasion of Afghanistan: “Even though there are extremists in the world, if we represent the sane people of the world, then we’ve got to hold on to our sanity and not allow ourselves to get crazed with vengeance…”

Perhaps the best living legacy of Strummer lies in the foundation set up in his name. Founded by his widow Lucinda, the Strummerville Foundation exists to give young musicians the instrumental and studio opportunities they might not otherwise have. Joe was always convinced there would be another Clash later down the line, another voice in music dedicated to the dreams and aspirations of ordinary people, and Strummerville is built on that idea. Already, from London to Tuscon, Arizona, there are annual benefits for Strummerville held on the anniversary of his death. It seems that there is a large swath of musicians who owe Strummer a great debt, from Anti-Flag and Rancid to MIA and Antibalas.

This is precisely what the Blairs and Giulianis don’t get; that past the bottom line of more money in the bank account, there is a world well-worth fighting for. A world of dignity, equality and humanity. Joe Strummer fought for that world, and that’s why he doesn’t deserve to be frozen in time with the rest of the rock aristocracy; his message embalmed into a milk-toast pabulum used to sell shoes. He deserves better. He deserves to have his message listened to.

*Special thanks to Antonino D’Ambrosio, who provided much of the material for this article.

There’s no doubt that Joe deserves every drop of praise for his contributions to popular music and culture. But for those of us moved by his call that “anger can be power,” it’s hard to take the flash-and-fanfare seriously. The pop music myth makers love dead rock stars. Dead men can’t argue, and in the case of Joe, can’t protest while their legacy and message are picked apart and made safe for consumption.

This past spring’s Doc Martens ad sums it all up: Strummer, complete with halo and angel’s wings, playing his guitar atop a cloud, joined by angel versions of Hendrix, Vicious, Joey Ramone and Kurt Cobain.

It’s a trend that can easily take a much more insidious tone. Joe himself recalled how he could only weep when “Rock the Casbah” was played by US forces during the first Gulf War. This February, Rudy Giuliani had the nerve to use “Rudy Can’t Fail” as his campaign kickoff song. And none other than Tony Blair once thanked “bands like the Clash” for creating (and I am not making this up) a much undervalued source of British exports!

The irony is absolutely stomach-turning. The man who warned against “turning rebellion into money” is now turned to fodder for marketing firms and politicians.

Joe Strummer had a different legacy, and it has absolutely nothing to do with export ratios. He was an artist profoundly shaped by his time and place. In a 1970s Britain wracked by racism and unemployment, Strummer chose to put himself squarely in opposition. The newspapers called the Clash “degenerates,” “hoodlums,” “anarchists.” To young people, they were “the only band that matters,” and it wasn’t because they sold a million records or made the most money. They mattered because they were the first band in a great long while that tapped into how the majority of youth actually felt.

And how did they feel? Quite frankly, they were pissed. Comedian Mark Steel was one of many radicalized during those tumultuous years, and he’s honest about the role the Clash played: “The Clash didn’t just legitimize anger, they politicized it, giving meaning to the directionless rage that drove early punk. They celebrated multiculturalism and supported the Sandinistas; they weren’t just against, they were for. And where most adult advice involved how to earn a few bob or save a few bob, they sold their records so cheap that they threw away a fortune.”

While politicians blamed immigrants for joblessness and gave cover to neo-Nazis groups, the Clash embraced the roots reggae of the Caribbean community. It was a gesture of solidarity that would inspire countless groups, including those of the soon-to-follow “2-Tone” movement. If not for the Clash, we might never have heard of Rock Against Racism or its successor Love Music Hate Racism.

Their embrace of hip-hop a few years later came from similar motivations. “When we came to the US,” said Strummer, “Mick (Jones, guitarist/vocalist for the Clash) stumbled upon a music shop in Brooklyn that carried the music of Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five, the Sugar Hill Gang . . . these groups were radically changing music and they changed everything for us.” The band’s controversial decision to have Flash and the Five open for them at the legendary Bond’s Casino shows in NYC lent a great deal of credibility to a burgeoning genre that has shaped popular music ever since.

Their identification with working people didn’t just translate into cheap album prices. During the miners’ bitter strike against the Thatcher government, the Clash were among the many acts that lent support and played benefits for the National Miners Union. These types of events were standard fare for Strummer. One of the last shows he played with his new band the Mescaleros (where he famously reunited with Jones onstage) was also a benefit for the British Fire Brigades Union.

This might be one of the most truly outrageous things about Strummer being claimed by the likes of Blair. Joe’s entire catalog rails against Blair’s ilk. One of the last songs he ever recorded was a collaboration with reggae legend Jimmy Cliff. “Over the Border” combines the righteous swagger of reggae with a steadfast punk outrage, and directs both against the horrors of war. Strummer’s gravelly growl and Cliff’s smooth patois bounce off each other:

“They’re shedding blood over the border
So who came first to these hills?
Only the drums remember
‘Cos the hand of the drummer was stilled

Oh, will chaos and disorder
Always rain through these hills
Peace will be slaughtered by anger
And the blood of the lamb will be spilled”

This is what Joe (who wrote the song’s lyrics) did best. He cut through the rhetoric and got to the meat of what ails the planet. Strummer tragically died several months before the US went into Iraq. But his urgent plea rings even more true as his thoughts during the run-up to the post-9/11 invasion of Afghanistan: “Even though there are extremists in the world, if we represent the sane people of the world, then we’ve got to hold on to our sanity and not allow ourselves to get crazed with vengeance…”

Perhaps the best living legacy of Strummer lies in the foundation set up in his name. Founded by his widow Lucinda, the Strummerville Foundation exists to give young musicians the instrumental and studio opportunities they might not otherwise have. Joe was always convinced there would be another Clash later down the line, another voice in music dedicated to the dreams and aspirations of ordinary people, and Strummerville is built on that idea. Already, from London to Tuscon, Arizona, there are annual benefits for Strummerville held on the anniversary of his death. It seems that there is a large swath of musicians who owe Strummer a great debt, from Anti-Flag and Rancid to MIA and Antibalas.

This is precisely what the Blairs and Giulianis don’t get; that past the bottom line of more money in the bank account, there is a world well worth fighting for. A world of dignity, equality and humanity. Joe Strummer fought for that world, and that’s why he doesn’t deserve to be frozen in time with the rest of the rock aristocracy; his message embalmed into a milk-toast pabulum used to sell shoes. He deserves better. He deserves to have his message listened to.

* Special thanks to Antonino D’Ambrosio, who provided much of the material for this article.

The message coming from Jena, Louisiana–that Blacks are expendable while white bigots get protection–has not been lost on the hard racists of this country. White supremacists have posted addresses and phone numbers belonging to family members of the Jena Six, calling for “justice.” The first week of classes at the University of Maryland were marred by someone hanging a noose similar to those in Jena in front of the Black cultural center. Several other campuses have reported an increase in race crimes. And this week, Black students at Borough of Manhattan Community College were beaten by a group of six white men outside of a bar in NYC while calling them “niggers” and shouting “this is what slavery feels like.” The initial reaction of the NYPD? Arrest the victim, Marquis Scott, a member of the BMCC basketball team.

Nooses and posse violence can’t help but conjure up images of Jim Crow lynch mobs, where whites were allowed to dole out their brutal form of summary justice without fear of repercussion–police would be a part of the mobs just as often as turn a blind eye. And, of course, the “strange fruit” left swinging from the trees would come to symbolize one of the darkest sides to American history.

Now seems as good a time as any to talk about this song. It is said that history goes in circles until it learns to correct itself. If so, then the memory of “Strange Fruit” continues to be important today.

It is truly amazing how heart-rending this song remains. Almost seventy years later it still sends chills up the spine and sticks hair on end. It’s author, a radical teacher from Harlem named Abel Meeropol, wrote the words for his union magazine in the mid-30s. After setting it to music it became a popular protest song around New York City. Yet of all the jazz musicians who would come to embrace the spirit of resistance in their music, none would do so quite as effectively as Billie Holiday in her version.

Hers is a sparse and haunting song. Its piano is limited to well-spaced chords and the occasional fluorish. Twice in the song a lone trumpet belts out a solo that is as mournful as it is defiant. Those two emotions, sadness and outrage, sway back and forth in a kind of forbidden dance throughout the song. As the trumpet clears the way for Holiday, her smoky voice conveys that same frustration. She is surprisingly calm as she recounts the lynching and burning of a southern Black man with vivid imagery:

Southern trees bare strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees

Think about this: the equation of a man with fruit. It is a horrifying concept that a human may be so easily regarded as a thing to be picked and tossed around. As she sings, there is almost a tinge of sarcasm in Holiday’s voice. The south, long celebrated for its tobacco, its cotton and Georgia peaches, was now, according to Meeropol and Holiday, known for growing a much more sinister commodity. They’re not commodities, though, as Holiday states in the graphic second verse:

Pastoral scene of the gallant south
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh

Brash honesty mixed with stirring instrumentation proved to be a powerful mix. “The first time I sang it, I thought it was a mistake,” she later said. “There wasn’t even a patter of applause when I finished. Then a lone person began to clap nervously. Then suddenly everyone was clapping and cheering.” Holiday herself admitted to breaking down in tears after performing “Strange Fruit.”

Lady Day’s performance expressed perfectly the absolute horror of living in a country under the shadow of Jim Crow. There was no question that the chord she struck with both Black and white “Strange Fruit” was not just a song bemoaning the sorrows of racism, though. It’s heart-felt and darkly poetic honesty was itself a protest. As the song ends, Holiday sings “this is a strange and bitter crop,” with the final word being on an uncharacteristically high, sustained note. In a way that final note was a bit of resistance against the degradation she so movingly sang about.

Holiday’s version soon crossed from being a mere protest song into the anthem of the anti-lynching movement in the 30s, and established Lady Day as the legend she is today. It was a tragedy that she died in 1959. The same movement that she helped inspire was starting to exert real power to break the chains of segregation.

That may be the real lesson of “Strange Fruit” today; that while the horrors of bigotry still loom over this country, it is indeed possible to resist. The nooses swinging in Jena have already been met with protests that dwarf the small town’s population. The noose at the University of Maryland was met with a speak out of thousands where speakers made direct connections back to Jena. Already several high profile leaders have called for a new Civil Rights movement. And despite the images of hip-hop as depraved thug music being fed to us, some of the most visibly conscious MCs of our time have taken a vocal stand against the injustice in Louisiana; Mos Def, Talib Kweli, Immortal Technique, Common, all have long lent their voices to growing chorus of discontent with modern Jim Crow. And Thursday’s release of Mychal Bell already shows the effect such a chorus can have.

It took nothing less than a movement to crush the strange and bitter crop. As the new seeds are planted today, we should all let Lady Day’s note of defiance ring in our heads until the chains are finally broken once and for all.

So, Maya took her show on the road. Liberia, Australia, India, Japan. And rather than back down from her militancy, she’s let the experience enhance it. While her last album, Arular, was characterized by dense sampling and rapid-fire beats, it’s the sound of each of these nations that make this album pop. The swinging tunes of Bollywood, slinking didgeridoo, banging temple drums all play on the same level as samples from the Pixies, Jonathan Richman and the Clash. It’s a kind of musical internationalism; a chance to give a voice, however small, to that ninety percent of the planet who are routinely ignored in western music.

She comes out of the gate swinging from the first track. Though she’s been around the world and back, it’s clear that she’s shunned the role of the condescending tourist. Instead, on “Bamboo Banga,” she’s taken the voice of the street-kids and shanty-dwellers; the ones rightfully viewing the rich vacationers with disdain. It’s an intimidating track with the memorable line “I’m banging on the doors of you Hummer, Hummer,” which seems to set the tone for the rest of the record.

This is a recurring theme throughout the album, sometimes with the added ingredient of live ammunition in songs like “Paper Planes” and “World Town.” “20 Dollar” is especially effective: “Do you know that cost of a.k.s / Up in Africa / 20 dollars ain’t shit to you / But that’s how much they are / So they gonna use the shit just to get far.”

Extreme? Yes. So is the legalized pillage of Africa. Not too many mainstream artists are willing to support the arming of the people of these nations. After all, the only other time we hear the people of Africa mentioned in music is from the likes of Bono and Geldof, who have peddled to us the image of the helpless savage waiting to be fed by the magnanimous west. MIA’s take is quite different. She isn’t afraid to raise the banner of By Any Means Necessary.

The flak doled out to her because of these ideas hasn’t been small. And not just for her lyrics, but for being a vocal woman of color: “From day one, this has been a mad, crazy thing: I say the things I’m not supposed to say, I look wrong, my music doesn’t sound comfortable for any radio stations or genres…” The album’s best tracks confront this head on. Maya proves she can give it as well she takes it on “Boyz,” as she confidently asks “How many, how many boys are crazy? How many boys are raw? / How many, how many boys are rowdy? / How many start a war?”

There are a lot of differences between this album and her previous Arular. There aren’t the same catchy tunes like “Sunshowers” and “Galang” on here. But the collision of the beats, the eclectic sounds and Maya’s own cocky, streetwise vocals give the whole album an almost hypnotic quality. The world it so irresistably draws you into may seem strange and harsh, but that’s because the daily crimes carried out upon it go unnoticed every day. That’s this album’s biggest strength, and what makes MIA one of today’s most important artists.

It is impossible to express how huge a loss this is.

It’s humorous today to think that a club whose initials stood for Country BlueGrass and Blues could end up an oasis for the insurgent punk movement, but that’s exactly what it was. Krystal was an accidental Moses, bringing something real to the underclass of a city in deep turmoil. While New York went bankrupt, endured blackouts and was sent into a frenzy by the Summer of Sam, it became only natural that punk would spring up there. Without CBGB, though, who knows if it would have taken root?

The Ramones, Patti Smith, Blondie, Talking Heads, Bad Brains, Television — all brought the rebellion and grittiness back to rock, all nurtured at CB’s. Smith recalled exactly how much the club meant to her after Krystal’sdeath:

“I’m not trying to romanticize anything because in some ways it was a shithole. The sound was crappy, there was always things breaking down and glasses breaking and people vomiting and the rats scurrying around in the back, but it was our shithole and that was the greatest thing. I’ve played a lot of places and it was the only place I’ve ever played that felt like our place. He had put the community on the map. It doesn’t matter where I’ve been in the world, people have CBGBs T-shirts. It’s not just some marketing thing. CBGBs wasn’t just about Hilly or the people who played there or New York City, it represented freedom for young people. To me the name CBGBs could be a slang term at this point meaning freedom. Hilly offered us unconditional freedom.”

Through the years, Krystal continued to play host to the loud, the brash, the uncompromising. Hardcore became a fixture at the club’s Sunday matinees. Art rock and indie would be featured there. It’s impossible to exactly place where musical innovations take place, but from the looks of it, a lot of them were at CB’s.

The millennium turned, and the city changed. In the name of progress, the oases were bulldozed and replaced with glossy nothingness. Alphabet City? Gone. Harlem is being eaten alive by Columbia University, and Brooklyn is steadily on its way to becoming Hipsterville. It was only a matter of time before the sights were set on CBGB.

In 2005, the Bowery Resident’s Committee sent Krystal a bill for $91,000 dollars back rent. Krystal had never been informed of a rise. First he tried to negotiate, then he took legal action. When that didn’t work he filed for historic landmark status for CB’s. A campaign was launched to save the club. But when cities are willing to cast aside decent housing for the poor, why should they give a damn about the music?

The final show was played on October 15th, 2006. Patti Smith headlined. Krystal planned to strip the club down to the bare walls and take everything he could to Las Vegas and reopen the club there.

Krystal died on August 28th. There is no word if anyone else plans to reopen CB’s. Perhaps it goes without saying that it wouldn’t be the same anyway.

Little Steven Van Zandt, who campaigned hard for CB’s salvation, wrapped it all up when he spoke of Krystal’s death:

“Losing CBGB meant it was only a matter of time until Hilly followed. It was his whole life… There would be no Ramones without Hilly Krystal. And who would want to live in a world without them? He loved this city and in the end, the city spit in his face… CBGB was a tragic loss New York will never recover from and maybe it’s better Hilly doesn’t have to watch the town that invented personality slowly turn into the Mall of America. Rock and roll will miss him.”

Tell that to Kenneth Foster.

Ten years ago, Kenneth was a young college student, a music lover, and recent father. Born in Austin, Texas, he spent his high school years working for several small record companies in the area. In 1995 he began his first year at St. Phillips College majoring in sociology, and less than a year later, in May of ‘96, he started his own label, Tribulation Records. Kenneth had a bright future ahead of him, no doubt.

But a year later, Kenneth was convicted of murder. The previous August, he had been driving a car with three friends in the San Antonio area. One of those riding in the car, Mauriceo Brown, got out in front of a party to talk to a woman, Mary Patrick. While Kenneth and his other two friends were eighty feet away, waiting in the car, they heard a gunshot. Brown had shot Patrick’s boyfriend, Michael LaHood.

Kenneth never had a gun in his hand, never saw, let alone aimed at LaHood, and never he pulled the trigger. Even the prosecution admits this. And he did not know anyone was going to be shot that night.

But according to Texas’ “law of parties,” Kenneth should have anticipated the loss of life that was to come that night because he was in the same car as Brown. It’s a law straight out of a Franz Kafka novel, where the accused are expected to have an almost psychic ability to predict when a crime is going to happen.

Kenneth’s execution has been set for August 30th, 2007. He is guilty of nothing except driving a car.

Perhaps it should come as no surprise. This is Texas, the state that has executed the most people of any state since the reinstatement of the death penalty. A disproportionate number of these people have been of color. This is the former stomping ground of the Texecutioner George Bush, and the current Governor Rick Perry has already surpassed Dubya’s record of 156 executions. LaHood was the white son of a prominent Houston attorney. Kenneth is a working-class black man. It was the perfect concoction of sick ingredients to continue the pattern of the racist American injustice system.

But Kenneth has not spent the past ten years wallowing in misery. He is a founding member of DRIVE (Death Row Inter-Communalist Vanguard Engagement), a radical, multi-racial organization of death row inmates fighting for better conditions in prisons and against the injustice of the prison system. They have staged cafeteria sit-ins, hunger strikes, and worked with groups on the outside to publicize their cause. Kenneth also continues to write poetry about himself, his case, and the need for a world without racism and inequality. On August 22nd, he and fellow prisoner John Joe Amador, scheduled to be executed the day before Kenneth, announced they will be taking part in a “protest of passive non-participation” against their own executions. It is clear he is not giving up without a fight.

Because of these efforts, and because of the bald-faced racism his case puts on display, Kenneth’s cause has gained national and international attention. Activists in Texas and beyond have mobilized demanding his execution be stayed.

He has also gained support, not surprisingly, from the Welfare Poets, one of underground hip-hop’s most radical and outspoken groups. Their music has been a staple in many-an-activist’s CD player for a decade now. When Kenneth and other DRIVE members heard of the group in 2004, they had a letter sent to the Welfare Poets, extending an invitation to perform at an anti-death penalty rally in Austin. They accepted, and began to cultivate a personal relationship with Kenneth. As Ray Ramirez, a founding member of the Poets told me, “Learning about Kenneth’s case and seeing the injustice is real easy, but learning about the man has been a fascinating experience. He lives with an undying hope, always looking to the betterment of the world. He is a true soldier for the people and an amazing poet and writer at that.”

In 2006 the Welfare Poets contributed to a compilation called “Cruel and Unusual Punishment,” which sampled the work of several artists opposed to the death penalty. Another performer on that comp was Kenneth’s wife Tasha, an MC who goes by the name Jav’lin. Her song “Walk With Me,” and the video for it, is about Kenneth’s case, and can be downloaded on her site (http://www.javlin.nl) for 99 cents, which goes toward his defense fund.

Jav’lin described to me recently what motivated her to write such a song:

“I write down everything I feel, sometimes that turns into a song. Well that’s what happened with ‘walk with me’. I wrote down how I felt about his situation, turned it into a song and started leaking that to people. People said it made the situation more visual, so I decided that if I did a video along with it that would really give people a good visual of what happened and it did. However, my initial reason for recording the song was just to let Kenneth hear this. Hip hop is the voice of the streets, music that appealed to Kenneth when he was still out in the streets and I wanted him to know that ‘the streets’ back here knew of his story and agreed that it was injustice that was placed upon him.”

Decades ago, racism was enforced with trees and nooses. Billie Holiday sang of this “strange fruit” in defiant protest. Today that same racism is backed up with needles and gurneys. It is a form of state sanctioned murder to keep people divided and scared. And despite everything spoon-fed to us about rap’s “violence,” Kenneth Foster’s case sheds ample light on where the real violence and depravity is coming from.

*To learn more about Kenneth’s case, DRIVE, and to sign the petition demanding his execution be stopped, go to FreeKenneth.com