And Then They Came For the Music

Since Reagan, music + musicians have been semi-active sideline political commentators, but in the present total culture war, both fire + blood are being drawn. So the question remains: is it worth it?

Going on a date OR getting arrested? Answers on postcards, please.

There’s a nice little book by Paul Fussell called Class. I came to it by way of his son Sam’s book, Muscle: Confessions of an Unlikely Bodybuilder. His son was an academic who, bitten by the bodybuilding bug, dove deep from a university study of bodybuilding right into living in his car and pounding down enough steroids to get him on the podium of a Mr. California competition. Second place only to a friend of mine who was later convicted of a very public, steroid-fueled murder of his girlfriend.

The son’s book, as hard hitting as it was, didn’t shake me up as much as the father’s did though because in the midst of the myth of American classlessness he dropped a couple of bombs. Bombs that mostly blew up the notion that our break with Britain also meant a break with caste, and class, distinctions.

Moreover, Americans are just as badly class bound as anyone else, and maybe more so since, generally, we refuse to acknowledge its existence in, and around, the workings of our lives together. But where Fussell the elder really put a bee in my bonnet had everything to do with his take that the only category of American individual that sits outside of class/caste rankings were artists. Something I had felt for the entirety of my life, but had never voiced.

In the world, but not of the world, there was an outsider/outlaw deal that accorded well with my sense of self. All of that self-doubt that film would have us believe besets American teens? Absent in my case as I scribbled the early stages of a novel, or articles in some Village Voice rip off, or query letters to Esquire.

True merit, as measured by talent, was the only thing that mattered to me and was much more significant than any dreams of capital. All of which suddenly had a name, face and place when punk rock hit New York in 1977.

You see I was fired by a mission that had everything to do with the primary driver for me not being anything connected to who your parents were, or how much they made or what they did, but talent. True merit, as measured by talent, was the only thing that mattered to me and was much more significant than any dreams of capital. All of which suddenly had a name, face and place when punk rock hit New York in 1977.

Which is to say that Lydia Lunch always meant a lot more to me than vice presidential aspirant Geraldine Ferraro. Because politics just always seemed, like the old saw says, to be for people who couldn’t sing, dance, or act.

So like the corrupt old man in Catch-22 we watched Reagan come and go. Bush 1 and Bush 2, even Trump 1, with a dutiful amount of public complaint, in general we just watched them come and go, and we endured. With everything that was happening out there, happening OUT there.

I thought bands that were overtly political were “cute”. It always felt like a hustle to me even with Biafra running for the mayor of San Francisco and Joey Shithead from DOA running for some sort of seat in Canada. Like a way to sell more records and no real or actual interest in that kind of public service.

In our caste-free space though you had sons of diplomats acting like working class heroes. Which was a tribute in a way. You had a working class hero in someone like Bruce Springsteen, who had never actually had a job outside of being a musician. If you included country music you had a whole raft of people who made music that extolled the virtues, even if these were never exercised by the artists, of just being, well…ok, with your financial place in space as a member of the working class.

Then Trump 2 came and suddenly that kind of “sidelinism” shook down like walls of wet sand.

Specifically, bands couldn’t get into America if their iPhones or laptops irked the border agent. Bands were having a hard time getting out of America because of reciprocal assholism. Bands were having members with green cards pulled off of planes, scuttling entire tours.

Moreover, the entire on-again-off-again tariffs have fucked indie labels four ways to Sunday. Same with small publishers.

And finally, largely as a product of a Trump-fueled fever for the flavor of a Brexit, the usual must-play places in the UK, have attenuated because it is a pain in the ass to get into the country, as well as out of it, and more importantly small to mid-size clubs are caving in. Articles are explaining that the future of live music in the UK will be something only served up to rich people who can afford big ticket shows at Wembley. This after decades of music being one of the most reliable British exports.

[W]hen it’s casino politics we’re talking about, the house must always win. From the quarter slots to the million dollar buy-in blackjack tables.

So there’s no option to sit this one out.

There’s also a whole chain of people between these bands from roadies, tour managers, sound people, lighting, musical equipment manufacturers, merch and merch folks, booking agents, drivers who for the entirety of my life in music (circa 1980) have been able to scratch apolitical livings out of their involvement in music.

Small fries allowed to be as abrasive as we liked just because, well, how big of a fanbase are we talking about anyway?

But in America 2025, there’s no such thing as too small for people whose nets are trawling wide and deep. Especially if they stand in opposition to the house because, you see, when it’s casino politics we’re talking about, the house must always win. From the quarter slots to the million dollar buy-in blackjack tables.

So there’s no option to sit this one out. And in perfect storm fashion culture warriors are also getting old(er, and less willing to fight).

Signed to Def American in the ‘90s and with a fan base that included Uma Thurman a friend of mine who is working on a box set release of their music in 2026 corralled me, and in a quiet moment, a confession: “my interest in touring or playing live again has slipped under water.”

As in less than zero?

“Totally less than zero.”

On the verge of our first tour of America, BUNUEL, making sure all of the visas and paperwork are correct, is not thinking very far beyond this but in quiet moments, at least, I am, considering the Hamlet-esque take on all of this. When he cooks up a plan to have the theater players play out a play that closely mimics the murder of his late father, Hamlet, in stating that he will watch his uncle and his mother, says “if they but blench, I’ll know my course.”

This is where I am. In considering the alarmist tone and timbre of news these days I’ve had a wait and see attitude because I am no Chicken Little and maybe, just maybe, the sky isn’t falling. And maybe America will blench.

Or maybe, just maybe, someone will stand up and talk truth to power when asking “have you no sense of decency sir?”, and usher in the beginning of the end of a long national nightmare that posits that the upper class/caste is the only one of value, which is really why we’re better served with a king in power rather than a president.

I don’t know and am unsure but in a few weeks I’ll be figuring it all out. Until then my advice to you is this Claudius, “trust no one.” And go see live bands if you can, while you can.

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TICKETS?!?!? GET YOUR TICKETS HEEEEERRRRREEEE…..

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And if books are still your thing and you still do books, please do this one…the memoir A Walk Across Dirty Water and Straight Into Murderer's Row, from Amazon…Or the Bookshop.Org dealie: Here?

And if you’d like to book a book show? Please DM.