Thanks to my friend Ben for bringing this to my attention. The Russian news network RT recently released the first episode of a brutally honest and thought-provoking look into America’s black communities. This episode focuses on St. Louis, a city with a deep catalog of problematic (to say the least) policies in the areas of population retention, law enforcement, and of course, urban planning:
It was a real privilege to teach a summer course on human rights and genocide. I’m always grateful to provide a forum for people to flesh out their understandings of how and why people’s relationships with the state become contentious, who benefits (if anyone does), and what we as individuals can do in our communities to help spread hope. Genocide and ethnic cleansing aren’t one-dimensional processes or isolated events, and we cannot build anything while people remain active proponents of either (and self-identify as such, very openly, in comments sections).
I recently assigned the students in my Geography 101 course a writing project whereby they select a song with geographically-oriented content and report on all of that song’s inherent regionalisms. In the body of their assignment text, I include a list of suggested songs for anybody who may be interested in them or may have difficulty selecting a song on their own. The following is one of them.
I briefly considered using Suede’s beautiful album-and-show-capper “Saturday Night” here, but quickly withdrew it when I remembered I was packaging it with its video. Irresponsible of me, yes, but the video is a pretty wonderful tribute to the Tube, if you have a few minutes and want to feel nostalgia for British big city life. I needed a song that presented the intangible fears and fantasties that came with a modest subway ride. Time to rewind the clock before gentrification had made the world’s most expensive cities properly “safe:” the late 1970s.
One of punk’s greatest accomplishments was divorcing young British musicians from any obligation to sound or act American. The Beatles and Rolling Stones made careers (and to varying degrees, still do) by synthesizing American rock n’ roll standards. I would never deny that The Clash could have happened without The Ramones, but as the Thatcher era approached, a new generation of musicians found it possible to turn inward for cultural fuel. A petulent teenager named Paul Weller rejoiced in this zeitgeist. Weller didn’t seem too intent on satisfying audiences who weren’t directly in front of him (whether he suffered those who WERE was up for debate, too). The Jam resurrected the 60’s mod culture, and despite an avowed Motown influence, quickly developed into one of the most quintessentially ‘British’ bands of all time, whether or not that was their intent. Few of their photos didn’t feature a Union Jack or some other subversive type of English iconography.
Years before Jarvis Cocker perfected the kitchen-sink audio drama with Pulp (who technically began playing in 1978, only two years after the Jam did), Paul Weller was presenting unhappily-ending tales of quotidian Britishness. In one of my favorite songs of theirs, men working in a factory and a cornershop harbor secret grass-is-greener ambitions to be in the other’s place, though both of their times have passed. In “Down in the Tube Station at Midnight,” Weller articulates the all-too-present paranoia over street crime in that country, focused in the London Underground. The beauty of it is, you don’t need to be English, you don’t need to have been mugged in a train station, or even need to have a family to sympathize and strangely identify with this character. He doesn’t find a happy ending and we don’t get a resolution to the story. London doesn’t freely provide closure to those who expect it, so why should songs have about her have to?
Lyrics (from Google Play)
The distant echo – of faraway voices boarding faraway trains To take them home to the ones that they love and who love them forever The glazed, dirty steps – repeat my own and reflect my thoughts Cold and uninviting, partially naked Except for toffee wrapers and this morning’s papers Mr. Jones got run down Headlines of death and sorrow – they tell of tomorrow Madmen on the rampage And I’m down in the tube station at midnight
I fumble for change – and pull out the Queen Smiling, beguiling I put in the money and pull out a plum Behind me Whispers in the shadows – gruff blazing voices Hating, waiting “Hey boy” they shout “have you got any money?” And I said “I’ve a little money and a take away curry, I’m on my way home to my wife. She’ll be lining up the cutlery, You know she’s expecting me Polishing the glasses and pulling out the cork” And I’m down in the tube station at midnight
I first felt a fist, and then a kick I could now smell their breath They smelt of pubs and Wormwood Scrubs And too many right wing meetings My life swam around me It took a look and drowned me in its own existence The smell of brown leather It blended in with the weather It filled my eyes, ears, nose and mouth It blocked all my senses Couldn’t see, hear, speak any longer And I’m down in the tube station at midnight I said I was down in the tube station at midnight
The last thing that I saw As I lay there on the floor Was “Jesus Saves” painted by an atheist nutter And a British Rail poster read “Have an Awayday – a cheap holiday – Do it today!” I glanced back on my life And thought about my wife ‘Cause they took the keys – and she’ll think it’s me And I’m down in the tube station at midnight The wine will be flat and the curry’s gone cold I’m down in the tube station at midnight Don’t want to go down in a tube station at midnight
Sonic Geography 