Get in the ring
It was to be the best birthday ever. A new stereo. My own stereo. Finally.
We gathered round this monstrous contraption, the whole family, studying it solemnly, wondering just what kind of sorcery it was capable of. My mother, as was her wont, tried to take over, connecting things that didn’t need connecting, inserting wires where wires didn’t go.
But even at thirteen I knew how this stuff worked. Gently easing her to one side, I brought the machine to life with a casual flick of a button and then ordered them to stand clear.
To go with the stereo I had received a new album, Use Your Illusion II by Guns N’Roses. Holding the tape (yes, the tape, this was the nineties) up for effect I inserted it into the deck and pressed play.
“Oh, that’s very loud, Si,” said my mother as I turned it up to eleventy-stupid.
“I don’t like this, do they have any slow ones?” she whined.
And so it continued, this rite of passage, the sundering of child and parent; ‘step away, Mammy, I’m a bad boy now’.
But neither she, nor I, knew the half of it. Track Five began, Get in the Ring. Axl set about putting the world to rights, calling out all those who had wronged him during the band’s turbulent rise to fame. He seemed angry, angrier than usual. Then it came; the foul-mouthed tirade which deified him in my eyes, villainised him in my mother’s.
‘What you p****d off ‘cause your dad gets more p***y than you? F*** you! Suck my f***** d***!
Wowee. What a guy.
Mother was less amused. And from that point forth I played that particular song at a low volume, in the privacy of my own room.
Over the years my musical tastes have evolved, moving away from anarchic, rabble-rousing, rock sermons to something a little more sedate, a little more Sunday afternoon.
Yet the impact of that Guns N’Roses’ song remains. It may have just been a profanity-laden rant, a vulgar display of disobedience, but it influenced me, opened my mind to new possibilities, and taught me that there were other ways of thinking, ways which didn’t tally up with those of my parents.
And that’s what music is supposed to do, it’s supposed to inform and educate, reflect the world around us. However, in this era of the talent-show, of the disposable star, where protecting the brand is more important than speaking one’s mind, there is a dearth of musicians, of artists of any kind, willing to put the world to rights.
Or at least there was.
The Grammys were on the other night. And, as is the norm, Adele dominated proceedings. In between picking up five awards, she managed to break one of her gongs in two, mess up a tribute to George Michael, and bemoan Beyoncé’s lack of recognition in the music industry’s equivalent of the Oscars.
What she didn’t do was castigate the recently elected President of the United States of America. This came as a disappointment to some, disappointment only partly allayed by acts of ‘resistance’ from Katy Perry and A Tribe Called Quest.
Because that’s what celebrities do nowadays; they use award shows, public appearances and media interviews to tell everyone how awful Donald Trump is. As if we didn’t already know.
It’s been rumbling on for a while now – a few brave voices were denouncing the would-be king long before he acceded to the throne. But it really only became trendy once Meryl Streep had a go. I mean everyone loves Meryl, so when she speaks out, and in such an impassioned manner, we all listen.
Problem was, she didn’t really say anything of note. She told us Trump was a bad person, and that many people disagree with some of his policies. Yeah, thanks for that, Meryl. You’ll be telling us there’s chance of rain in Limerick next.
And like lemmings jumping from a cliff, so the rest have followed. The Screen Actors Guild (SAG) Awards were dominated by anti-Trump rhetoric, everyone from Denzel Washington to David Harbour (who?) using precious air-time to spew half-baked, uninformed views on the state of American politics.
It’s gotten so bad that when Lady Gaga didn’t use the half-time show at this year’s Superbowl to lambast ‘The Donald’ there was a sense that somehow, she’d let everyone down: ‘Come on Gaga, you’re better than this.’
Never fear though, the Oscars are coming up; if I were you Ivanka, I’d hide the remote that night.
So, what am I complaining about? Didn’t I just lament the loss of political agency among our global superstars?
Well, yes I did, and I stand by that. Because none of these actors, musicians, sportsmen or women are making political statements. They may be talking about politics, but they’re not making statements. They’re not being radical or revolutionary, they’re not risking their careers to highlight great injustices or wrongdoings, and they’re certainly not adding anything new to the litany of debates surrounding the most powerful man on the planet.
And yet, they think they are. They think they’re being so incredibly righteous, that by calling Donald Trump a few names they are exposing him to the world, alleviating the plight of millions and possibly, quite possibly, ending wars; their lack of self-awareness only marginally exceeded by their lack of insight.
Compare these pious, self-aggrandising exhibitions with Marlon Brando’s solemn refusal to accept his Best Actor award at the 1973 Oscars. In protest at the unfair treatment of Native Americans in the US film industry, Brando sent Sacheen Littlefeather in his stead, thus creating discourse and debate around an issue that had previously been ignored.
Or, most famously, Muhammed Ali’s refusal to go to war with the ‘Vietcong’, a decision which cost him the peak years of his career and marked him as public enemy number one to those who had slain Malcolm X and would soon add Martin Luther King to their list of victims.
Could you imagine Streep or any of her contemporaries having that kind of gumption, using their status not to wax lyrical about populist issues and show how morally proficient they are, but to speak out against something not pre-approved by the compere for the evening?
No, neither can I. Because that would take guts, it would take intelligence. It would mean going against the grain, being a lone dissenter. Worst of all, it would mean jeopardising their careers and missing out on the next big pay cheque.
Parental guidance advised
It was Valentine’s Day this week; I know this because, spending the night alone and unloved, I could find nothing to watch on television other than romantic comedies starring Sandra Bullock.
And then, just when I thought my own miserable, solitary existence couldn’t be any more depressing, I find out that, not only are people younger than me having lots of sex and people the same age as me having lots of sex, but people older than me, way older than me, are having lots of sex.
A study released to coincide with the most romantic day of the year has revealed that almost 60% of Irish people aged 50 or over are engaging in regular bouts of rumpy-pumpy. I know, disgusting isn’t it?
Our parents, our grandparents, sitting there all nice and quiet as if butter wouldn’t melt, and then sprinting straight to the bedroom the minute we go out the door.
I could take the positives from this and reason that I’ll have something to look forward to in my own golden years, that, despite my misgivings, my ageing pencil will still have copious amounts of lead.
But, chances are, when I reach that ripe old age, I’ll be moaning about the 25 per cent of 75 year-olds getting some action while I search the TV listings for anything featuring Sandra Bullock.
