Billy Bragg - The Progressive Patriot

"Mixing pop and politics - they ask me what the use is
I offer them embarrassment and my usual excuses..."

Part history of England, part history of popular music and - oh yes, part history of Billy Bragg and the Bragg family... I've never read another rock star autobiography like The Progressive Patriot.

Of course, to refer to this book as an autobiography is as erroneous and misleading as calling Billy Bragg a rock star. Neither is a perfect fit for the title in question, and both are so much more besides.

Anyone who's ever seen Billy Bragg live will be familiar with the story of how as a young man he became politicized on seeing The Clash perform at the Rock Against Racism Carnival Against The Nazis in Victoria Park, Hackney, in April 1978.

"The Clash taught me a valuable lesson that day, which I have in the back of my mind every time I write a song or step out on to a stage: although you can't change the world by singing songs and doing gigs, the things you say and the actions you take can change the perspective of members of the audience..."

"And although the world was just the same as it had always been as I travelled home on the Tube that evening, my view of it had been changed forever."

Another thing you'll know if you've seen the Bard of Barking live any time in the last five years is the anger and revulsion he felt when the far-right British National Party won a dozen seats on his home town council. Much of his work in recent years has been dedicated to defeating the rise of racism across the country, and The Progressive Patriot is a natural extension of that mission. It begins by tracing the multicultural past of Barking itself where Julius Caesar marched his legions in 54 BC, long before the neighbouring town of Londinium was any more than a few shacks. From here, Billy recounts the origins of the Anglo-Saxon people themselves, forging his way through myth and mystery to uncover the truth that history is always written by the victors... and sometimes by the politicians who wish to stay victorious. The idea that there's no such thing as a native Englishman is not an original one, but I've never seen it expressed so clearly or emphatically, though I'm sure there are those who would dispute Billy's version of the tale... just as current BNP leader Nick Griffin once disputed the Holocaust.

One final thing you'll know if you've ever attended a Billy Bragg gig is that he's the first to admit that his fanbase can be divided into two distinct camps. There are those who follow him with fists held high for his strong political stance... and those who merely nod their heads while he's singing There Is Power In A Union and wait patiently for him to get back to the wonderful observational / relationship lyrics of Levi Stubbs' Tears and The Saturday Boy. Though I find myself agreeing with the majority of Billy's politics, I'll always be more comfortable in the latter camp, so I suppose it's natural that the chapters I enjoyed most in The Progressive Patriot were those dealing with music rather than multiculturalism... though the latter seeps naturally into the former throughout. Still, if The Clash politicized young William Bragg, it was Paul Simon who taught him honesty in songwriting...

"I am sitting in the back row of the coach (on a school trip to Belgium) with several boys of my own age. We are out of earshot of teachers and parents. Bored by the flat landscape, we have spent much of the morning kneeling on our seats looking out the back window, waving at passing motorists. We drive onto the car deck of the ferry and park. Another coach pulls up alongside us. It is full of girls who are about our age."

"The girls wave to us. We wave to them. They smile at us. We smile at them. They flirt with us. We act the goat, attempting to conceal our excitement..."

"But suddenly we are across the river. The ferry unloads and the girls are gone. Our sense of enchantment is shattered and we struggle to contain the feelings that our brief encounter has unleashed..."

"I was deeply upset, yet I didn't feel that I could express how I felt - to do so would be to admit that... I liked girls. Turning my face to the window, I realised that I was alone. I couldn't talk to my mates; I couldn't run to my teacher; my parents wouldn't understand. Where could I turn to for comfort?"

"And then this happens: from above my head, a descending guitar line comes tumbling out from a tiny speaker..."

"I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told..."

Despite all the passion of Billy's politics, it's this story - and the revelation that New Yorker Paul Simon wrote Homeward Bound late one night "while waiting for the milk train after a gig in Lancashire" - that had the deepest effect on this particular reader. I'm not sure if that makes me shallow... or soppy. Maybe, in the words of Upfield, I've just got a socialism of the heart.

It's Coming Home...

I've been out the last few nights snapping England flags off the cars in my neighbourhood till I've collected enough to build a huge patriotic footballing bonfire. You may feel this is childish, peevish, yobbish vandalism... and you would probably be correct. However, I do like to feel that I'm doing my bit to redress the balance. The way I see it, if I don't do it... who will? The majority of your ordinary, everyday vandals are likely to be football fans too, willing to suppress their destructive urges in celebration of their glorious game. (Well, at least until the inevitable happens, after which it'll be open season on any symbol that reminds them of their slaughtered dreams.)

You may also feel that the above paragraph contains a sweeping generalisation based around the premise that all football fans are yobs and vice versa. You would definitely be correct in that... however, in my defence, I've been the victim of many a sweeping generalisation from football fans all my life. Such as the generalisation that as a male of the species, I should automatically be interested in their precious sport. "Did you see the game last night?" "Looking forward to the match this weekend?" "What do you reckon to Rooney's chances on Saturday?" And the generalisation that when I express the opinion that I really couldn't give a monkey's left testicle... then there really is summat wrong with me.

Football fans are also among the first to make sweeping generalisations about my own alternative entertainment choices. They'll decide that because I read comics I'm some sad, loser geek. OK, so they're not exactly wrong about that. They'll think that because I like Morrissey I'm some morose, bequiffed misanthrope. OK, so that's a bad example too. Actually, maybe there is something to this sweeping generalisation business after all? A stereotype doesn't become a stereotype unless it's got a large dollop of truth mixed in... isn't that right, my hooligan brethren?

With that in mind, I'll be out again tonight (and tomorrow, between 8-30 and 11pm) snapping off those England flags for all I'm worth. Doing my bit for universal harmony. Because, after all, if I drove around with a huge Spider-Man mask sticking out the top of my sunroof, I'd expect you to do the same for me. Oh, and if you choose to challenge me on my behaviour, please don't try that old "where's your patriotic spirit?" bullshit, because I guarantee that won't get you anywhere. There's nothing even remotely patriotic about your little tribal gut-kicking contest, and just because you wear a red cross on your chest it hardly makes you St. George, now does it? Go out and slay some dragons or something, by jingo! Then we'll talk.

You may feel angry after reading this post... but then, football fans never did have much of a sense of humour. Of course, that might just be another sweeping generalisation... I'm willing to be proved wrong.