Wednesday, April 30, 2025
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Copyright or copywrong: the Shape of You case and its implications

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Ed Sheeran is one of my least favourite singers, and Shape of You is almost certainly my least favourite song. A running joke amongst my friends has been that if I had written something similar, I would be actively distancing myself from Ed Sheeran and not endorsing the two songs’ similarities. However, the recent copyright case Sheeran v. Chokri has to be seen outside personal feelings and the individual songs and musicians involved; it is not just an enormous win for Sheeran and his wallet but a victory for the music industry as a whole. He noted in a statement released after the judgment that there are “very few chords used in pop music” and that “coincidences are bound to happen” when 22 million songs are released on Spotify yearly. While the recent case itself foundered on a lack of proof that Sheeran had actually heard the song he was accused of copying, it hopefully reflects a wider pushback on the hyper-litigious culture that has plagued songwriting in recent years.

In order to fully understand the recent proliferation of litigation it is important to look at the history of such lawsuits, before examining the Shape of You case itself. Although music copyright has been enforced for a long time, one can point to the 2013 Blurred Lines lawsuit as a flashpoint which allowed an unprecedented copyright over the “musical style” of a song. Subsequently, similar lawsuits have plagued artists such as Bruno Mars, Katy Perry, and Drake. Additionally, Olivia Rodrigo has given writing credits to Taylor Swift and Paramore over perceived similarities between deja vu and Cruel Summer; and good 4 u and Misery Business respectively.

Blurred Lines and its worrying precedent

Rodrigo’s generosity with writing credits can be seen as a direct consequence of the Blurred Lines decision, in which Marvin Gaye’s estate sued Robin Thicke and Pharrell Williams for supposedly infringing the copyright of Gaye’s song Got To Give It Up. Dissenting federal Court of Appeal judge Jacqueline Nguyen categorically stated that “Blurred Lines and Got to Give It Up are not objectively similar. They differ in melody, harmony and rhythm.” She further argued that it set “a dangerous precedent that strikes a devastating blow to future musicians and composers everywhere”. Despite this, her colleagues in the majority dismissed these concerns as “unfounded hyperbole,” and gave the claimants $5.3 million. But four years after this decision, this concern increasingly seems like a well-founded one.

If all pop-punk bands with a female singer and similar guitar sounds somehow owe writing credits to Paramore, the effective result is that Hayley Williams and co. have not only been given creative ownership not only over their own songs but over the entire genre. The Gaye estate argued based on the “feel” of a song, but sonic familiarity can be a key factor in a song’s popularity. To name but one example, the recent 80s revival amongst pop music could leave huge numbers of artists liable. Dua Lipa’s brilliant 2020 album was titled Future Nostalgia. The singer has already been sued twice over her hit single Levitating; we can only hope that the album does not result in Future Court Battles.

A Solution?

The ideal (and, in my opinion, only) solution to this is for artists to simply acknowledge their musical influences and move on, be it through interviews, liner notes, or even in a song. 2018’s Star Treatment features Alex Turner admitting that he “just wanted to be one of the Strokes,” and Julian Casablancas returned the favour in lieu of suing him. Elvis Costello acknowledged the similarity between the guitars on Olivia Rodrigo’s brutal and his track Pump It Up, and tweeted that “[i]t’s how rock and roll works… that’s what I did.” George Michael’s estate similarly gave Lorde its blessing over 2021’s Solar Power and its similarities to Freedom! ‘90, going as far as to state that “George would have been flattered.” 

The biggest song of 2019, Old Town Road, had at its core a clearly recognisable and initially uncleared sample of a banjo, taken from American industrial rock band Nine Inch Nails’ 34 Ghosts IV. Had their frontman Trent Reznor been more litigious, it is likely the song could not have existed in the form it did, or enjoyed its subsequent success. The TikToks, remixes and debates over whether or not it was truly a country song would never have happened, and music would have lost out.

Reznor is no stranger to having his own work remixed and altered; he claimed in a 2004 interview with Alternative Press that hearing Johnny Cash’s version of Hurt was so powerful it made him feel like “that song isn’t mine anymore.” From this background, he told his “panicked” managers, “look, I’m fine with it… don’t be a roadblock to this.” Even after being added as a writer, he wasn’t searching for fame or royalties, enjoying the fact that he was “listed on the credits of the all-time, Number One whatever-the-fuck-it-is wasn’t something” but claiming that “I don’t feel it’s for me to step in there and pat myself on the back for that.”

The issue with relying on artists deciding not to sue instead of weakening the rigidity of copyright law is that many smaller artists simply do not make enough money to justify ignoring potentially lucrative plagiarism lawsuits. Matt Cardle’s settlement with Ed Sheeran over Photograph (for $5.4 million and 35% of the ongoing royalties) represents the apex of an enormous revenue stream that less-successful artists cannot ignore. Paramore and Taylor Swift are unlikely to take legal action over similarities in their songs and seem to have been prospectively added to Rodrigo’s writing credits to avoid the possibility of any litigation. The lawsuits against Katy Perry, Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran, however, could be cynically portrayed as financially motivated. Indeed, Sheeran seems to take this view, claiming that there is now a culture “where a claim is made with the idea that a settlement will be cheaper than taking it to court, even if there’s no basis for the claim.” 

Sheeran v Chokri: the case itself

The basis of the recent saga over Shape of You was that Ed Sheeran had copied the ‘hook’ of the song from Sami Chokri’s 2015 song Oh Why. The argument had three components: firstly that the similarity between the two is too clear to be a result of anything other than copying; that Sheeran had access to the song via “a number of channels,” and finally, that Sheeran had “a propensity to collect ideas for songs [from other people] in advance of writing them.”

Sheeran was accused by Andrew Sutcliffe QC, Mr Chokri’s barrister, of being a “magpie” who “borrows ideas” and only “sometimes” acknowledge it. He claimed that Sheeran decided based “on who you are and whether he thinks he can get away with it,” supporting this claim with other songs from Sheeran’s discography (such as Photograph) which he alleged demonstrated a propensity for plagiarism. The speed at which Sheeran wrote songs was characterised as “indicative of copying,” and the cross-examination was harsh enough for Sheeran to publicly brand it as “deeply traumatising. His co-writer John McDaid similarly talked about the cost “to our mental health and creativity.”

Sheeran in fact wrote neither the main marimba riff of the song nor the phrase “the shape of you,” which were improvised by his co-writers Steven McCutcheon and John McDaid respectively. The judge noted that “he co-wrote virtually all of the songs [on Divide] with others,” forming a starkly ironic contrast with lyrics from his 2011 hit You Need Me, I Don’t Need You: “I sing, I write my own tune and I write my own verse hell / don’t need another wordsmith to make my tunes sell / call yourself a singer-writer, you’re just bluffing / name’s on the credits and you didn’t write nothing.” 

However, Sheeran’s lack of authenticity and his supposed “selling out,” are not the issue at stake, nor should they be. Radio-friendly pop songs of the kind Sheeran writes are necessarily collaborative efforts and exposing the behind-the-scenes nature of pop, while of great interest to some, comes at a creative cost. Sheeran now films his songwriting sessions as evidence for fighting litigation. One wonders if the time he has spent worrying about litigation could be spent writing better songs than Shape of You. 

The judge ultimately rejected all three of Mr Chokri’s arguments. He found no evidence that Sheeran had ever heard the song he was accused of copying and said that infringement “necessarily entails that the alleged infringer not only had access to the original work, but actually saw or heard it.” This is to be welcomed; proof of the possibility of access sets no higher a hurdle than uploading it to Spotify or Youtube. He concluded that the song had not been copied, intentionally or subconsciously, from Mr. Chokri. The allegation that Sheeran’s writing speed was “indicative of copying” was rejected, as was the view of him being a “magpie.”

The conclusion to the four year saga over alleged plagiarism within Shape Of You hopefully points towards a more creative future. We can only hope the decision results in a further backlash against the culture fostered by the Blurred Lines decision and a reduction in the number of frivolous lawsuits against musicians. They are bad for artists, bad for all genres of music, and fundamentally, bad for creativity. As Sheeran is still being sued in the US by the Gaye estate over Thinking Out Loud’s similarity to Let’s Get It On, we shall have to wait and see if it truly does. 

Image credit: Lifebyyahli / CC BY-SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons

In Harry’s House, there’s room for the romantic

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Ever since Harry Styles released ‘Harry’s House’ around two weeks ago, it has been the soundtrack to my Trinity term. My daily walk from Cowley Road across Magdalen Bridge, mindless essay reading in the library, and hours sitting in the sun with my friends have all been accompanied by Styles’ romantic idealism and gentle melodies. A self-proclaimed One Direction fanatic when I was younger, I was excited to see what would follow the glamorous rock of Styles’ self-titled debut and his second album, ‘Fine Line’.

My assumptions of what the album was to offer were definitely surpassed. When ‘As it Was’ was released as a single, I liked it, until it seemed to be the background of every other TikTok as I scrolled through my phone. I found myself with the bridge stuck in my head, Go home, get ahead, light-speed internet, a subtle introduction to the gentle, gauze pop of the album. ‘As it Was’ is both sweet and upbeat, and seems to align perfectly with the soft yellow hues of the album cover.

When I finally listened, the opening track felt a natural transition from ‘As it Was’ to the rest of the album. ‘Music from a Sushi Restaurant’ was my favourite upon first listen, with ll its joyous, colourful beat and nostalgic lyricism. It reminds me of childhood summers, particularly in the introductory lyric, ‘Blue bubblegum twisted round your tongue’ as this gustatory theme runs through the song. The ascension of the trumpets at the chorus beautifully summarises intensity of feeling – when you love someone so much, it makes you want to scream, ‘You know I love you babe’.

Hand in hand with the joy of the opening track slots ‘Satellite’, the eleventh song on the album. I like to listen to ‘Satellite’ as if it’s a homage to One Direction’s ‘Clouds’. Both songs are united in their opening as airy and hopeful but build up to a constant drum of cymbals. Styles revels in his feeling for his anonymous lover, the act of waiting for their presence being enough for him, ‘I can see you’re lonely down there, don’t you know that I am right here?’, as we imagine him spinning ‘round and round’, waiting to be pulled in.

This defiant romanticism runs through the album, which is why I think it struck me so much upon first listen and continues to do so. ‘Daylight’, for example, interspersed with higher pitched melody, is full to the brim of sensuous, loving imagery. Styles is ‘cursing the daylight’, never wanting the sun to rise, for the night to end. His ‘dip you in honey so I could be sticking to you’, borderlines on the obsessive but is beautiful in its outward expression of affection. ‘Daylight’ is a celebration of love, but the rest of the album is much more pensive in its reflection.

Contained in the lyrics are remnants of memory. Identifying with Styles’ romantic worldview, I find myself frequently doing the same – hyper-focusing on small details when experiencing something, perhaps bordering on the idealistic, to ensure that I remember it. Often, this act of picking up detail is to overlook a bigger, more negative, picture, and ‘Harry’s House’ encapsulates this tension perfectly.

‘Keep Driving’ is made up of these smaller snapshots, ‘small concern with how the engine sounds’, and my favourite line, ‘hash brown, egg yolk, I will always love you’. Something about this image, to me, summarises the comfort that is said to define love. It reminds me of hungover brunches with my friends, reminiscing upon the night before and laughing the morning away. These details amalgamate in the bridge as the pace of the song increases, and the sexual, romantic, and mundane intertwine, ‘choke her with a sea view, toothache, bad move… mocha pot, Monday’.

There is something immediate about the album’s lyrics being so packed with small detail. Yet, this doesn’t detract from the overarching feeling that comes with loving someone retrospectively. In ‘Little Freak’, details are widened to a broader picture of longing. With dreamlike piano pushing forward his hazy, love-like reminiscence, Styles manages to capture in words a feeling that only the hopeless romantic will know. In the chorus, he sings, ‘I was thinking about you, I’m not worried about where you are, who you will go home to, I’m just thinking about you’, enveloping the bittersweetness of moving on from someone. ‘Little Freak’ recognises the simple act of thinking about someone. Whether they exist in your past or in your present, you can revel in thought without disturbing them or actively wondering about who they are with. This rose-tinted hurt may be your fault, as Styles also recognises, ‘I disrespected you, jumped in feet first then I landed too hard’, or theirs, but it doesn’t matter – to think about them is enough, for now.

Not only does Styles cater to the hopeless romantic, but to also the burnt-out perfectionist. In ‘Matilda’, Styles serenades everyone who carries pain with them in the day-to-day, but brushes it off. If your instinct is to say you’re fine in response to a friendly ‘how are you’, even when you’re not, you will see yourself in ‘Matilda’. His opening line plays with this conversational dismissal, ‘You were riding your bike to the sound of it’s no big deal’, and later addresses the cutting empathy that comes with loving someone who is hurting, even if they do ‘talk of the pain like it’s all alright’. ‘Matilda’ combines admiration, affection, and gentle kindness, all to show that the person who laughs off their trauma and pain is deserving of all of these things and more.

Harry Styles has come far since his One Direction days – I loved him then, and I love him now. Just as he sings in the concluding track, I too can proclaim someone the ‘love of my life’, despite not knowing them ‘half as well as all my friends’, and as I listen, I find mirrored in his longing, romantic outlook. ‘Harry’s House’ is a house of several rooms. Of screaming elation, beautiful minutia, and doomed love, all of which make for a complex and emotive listen.

Image credit: erintheredmc / CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

Irmgard Keun’s normal superwomen

Literature can offer a voice to those we thought were silenced, and give us stories to make us hope, despair, dream or cry. Usually we picture writers as deeply troubled men, locked in their rooms, writing by candlelight at night. Yet this romantic cliché might not be true. Writers can come in all forms: women dreaming of a brighter future, pretty women who want to become actresses, and women living in a claustrophobic society which allows little space for them to grow. The German writer Irmgard Keun was one of them.

I came across Keun’s name for the first time in the German syllabus for my first year at Oxford. I was intrigued by her, not only because she was the only woman writer on the list – which is striking enough – but also because while reading some of her books, I realised how her feminine characters seemed so real and challenged our own actual feminist views. Indeed, nowadays, women are seen as feminists only if they are assertive and independent as well as actively fighting against our patriarchal society. Irmgard Keun’s heroines are more nuanced; they play with gender stereotypes to get what they want, instead of fighting the system. They try to get the best of it by playing by the rules. 

Irmgard Keun was born into a German liberal middle-class family in 1905. She worked as a stenotypist and took acting classes. Her first dream was to become an actress, but she resigned herself to pursue a literary career as advised by the famous German author Alfred Döblin. Keun’s first novel Gilgi eine von uns  (1931) was an instant bestseller. Her second novel Das kunstseidene Mädchen, published a year later, was an international success and even adapted to screen. Irmgard Keun was about to have a brilliant career in the late Weimar Republic years. She was one of the main leaders of the ‘Neue Sachlichkeit’, a literary movement during these years.

However, the rise of National Socialism cut her literary aspirations short. Her books were banned and she did not receive any more money from her book sales. After divorcing her husband because of his affiliation with the Nazi party, she went into exile in the Netherlands. While she was in exile, she published several novels such as Nach Mitternacht, D-Zug Dritter Klasse, and Kinder aller Länder. She made a cinematic return back to Germany, faking her own suicide and changing her name. After the fall of National Socialism, she tried publishing other literary works, but she could never match the success she had before. She lapsed into alcoholism and poverty and finally died of lung cancer in a psychiatric ward.

Irmgard Keun’s life can be seen as a tragedy. Her talented wings were clipped by dictatorship. Surprisingly, she was rediscovered in the late 70s and her works were described as avant-garde feminist novels. But the ones who consider her female characters as bold feminists fighting against the oppressive patriarchal society surely have not understood her multi-layered and nuanced characters. The main characters of novels such as in Gilgi, eine von uns and Das kunstseidene Mädchen are young women who try to succeed in their lives on their own. They can flirt, play with gender stereotypes, use men to achieve their goals, implicitly criticise society by adopting a seemingly naive and innocent tone and much more.

Looking at some of the figures more closely, in Gilgi eine von uns, Gilgi is a young stenotypist, looking for her birth mother and trying to escape her middle-class adoptive family by living with her bohemian older boyfriend. She is struggling between her ideals of helping her friends (who have fallen into poverty because of the inflation and the rise of unemployment) and her expectations of making a better life for herself. She does this by accepting expensive gifts from men and running away to Cologne and starting a new life as a single mother. Sanna, the main character in Nach Mitternacht, considers herself a ‘wallflower’ silently observing the ones around her. She narrates the rise of Nazism by describing her acquaintances’ lives. Nonetheless, under her bubbly and naive tone, we can find implicit criticism and satire. She puts Hitler’s power and masculinity centred around military status in question by ridiculing their twisted ideals.

Irmgard Keun’s heroines are more than women fighting against men; they are women who are conscious of the prejudices they will encounter against their sex, and who will try to subvert these prejudices to their own account. They are imperfect characters who seem passive observers just as society expects them to be, yet in detail, we discover strong-minded characters who aren’t afraid of adversity and discovering the unknown. Although Irmgard Keun’s career has been shattered to pieces and therefore she is often overlooked, it is important to acknowledge her legacy.

Irmgard Keun subverts the “écriture féminine” (women’s writing) archetype. She uses the literary codes that women writers were expected to follow but she twists them into delivering a detailed political and sociological analysis of either the Weimar Republic or the early Nazi regime. Her characters often mirror romanticised features of the author’s own life. Arguably, Irmgard Keun was the main character of her own story. She liked to play with her past, pretending she was five years younger to fit her character’s age in Gilgi eine von uns

What I personally like in Irmgard Keun’s works is how nuanced her female characters are, and how imperfect and plausible they can be. Her characters not only embody a whole generation but they are also extremely modern as we often face the same challenges as those women today. Keun’s characters show us that being a woman is so much more than what men expect us to be or what feminist ideals push us to become. 

Image credit: Städel

I Am What I Eat

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I’ve heard all the jokes about how Chinese people (or Asians in general, those making the jokes rarely know the difference) eat dogs and cats, or the post-COVID variant on this theme about bats and pangolins. The insidious thing about these stereotypes is that they seem grounded in how Asian cooking can involve unusual ingredients, never mind the fact that the use of exotic animal ingredients (often claimed to have medical properties), especially the practice of dog-eating, is hotly protested and condemned in China. And yes, jokes about what foreigners eat have always existed—the British joke about the French eating frogs, the French retaliate with “les rosbifs“, and so on. But even setting aside how these comments are an easy veil for xenophobia and prejudice, a concern which the recent rise in anti-Asian hatred makes more acute, the idea of being squeamish about foreign food is something that has always baffled me.

It’s probably to do with my upbringing. I’m from Hong Kong, a city built at a cultural crossroads, as much influenced by its Chinese heritage as by its history as a British colony and the gateway for Western commerce into China. In traditional cafes throughout the city, you’ll find Chinese dishes, like wonton noodles, right next to Western imports, such as local versions of custard tarts, sweet buns, and French toast, which we stuff with peanut butter, deep-fry and drizzle with condensed milk or syrup – it’s as delicious as it sounds. And that’s before getting into other influences, like the trends we’ve adopted from Japan and Korea, which make the city’s food and culture a unique combination of differences. Hong Kong has learned to make great things out of strange ingredients: a base of Chinese culture, a dose of colonial influence, scattered international inspirations, and a healthy splash of independent spirit.

Moving away from the metaphorical, this applies quite literally to how we cook as well. Many odd ingredients in Chinese cuisine ended up in recipes because a starving peasant thought “well, this could be edible, let’s put it in the pot and see if it doesn’t kill us before starvation does”. While nobles across the world dined on juicy haunches of meat, the poor made do with organ meats, finding ways to make them edible, and eventually delicious – an art of frugality that the Chinese are thoroughly adept at. We braise chicken feet (euphemistically called “phoenix talons”) in soy sauce and rice wine, until they practically dissolve into their sticky, savoury sauce. Pig’s liver can be grainy and chewy if badly cooked. But, when gently simmered with greens, in a broth fragrant with ginger and goji berries, it has a melting tenderness and gently meaty flavour. Pigs’ ears are stewed in broth, their natural collagen thickening it and allowing them to be set into a marbled pâté. Sliced very thinly and tossed in Szechuan chilli oil, with sliced spring onions and coriander, it makes an appetiser that is crisp, chewy, and spicy – and proves that you can in fact make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

Now, I’m not surprised that these dishes aren’t widely popular. They take time to prepare and often demand a finicky attention to technique. Not everyone shares my fondness for the exotic or lacks major food dislikes either (the only foods that I actively avoid are braised daikon and boba tea – which I recognise is weird coming from someone from Hong Kong). Organ meats have a gross-out factor that makes many people unwilling to touch them, or for restaurants to serve them—you’re unlikely to see your local fast food chains putting the McChickenFoot on the menu next to nuggets and Filet-o-Fish. But with the environmental and ethical cost of meat-eating being increasingly well known, it makes sense to lessen that impact by making use of the whole animal, instead of throwing away anything that isn’t a tidy, supermarket-friendly, cut. You’ll see this inventive aversion to waste in a lot of traditional French and Italian cooking. More recently, it has been seen in the nose-to-tail cooking movement, led by chefs such as Fergus Henderson, which advocates respecting the value of every part of an animal, instead of dividing it into commodities and waste, an approach which yields utterly delicious results.

Food that not everyone likes can, paradoxically, bring people together – it offers a sense of unique identity within a cultural group. A person can say, we are the people who can appreciate extraordinarily spicy food, or Marmite, or kimchi, or fish sauce, or haggis. And I can proudly say of China that we are the people who, over the centuries, have figured out how to make great things from the most unappealing ingredients. And we in Hong Kong have learned from everything, from colonialism and Communism, and created a resilient and independent society that I am proud to be a part of.

That sense of unity, of being part of a greater we, can be something truly special. Last year, I found a Chinese noodle restaurant just down the road from my college (Tse Noodle, for those interested). This is my first year at Oxford, and when I felt like a stranger in a strange land, being able to eat familiar dishes – a bowl of spicy beef noodles, or rice with barbecued pork – was a brief, wonderful reminder of home. And, joy of joys, that restaurant served little bowls of chicken liver or sliced chicken heart, the tender meat a backdrop for a thrillingly spicy dressing of Szechuan chilli oil, spring onions, and sesame seeds. Finding a dish that I never would have expected to enjoy in the UK was a nostalgic escape…and a very amusing way to freak out friends who were more squeamish than I am.

I – like many people from Hong Kong whom I know – have mixed feelings about China, especially when it comes to politics both local and international. But one aspect of Chinese culture that I will always love and be proud of is our food. It’s a unique part of my home that globalisation can’t homogenise, a symbol of our ingenuity and thrift, and a connection to that greater we. And to those too squeamish to give this sort of thing a try, all I can say is that you can go ahead and enjoy your bland chicken breasts and mashed potatoes. I’ll spare you and your tastebuds a thought the next time I sit down to dinner.

Image credit: Pieter Claesz / Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons

“The world outside our window”: Musings on Marvel

It was recently announced that Penguin Classics would be publishing special editions of certain Marvel comic books. The comics will be part of a ‘Penguin Classics Marvel Collection’, which will present origin stories and seminal tales from characters published under the Marvel Comics brand. The decision reflects the “transformative and timeless influence on an entire genre of fantasy”, and Penguin will publish books containing tales about Captain America, Black Panther, and Spider-Man. These stories are not only attention-grabbing for their visuals, drawing on a rich tradition of American cartooning, but also reflect their contemporary cultural zeitgeist, and have influenced writers of many generations. The Penguin Classics decision marks the growing respect for comics as a medium of stories, and may herald the advent of more interesting and ambitious stories in the comic-book industry.

A short history of comic books leads you into the 1930s: they began by reprinting newspaper strips, but soon, they were featuring their own content. In 1938, the world’s first superhero was debuted: Superman in Action Comics #1. At the time, the comic book format was seen as less prestigious than the strip, so it took a few years for the superheroes to grace the back of a newspaper.

For Stan Lee, the leading creative behind Marvel Comics, “Marvel has always been and always will be a reflection of the world right outside our window”. In the period following the advent of the superhero, the Second World War was on the mind of many comic book writers. Captain America was introduced in 1941 on the cover of his very own book with an illustration of him punching Adolf Hitler, while in 1945, Batman #26 contained  a story of a futuristic Batman and Robin fighting against an alien fascist called “Fura”, which sounds suspiciously like ‘führer’. Stan Lee’s creation of the X-Men in 1963 was, to him, a “good metaphor for what was happening with the civil rights movement in the country at the time”. In 1966, racial equality took an even more prominent place in his comics with the creation of Black Panther. 

More recently, comics have begun to try and reflect wider experiences in modern America. The X-Men became a symbol for the struggles of the LGBTQ+ experience, with a story in the 90s about the “Legacy virus” being a direct parallel to AIDS epidemic. Miles Morales, a black Hispanic teenager, is the new Spider-Man, while Kamala Khan, a Muslim student from New Jersey, is a new superhero, with her own tv show coming soon. Over at DC Comics, the introduction of Jessica Cruz as a superhero was an attempt by writers to capture the experience of having anxiety.  

Of course, in reflecting the cultural moment, these comics have sometimes mis-stepped in their presentations, such as Chinese villains produced in 1937 caricaturing the “Yellow Peril”. Depictions of women have also been somewhat lacking – as writer Gail Simone noticed, “it’s not healthy to be a female character in comics”. They were often subject to far greater violence than male counterparts, and often purely for the sake of a male character’s development. For example, Gwen Stacey was thrown off a bridge to anger Spider-Man, and Green Lantern’s love interest Alexandra DeWitt was stuffed into a fridge as a form of vengeance against the hero. In Wonder Woman we can see here most closely Georgia Higley’s statement that comics are a “reflection of the good and the bad of our society”. During the 1950s, Wonder Woman constantly found herself bound and shackled (since the head writer for the character felt that women enjoy submission), and her problems revolved around marriage and love. However, by the 70s, she became a symbol for feminism: she displayed “strength and self-reliance for women; sisterhood and mutual support among women; peacefulness and esteem for human life”. The creation of the Penguin Classics Marvel Collection has a chance to capture these reflections – these comics represent how people have thought over the years, and how values have changed and evolved across the decades.

The collection also reflects the influence of comics on wider media. Margaret Atwood and Stephen King turned their hands to comic books recently, while 2002’s critically acclaimed film Road to Perdition was based on a graphic novel. Countless other films have spawned from the pages of comics books – for better or for worse, the influence of comic books on the film industry is unmistakable. As the books published by Penguin Classics inspired subsequent literary culture, these comics have pervaded modern pop culture to the extent that jokes about Superman’s secret identity are commonplace, and Spider-Man made  it to Broadway.Ultimately, what the decision to create the collection represents is the recognition of the comic book not as a genre, but as a medium. Of course, when the comic book came out originally, they were generally aimed at children. However, over time, the medium has evolved. We started with a fantastical man from space who could leap tall buildings in a single bound; now, comics test boundaries and ideologies, with Civil War discussing notions of freedom and responsibility pitted against each other in the model of a Greek tragedy. Ta-Nehisi Coates explores the consequences of colonialism and social divisions in Black Panther: A Nation Under our Feet, and Spider-Man confronts human struggles, such as the grief that plagues his life in costume in No One Dies. Perhaps these comics are not on the level of Dostoyevskian classics, but they are their own unique achievements in story-telling, and their own cultural touchstones that deserve their place in the great literary canon.

Image credit: Keren Fedida via Unsplash

Ten years of the Dark Knight trilogy

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It’s been ten years since the trilogy that shaped my entire life came out. This morning, I rolled out of bed, put on my Batman t-shirt, and then flicked through my Batman encyclopaedia. I then put on my favourite scene from The Dark Knight (the ending), before casually glancing at my Batman poster put up on my wall. I realise, I am sick of Batman films.

The Dark Knight trilogy is lauded not just for the acting, dialogue, and score (which are best appreciated within the context of movies themselves), but also for its deeper exploration of themes, and character. But in the wake of arguably the greatest superhero trilogy, both the successes and the weaknesses of the trilogy lead only to the conclusion that it is time to put the Batman away.

Alongside Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man trilogy, Nolan proved that superhero films could be more than just action sequences strung together; the trilogy is an attempt at serious exploration of character and themes. Starting with character, we have a clear character arc across the trilogy as Batman/Bruce Wayne fuse together and are broken apart. Batman starts as the manifestation of Bruce Wayne’s fears as a child, returning to Gotham to continue his parents’ war on poverty in Gotham. At the end of the film, from the words of his love interest, Rachel, it becomes clear that “[Bruce], the man who vanished, he never came back at all”. His persona as Bruce Wayne was merely an act, supporting his life as Batman. 

In the second film, his choices as Bruce Wayne consumes his life as Batman, when it is his love for Rachel that causes him to choose to save her and not Harvey Dent, inadvertently creating the villain Two-Face. And at the end of the Dark Knight, when the Batman must disappear for the sake of Gotham, Bruce Wayne, too, vanishes. In his mind, the two are shown to be one. In the conclusion of the trilogy, we see the gradual process of separation between the two. He starts the film only living as Bruce Wayne to fulfil his function as Batman; but he sees the impact of what has happened through him neglecting his life as Bruce Wayne (such as the underfunding of the city’s orphanages). Similarly, his interactions with Alfred make him realise that Batman and Bruce Wayne do not need to be one and the same. So, at the close of the film, when Batman has given his life to the city, in the words of Jim Gordon, everyone knows that Batman has saved them, while Bruce Wayne is free to live his life peacefully with Selina Kyle. The trilogy explores the distance between the billionaire and the vigilante, giving a full and complete character arc to the hero that, in my opinion, has not been rivalled since.

Other more recent interpretations of Batman have struggled to come up with anything as compelling and innovative. Snyder’s version adopted the arc of recovery from despair for Batman. While this version has its own flaws (such as the hypocrisy involved with Batman’s killing of criminals, but not of his enemies), it borrows from the Dark Knight trilogy in its fusion of Batman and Bruce Wayne, but it does not do much more with it. The recovery of Batman’s mental state is also interesting, in the way that Superman inspires Batman. However, it is not nearly as effective as Nolan’s version because, for Snyder, Batman is a supporting character in Superman’s struggle to be a symbol of hope.

Reeves’s version of the character focusses on the also focusses on the separation of Batman and Bruce Wayne, and the establishment of Batman as a force for hope, and not just vengeance. The issue here is subtler. Admittedly, while it draws on the same motifs as the Dark Knight trilogy, particularly Batman understanding the depths of the problems in Gotham, and his realisation that he can be a source of hope, there is space for further development in future films. But the very fact that it has had to go back over the same ground of the Dark Knight trilogy is not promising for further iterations of the character. The best compliment for the deleted scene from Reeves’s movie, in which the Batman interrogates the Joker, is specifically that it gets the dynamic ‘“right’”, not that it is interesting or innovative. One of the most effective aspects of the Dark Knight was the relationship between Batman and the Joker (and Heath Ledger’s performance), but subsequent versions of this dynamic hadhave to start by treading along the same ground.

Treading along the same ground is not necessarily a negative thing. In doing so, there is opportunity to adapt and innovate, such as exploring the concept of Batman’s no-killing rule against the context of a broken, desperate Batman, or further exploration of Gotham as a city against the backdrop of Bruce Wayne’s inseparability from Batman, as in Matt Reeves’s version. Both of these new iterations build upon the groundwork laid by the Dark Knight trilogy.

The Dark Knight trilogy also proved that superhero films could also be serious, unlike the rather camp previous, rather camp interpretations of Batman, or even Spider-Man. So, Man of Steel was greenlit, and Zack Snyder was allowed to offer a gritty version of Superman. Arguably, Zack Snyder’s universe has been too ‘“dark’”, but Christopher Nolan proved that it could work.

However, the serious tone of the Nolan’s version raises political issues that Snyder and Reeves have failed to solve. Though the Dark Knight trilogy questions US intervention into its citizens’ lives, and the nature of retaliation against terrorism, or how Heath Ledger’s Joker represents anarchy and the breakdown of government, it does not deal with extra-judicial brutality by supposed upholders of justice. Batman v Superman glorifies the violence in its action sequences, and the deaths he causes, for instance like in the warehouse scene, where Batman brutally attacks a group of henchmen, seemingly abandoning his code of not killing. 

The Dark Knight trilogy’s depiction of the relationship between the police and Batman is equally problematic. While police corruption is an important aspect of the plot in the first two films, the problem is reduced to the actions of a few individuals, rather than the result of institutional corruption. Jim Gordon is depicted as the one good man who can help fix the system. He and Batman work together to take down other corrupt police officers and city officials. While his character is human and compelling, he is a product of a story written in 1987, when it was a more tenable position that one principled man would be enough of a salve to fix the police force. The Batman keeps the fundamental dynamic between Gordon and Batman from the Dark Knight trilogy, but it fails to address the reality of judicial corruption in 2022. Though the film extends discussions of institutional corruption and privilege, its focus on the ideals of heroic police characters and ‘good men’ fails to evolve the characters in a meaningful way for the current climate. 

Christopher Nolan and Christian Bale, and the rest of the cast, in proving that superhero films could be serious, reached the zenith of the depiction of the Batman. They provided a full character arc with a rich depth of themes. Yes, there may be further angles to take and stories to tell, as Matt Reeves and Zack Snyder have tried. But they could not they cannot solve the problems raised by Nolan, such as tackling corruption. And they have failed to reboot the character in a fundamentally new way.

So, 10 years on from the Dark Knight trilogy, I wonder, perhaps it is time to stop trying, and move onto someone else. Maybe Booster Gold?

Image credit: brian donovan / CC BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

Convibrating bed

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All further references can be found in Chapter 16, ‘The Raphael Transcriptions’, of Danis Rose’s ‘The Textual Diaries of James Joyce’.

James was particularly agitated today. Since the release of his little book – or, at least, that’s what she liked to call it, because, as she kept reminding him, it had first come out in The Little Review – he had been stuck short of a cliff edge that was giving him lip and making it awfully difficult to climb back to the height he had been at before. Without much rhyme or reason (much like the critics had been saying about the snippets of his work in progress he had floated to press), he huffed over library books, scribbling out snatches in his notebook before thrusting the works away from him as if they smelled of barge-water. Then, he would go to work squinting at those words he had planted there mere moments ago. While he had taken to wearing white suits to reflect light onto the paper, while he had published ‘the book of the century’, while the seeds of his legacy were already sprouting, while he was a genius, he was a genius that could not read his own handwriting.

Late in 1933, Madame France Raphael, a Parisienne, began work as James Joyce’s amanuensis. It was her task to prepare for him clean, readable transcriptions of the uncrossed and therefore unused entries in those primary, authorially inscribed notebooks given to her.

Raph had just stepped inside the door, holding onto the doorknob, threshold-bound, trying – and busting a lip in the process – not to laugh. He reminded her of Étienne, her little boy, when he was trying to spell; there was a dotty playfulness to James that made her wish to wipe his nose. He was having a tough day – a tough day, creatively. He would need cheering up. She was handing in her latest transcribed notebook.

She had grown to snatching them from him, and should he try and tell her what to do, giving him a piece of her mind. If she was in a rush – there were children to chaperone, meals to cook, husbands to feed (because apparently husbands could not feed themselves) – she would not wait at the door, a lingering lily, peace-bound, but push in, busy and darling, taking the notebook and plopping it into her grocery bag where it mixed with the tomatoes and bell-peppers. The first time she leaned over his shoulder to take it, the image that came to her was of a mother leaning over a small child to cut their meat.

They had been performing this contract for two years. Walking to pick the children up from school one day, she had heard an artist’s groan from a window above the street, some little god deciding which struts of furniture he would rearrange into thunder. The neighbours were only too proud to tell her that they were housing him.

‘James who?’ she asked, a poppy kind of kid. Despite her terrible habit of being very appeasing, she could still have fun.

Offering herself like meat, or a sacrifice to become meat – thinking about the price of meat these days – she slid a note under his door. The next day, a small envelope through her letter box, a humble offer to join the choo-choo train of posterity:

Dear Mrs Raphael,

Many thanks

for your kind offer

of assistance and I

hope it may

lead to a good result.

The note was underwhelming; she was expecting – from a genius – at least a pun. But he sent another note the following day that smelled like whining and made her speak more softly to the dog her children had asked for. And she had been there, a magnet-woman, without much on her mind other than the single-leafed paycheck.

In an ideal world, Madame Raphael would have accurately transcribed into her copy all of the unused material in the source notebooks. This did not happen, of course; errors of transmission and omission arose in all possible ways.

She was very dutiful at first. The position was a good one and she did not want to lose it. Étienne had recently had a tooth removed, and she calculated how much the dentist would cost as she wrote James’s words into the new notebooks in her loopy lolly handwriting that her eye-wandering schoolmasters had beaten into her. Sometimes: yes, she became distracted. But she would always correct the mistakes that were unintentional. Only later would she indulge herself with intentional mistakes, thinking how far the shade of her pen could stretch, how many years it could umbrella.

Raph was not a bitter woman, no more than pepper blots the eyes or lemon the ears. She had a husband and tired hands. She had three children with mouths like sirens. She had to labour merely to stay awake. These were her leisure hours at work, the only hours clocked into payment, escaping the scary unclocked-clockness of all other time. With James’s notebooks, she was neither mother, wife, nor woman, but a set of hands, a duct transporting words to paper and to thereafter’s ever eternity. Here she was an instrument – corrupt and ducky – but an instrument and nothing else, nonetheless.

There was a hiatus in the transcriptions from the spring of 1934 to early 1935, presumably because she had been injured in an automobile accident.

She had been like both the birds hit by a stone. A slam, then a dunk – first the metal bonnet and then the tarmac road. She rolled, and her backside went careening into a fruit stand, pelting her with oranges. No one would believe it, not even if you wrote it down. James had sent a wire to the Raphael apartment that morning with

Come quickly!

and she heltered across the city, considering the worst, knowing the reality – a rush for press, possibly.

In the hospital, Raph woke up not remembering how to wake up – slowly, with too much grog in her eyes. James was reluctant to give her leave. He said he would find someone else for now, but it was really most inconvenient. He meant well, but he was also mean. He was kind, but kind of rude too. She lied in bed, wondering what colour the ceiling was. Her eyes swam yellow. He did not send flowers. She remembered his words in her head – those odd jottings that seemed to live inside her like hundreds of embryos – and wondered if she would ever be remembered as the novel’s incubator.

Stood outside Étienne’s school, a walking stick keeping her upright, scars pulsing like radiators in her forehead, the creased note from James in her hand asking her,

If, Madame,

you could possibly start your transcriptions again,

she decided she did not like James very much. She would have her way with him.

‘Don’t go back,’ Monsieur Raphael said that evening.

‘It’s good money.’

‘If you dislike him that much, don’t go back. He doesn’t appreciate what you do for him, for his work… he didn’t even send you flowers.’

‘I don’t care about flowers.’

Monsieur shrugged. She would have said, I don’t care about flowers, because flowers wilt and die. I would have preferred seeds. But the conversation ended and he did not ask. Monsieur went to the living room to read the newspaper while she cooked dinner and Étienne cried about dead chickens and she conversed with the little girls about which hairbrush they wanted to marry.

Raph went back to work, not at all syphoned off fizz. She went back with alteration on her mind. The world had almost wiped her from the surface like a crumb. But she had stayed – and with a newfound hobby of thinking herself overly significant (near-death experiences will do that to a middle-aged woman) – to do one thing: redirect the flow of his genius.

She played dumb, as others play dead – squinting, tongue-stuck, over the pages. She had the upper hand, because she was the hand. The Wake was in her hands, and she, the disembodied hand, had a disembodied mind that thought of Étienne, of meat, of dentists, of notes and puns and prunes.

Those inventions, which Madame France Raphael, straining to read, plucked as it were out of the blue, thereby unknowingly contributing to James Joyce’s masterpiece.

James, straining to read, plucked, as it were, out of the blue, discombobulates of language to add to his masterpiece.

Meanwhile, Raph composed. Raph translated. Raph worked.

James played in the corner.

She deciphered his perfection into unruliness. She planted seeds among his words that she imagined might spring many years later. James was a real piece of work, and she worked his notes to pieces.

He would not tell her to stop.

He sought to restore the lost sense of manifestly defective elements.

‘I know you’re changing them,’ he would say.

‘Good.’

‘I won’t change them back.’

Any plan to subvert, to ruin, to defunct the Wake out of spite, had not gone unnoticed – and it had not worked. She saw these brags disseminated among his writing, lost forever; no one would know they were hers. James loved the inventive interventions, and these little Raphs – as he called them – gave him the inspiration to go on. They had an agreement now. Her legacy was his ability to write a single world. She was the dock that spat his boats into the world.

Some of Madame Raphael’s inventions are exotic creatures whose prototypes could not be guessed at by even the most inspired of reconstructionists.

Raph had spent the previous night staring down at James’s exotic disaster:

^c on vibrating bed

It was not difficult to read, because nonsense should make no sense at all. Something to do with one of his characters, a comment extracted from that book on sleep, the one with a garish turquoise cover the colour of fresh corpses.

She glanced at the bed of Madame and Monsieur Raphael. It was mid-evening, with pricky stars picking up the black sky. Her husband was using the study, and she was yet to clear the dinner table, which meant she was working at the little desk in the corner of their bedroom. James had requested the transcription for this particular notebook by tomorrow. Étienne screamed with his sisters in the other room. She looked at her hand, lying in her lap like a dead fish, before picking it up to write,

Convibrating bed

Neither here nor there, flitting out of existence and back into it, neither past nor future, true nor false, with her always and always fluttering away – a bed, convibrating. A flower-bed pulsating with sprout-gone seeds. She bedded herself convibratingly every night, jimmering with nerves about how to manage a family and feed it and cook for it without cooking it altogether. She jimmered until there was nothing left of her at all. She fed her worries about feeding into the word, pressing something onward. It meant nothing and it meant everything. It meant her word. The latest piece of her mind tumbled onto the paper. And it was beautiful, like chestnut-cherry jam.

He took Raphael’s innocent-looking but erroneous element at face value and transferred it uncorrected into his text.

Finally, tired of watching him squint – and just plain tired – Raph let go of the doorknob and chucked the newly transcribed notebook onto his desk. He flicked through eagerly, a boy with the latest comic, pausing on convibrating bed.

‘I like that one.’ He had been salved, calmed, eased. Her odd creature jostled him forward. Because of her, he would continue writing today.

‘Of course you do.’ She moved to the window, smoking with a limp wrist, as if trying to be a muse.

‘I think I’ll put that one here.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Where do you think?’

She came and looked over his shoulder.

‘There.’

He nodded.

‘Good idea.’

Joyce looked at the transcribed unit, appreciated that it was botched beyond recall and gave up.

‘I  could include your name. In acknowledgements, or perhaps a dedication.’

‘Don’t make me laugh, James.’

‘I’ve never seen you laugh.’

‘I make others laugh. That’s my job.’

She looked out of the window. What would Monsieur say? Of their convibrating bed? What good of it but the suggestion of a scandal? James and Raph in a convibrating bed. The only thing remaining was to decide how history would have its way with her: obscurity or mistress. These were her choices, and both made her want to swallow ash, deep down into her guts.

‘Don’t be silly. You’d never want to pollute your genius with another’s influence.’

‘That’s true,’ he thought aloud. ‘I didn’t want to, not at all. Just thought I’d offer.’

‘I don’t know why. Posterity won’t know you offered.’

He turned back to the desk, humming a melody from Wagner.

‘Alright, Raph, have it your way.’

James’s temperamental wife pushed open the door with her backside and put a tea tray down on his desk. Raph shared a smile with her, as beggars share a piece of bread. James did not acknowledge his wife’s entry, nor the tea she had brought. He simply kept on writing.

Author’s Note

We know very little about Madame France Raphael, a secretary living in Paris and James Joyce’s amanuensis intermittently from 1933 until 1937. During the composition of Finnegans Wake (1939), she transcribed 37 notebooks filled with his illegible handwriting. These were often from unusual and difficult sources, such as Morpheus or the Future of Sleep by D. S. Fraser-Harris. While Joyce’s legacy is, of course, Ulysses, Madame Raphael’s are these series of so-called ‘mistakes’ which occurred in her transcriptions. ‘Convibrating bed’ results from Joyce’s coded note which suggests the character designated by ‘^’ is lying on a ‘vibrating bed’, something from Fraser-Harris’s book. This ‘distortion’ survives into Book II Episode 4 of Finnegans Wake as ‘convibrational bed’. Instead of considering these interventions as errors, as scholars have dismissed them in the past, this story re-imagines their moment of creation, the circumstances Madame Raphael was working in, and the odd legacy left by her ‘little Raphs’.

Image Credit: Ole Fossgård/ CC BY-NC-SA 4.0


Cecil Jackson-Cole: The first Philanthrocapitalist

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For his latest column Thomas Bristow tells the story of the Oxonian who founded Oxfam.

Image Description: Oxfam on Broad Street

As far as charity shops go, Oxfam is perhaps the most famous. You can usually find some quite good things in their shops, and nearly every town has one, including my own small town back home. As a student, they can be a saving grace when searching for hideous bop costumes or more sustainable clothing in general. Perhaps it’s the eclectic nature of charity shops that we find so appealing. But if you had already guessed that Oxfam is somehow related to Oxford, then congratulations, your Nobel Prize is in the post. But more seriously, commemorated by a plaque of its own is Number 17 on Broad Street – the original Oxfam. Along with Italiamo, various Harry Potter shops and the unfortunately named Cambridge Satchel Company, it is a staple of the Broad Street frontage, but there is another plaque on the building, and this one just happens to be blue. It reads; ‘Cecil Jackson-Cole 1901-1979 Entrepreneur and Philanthropist helped establish the first Oxfam Shop and office here in 1947’. This then, is the story behind the man who helped begin a world-wide charity to alleviate poverty, and one which gives us access to many classic books for low prices. 

Cecil Jackson-Cole was born on the 1st of November 1901 in Forest Gate, East London to Albert Edward Cole and Nellie Catherine Jackson. He spent his childhood constantly moving around and never spent much time at the schools he attended. In 1911, the family were living in Grays in Essex, where Albert worked as a shoe dealer and Nellie was a China and Glass merchant. The family moved again, and Cecil left education at the age of 13 to work as an Office Boy, which he subsequently left in 1918. After the war, he became the manager of his father’s furniture and letting business, and eventually bought him out with his savings. In 1928, Cecil enrolled at Balliol College to study Economics and improve his business acumen. Aptly, Balliol is of course located directly opposite where Cecil was to found his first Oxfam. 

By his early 30s, Cecil was beginning to feel the physical effects of the tough economic times, and he entered a nursing home for a short while. Afterwards, he relocated his business interests to Oxford and lived just outside the city in Boar’s Hill. Here his neighbour was the Classical scholar Gilbert Murray, who was a member of a support group for the National Famine Relief Committee. This had been set up in 1942 in order to advocate for the Greek people who were suffering starvation from wartime blockading. In 1942 Cecil offered to be the Honorary Secretary of Gilbert’s subsidiary support group, the Oxford Committee for Famine Relief. This was the original seed from which a global initiative was to develop.

At the end of the war, famine relief committees eventually disbanded, but Cecil saw a future for their work within post-war Europe. In 1948, it was decided that the successful fundraising of the charity could be scaled up. Jackson-Cole was a firm believer that business should involve charity, and for the next five years he was instrumental in the expansion of Oxfam. During the 1950s, BBC Radio appeals increased the presence of Oxfam in the public sphere. Cecil retained interest in the charity until his death in 1979, by which time it had far exceeded the borders of even Oxfordshire. Autonomous Oxfams had been set up in Canada, the United States and Belgium. Today however, it is a confederation of 21 charities, with its headquarters in Nairobi. Oxfam has even become the largest retailer of second-hand books in Europe, with around 100 shops selling everything from pamphlets to rare first editions. Though it is disputed, Oxfam themselves claim that the Broad Street shop was the UK’s first ever charity shop. 

Aside from Oxfam, Cecil Jackson-Cole founded many other trusts and charities such as Action Aid in 1972, to provide disadvantaged children with education. He had a pragmatic vision which pioneered modern philanthropism by effecting social change in a business-like way. It is a testament to his effectiveness that most of the organisations he founded are still around today.

Image Credit: Chris McAuley

The Smile’s “slightly crazed and uncertain landscape”

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Imagine if John Lennon and Paul McCartney had reunited without Ringo Starr and George Harrison and made an album six years after Let It Be. It would have been both very confusing for fans of the Beatles, and very difficult not to measure their new album against the immense heights of Revolver or Sgt. Pepper. For fans of Radiohead, that is not wholly unlike what’s happening with The Smile’s first album, A Light for Attracting Attention. The Smile consists of Radiohead’s two most creative talents, Thom Yorke and Jonny Greenwood, plus jazz drummer Tom Skinner, minus the rhythm section of the band, Phil Selway and Colin Greenwood, and guitarist Ed O’Brien. It’s tempting to compare this album to Radiohead and find it wanting. There is little as epochal as OK Computer, as vibrant as Hail to the Thief, or as delicately moving as A Moon Shaped Pool here. But I will try to keep such comparisons to a minimum. The Smile is not Radiohead; they have a new name, a new line-up, and appear to see themselves to be doing something artistically different (even if some of their songs began life as Radiohead songs).

Despite no less than five singles being released before the album, what in my view are the standout songs of the album, The Same and We Don’t Know What Tomorrow Brings, were not among them. The former opens the album with a synth pulsing into view, slowly augmented by an array of electronic pitter-patters. Its sound is atypical of the rest of the album, but is also an excellent introduction. It takes you by the hand into the slightly crazed and uncertain landscape in which the rest of the album unfolds, somewhere between heaven and a bewitched forest, between all-embracing radiance and the uneasy sense that you are being played.

The Same sounds like a rallying cry for a popular movement: ‘People in the streets, please, people in the streets’ Yorke implores. ‘We all want the same’ morphs into ‘we are all the same’ – a realisation of the shared, fallen nature of humanity? A plea for peace – ‘We don’t need to fight’? Or a call for moral integrity – ‘Look towards the light, grab it with both hands, what you know is right’? Perhaps all of these things. The way the song ends on an abrupt and disconcertingly harsh note suggests prospects are a little bleak. Bleakness is certainly found in other parts of the album, such as Open the Floodgates, but, as so often in Yorke’s work, glimpses of optimism, beauty and a yearning for the good splinter the murk and the gloom.

We Don’t Know what Tomorrow Brings and You Will Never Work in Television Again have a rawness and fervour not seen since 2007’s Bodysnatchers, though Yorke is even more growly here. We Don’t Know what Tomorrow Brings, in amongst simmering, menacing rumbles from the synth that embolden the guitar scuttling above it, sketches creative struggles: ‘I’m stuck in a rut, in a flatland drainage ditch, and I’m drowning in irrelevance’. Given the number of high-calibre songs on this album, I can’t imagine this was a musical rut. Some themes are returned to, and stylistic throwbacks are made to Yorke and Greenwood’s previous work, but the sound could not be confused, really, for Radiohead. The album has too many punk, and sometimes funk (e.g. The Opposite), elements for that, although there remain great swells from string and horn arrangements, probably Jonny’s influence, that lift songs into higher, fragile realms more in the manner of later Radiohead albums. And of course, there is much noodling from Jonny’s guitar, but somehow it sits more prominently on the surface of these songs than is usually the case.  

In Free in the Knowledge these surging strings grow from the electronic undergrowth, accompanied by another terrific vocal performance from Yorke, which reminds me of 2009’s Harry Patch (In Memory Of). I think this song has some very evocative lines: ‘Free in the knowledge, that one day this will end’ leaves me wondering what it would mean to feel free in this knowledge, and if we ever really come to know, or appreciate, this at all. Likewise, ‘this was just a bad moment, we were fumbling around’, makes me think of the difficulty of knowing what’s a bad moment, and what is just bad. Yorke’s lyrics have always been thought-provoking, and those on this album are as engaging as any he has written.

Skrting on the Surface is also a contemplation on life’s finitude. ‘We have only to dive, then we’re out of here; we’re just skirting on the surface’ Yorke sings. Thin Thing, meanwhile, bubbles along until you’re hit by a wall of guitar, atop which you’re left anxiously balanced, wondering where the song is taking you next. I’ve found that, as so often with Radiohead, it takes quite a few listens to get under the skin of these songs, to know what they’re about, and let them say something to you. A song like Speech Bubbles seems at first so ethereal, so tender as to barely be there. But it grows and grows, as the song goes on and with each listen, and it emerges as a warm, woollen blanket wrapped between you and the icy world of which it speaks sinister tales. ‘Our city’s a-flame, the bells ringing … Never any place to put my feet back down … Any feeble branch to put my weight upon’. It is heartfelt and deeply moving.

Not all the songs are as successful. I find The Smoke fairly monotonous and uncomfortably restricted (as though you are stuck in a smoky 1970s waiting room, which may be the point), although the second half does become more expansive. A Hairdryer is also perhaps a bit too contorted for its own good. These would have made excellent B-sides.  The very concept of The Smile is a little confusing for fans of Radiohead and Yorke. Is The Smile just a lockdown project brought about by Thom and Jonny’s desire to write music and the reluctance or time commitments of the other Radiohead members? Or has Radiohead quietly become a legacy act, and The Smile its successor band? I expect we’ll find out in the next few years. Until then, we at least have a new album which is very worthy, for the most part, on its own merits. 

Image credit: Raph_PH / CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

Sonnet for Foxe by Anna Cowan and Ruth Port

Dear Foxe I sing a song of love to you,

Whose shell shines like the half compass of heaven,

My beloved Foxe, take this to be true:

We’ll cheer you through the race so loud it deafens.

Our college mascot, our own strong brave knight,

In plated armour, olive carapace,

A crown of laurel, for winning of all fights,

Ringed in golden light, primed for the race:

He’ll race to victory as if with wings,

Speeding through the grass; a blaze of glory

All other tortoises his praises sing,

And down the ancient ages rings his story.

The vanquished hare weeps in his dark burrow,

As Foxe the Tortoise leads us to tomorrow!


Photo of Foxe by Maeve Ewing.