Thursday, May 8, 2025
Blog Page 877

Pop is dead—long live pop!

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All hail the great and glorious Ed Sheeran! The singer’s latest album, ÷ (pronounced Divide), is continuing to smash chart records across the board since its release on 3rd March 2017. In its first week of release, Sheeran claimed nine out of the top ten spots in the UK Charts simultaneously. (The previous record had been held by The Beatles, who in 1964 occupied four out of the top ten spots at the same time.) Even more incredibly, all 16 of ÷’s tracks entered the UK Top 20 on the album’s release—and Sheeran’s success has by no means been limited to the UK, as ÷ continues to break records in the US and Australia as well. Who would have guessed that the 21st Century’s King of Pop would turn out to be a scruffy, ginger-haired guy in a hoody? The album is now the third-highest-selling album of all time for first week of sales—only Adele’s 25 and Oasis’s Be Here Now sold more in their first seven days of release.

Sheeran should obviously be congratulated: his success is significant, and down to a winning combination of easy pop melodies, slick production, and, crucially, clever branding. His sweeping domination of the charts is all the more impressive when you consider that the previous record-holders, The Beatles, dominated the Top 10 in 1964 because their previous singles were still selling as they released new ones. Sheeran, by contrast, dominates the charts through songs that are all from the same album.

Yet Sheeran would be the first to admit that his record-breaking success is not all that it seems. Since 2014, the charts have changed to include streaming in their figures—and the result has been a steadily increasing stasis and homogeneity in the top spots. While 2014 had 42 songs reach no. 1, 2015 had only 26, and 2016 only 11. The first six months of 2006 saw 230 new entries to the UK Top 100, whilst the first six months of 2016 saw only 86. In a recent interview with BBC Radio 1, Sheeran claimed: “I don’t know if there’s some weird thing that Spotify and Apple Music are going to have to change now. I never expected to have nine songs in the Top 10 in my life. I don’t know if something’s gone wrong but I’m definitely very, very happy about it.”

Others are less happy. Justin Hawkins, frontman of rock band The Darkness, was blunt in an interview with News Corps Australia, saying: ‘That just means the system’s broken… Everyone knows Ed Sheeran is great and is selling loads of records, but imagine listening to the Top 40 rundown on the radio on a Sunday like you used to as a kid and you have to listen to the whole Ed Sheeran album. It’s totally ridiculous. The system is broken and they have to mend it’. The problem continues to intensify despite repeated adjustments to the formula used to calculate the charts—whereas previously 100 streams had counted as a single ‘sale’ for the calculation of the UK Charts, the formula was upped to 150:1 in January 2017 (apparently to little effect). Australia, which has an even higher ratio of 175:1, has also seen records smashed and chart positions hoarded by the Unstoppable Ed.

So—what’s up with streaming? The Official Charts Company (OCC) was clearly right to start including streaming figures in their calculations in 2014. As physical and digital music sales both continue to decline, streaming is now the single source of hope for the music industry. Due to the rise of streaming, the industry has enjoyed two consecutive years of growth since 2015, arresting a long period of declining profits triggered by Napster’s demolition of the existing model in 1999 and the advent of online piracy. As Spotify, Apple Music and others continue to attract new users, the importance of streaming as a means of music consumption will only continue to grow.

The issue is that consumers stream music very differently to the way in which they buy (or in any case, used to buy) music. In the past, a Queen fan (for example) might have bought a single and listened to it several times in the few weeks after buying it. A hardcore fan might have listened to it many more times, but, regardless, the two purchases were counted equally from the point of view of the OCC. With streaming, however, the picture changes. Your modern-day Ed Sheeran fanatic might have listened to ÷ non-stop for the past two weeks without making a single purchase, instead listening to his music through Spotify’s free service or through YouTube. Crucially, though, their continued listening means that Sheeran’s album is still making an impact on the charts weeks after the album’s release, even if no additional people are in fact listening to the album. The streaming of music is a far more trivial decision than the purchasing of music—since streaming costs so much less, and can cost nothing at all, a consumer need not be particularly enthusiastic to stream a track. Paradoxically, however, since the inclusion of streaming the charts have only appeared to indicate new heights of enthusiasm among consumers, since artists remain at no. 1 for much longer than they used to.

In many ways, the new-look music charts actually reflect people’s listening habits far better than they used to. Drake’s One Dance spent 15 weeks at No. 1 in the 2016 Album Charts, despite only ‘outselling’ (physically and digitally) the competition for the first three weeks of that period. Far from being meaningless, that tells us that people were still listening to the album (for some reason) well after it was released.

But the shifting nature of the charts presents multiple problems for new and up-and-coming artists. The first is that the inclusion of streaming figures in the charts acts as a ‘multiplier effect’ to the prominence of superstars such as Sheeran in the charts, meaning they occupy the top spots for weeks on end. The second is that the inclusion of album tracks as well as songs selected as ‘singles’ means that an extremely successful album such as ÷ leaves little space for new artists to enter the charts. The issue is compounded by the way in which consumers often access music on Spotify and the like—those listening to Spotify’s ‘Top 50’ playlist will only cement the positions current Top 50 even more.

If new artists are crowded out from entering the charts, they will find it even more difficult to make a name for themselves—and the new dynamics of the music industry have meant life is already much more difficult for new and unfamiliar acts. The advent of streaming has been wonderful for new artists in some ways, as their music can quickly spread to a large audience without that audience paying for it. Yet unless a small artist gets big quick à la Sheeran, the new model can make life very difficult for new performers: the pittance paid per stream adds up to a sizeable amount for artists with a large, secure audience and hefty back catalogue, yet provides insignificant revenue for acts still making a name for themselves. (The formula determining how much an artist is paid per individual stream is hugely complicated, meaning that it can vary wildly from artist to artist and from month to month—but for a ballpark figure, a January 2017 study by rights-awareness group The Trichordist reckoned on an average payment of $0.00437 per Spotify stream. Apple Music and other pay more, but make up far smaller proportions of the market.)

The new-look charts contain other distortions, as well. Although Spotify have managed to gain access to most back catalogues by now, artists such as Taylor Swift and Radiohead still resist putting their music on streaming services. Taylor Swift has argued that “music is art, and art is important and rare”, that “important, rare things are valuable” and that “valuable things should be paid for’” thus concluding that music should never be free. Thom Yorke of Radiohead was characteristically blunter in his description of Spotify as “the last fart of a dying corpse.” Yet while both artists may well have sincere objections to the ethics of the new model, the reality is that they also know that they can gain more revenue by withholding (at least initially) their music from streaming services. Both Taylor Swift and Radiohead have fan bases committed enough that fans will buy their music through more lucrative, more traditional channels if they cannot stream. Thus, Taylor Swift is nowhere to be found on Spotify, Radiohead’s A Moon Shaped Pool and Adele’s 25 were both sales-only for a time, and of the streaming platforms, Beyoncé’s Lemonade is exclusively on Tidal. This makes financial sense—yet means that these artists end up underrepresented on the charts, since the limited streaming of their music over the initial period after release means they cannot enjoy an equivalent to the ‘Sheeran surge’ of 2017.

The charts, then, are seriously dysfunctional in their current form—and the problem cannot be fixed by simply continuing to adjust arbitrarily the formula by which streams are registered as ‘sales’. Various, more radical, solutions have been proposed—one is a cap on individual users, so that only the first ten streams of a song (for example) by any one user count towards that song’s chart placement. Another—favoured by Justin Hawkins—would be to say that each artist could only feature a certain number of songs from each album in the singles chart (but the disadvantage of this is that it would conceal the extent to which ‘album tracks’ are listened to). Spotify et al. can help, too, by finding ways to improve their financial model for smaller artists, and by actively working to improve the representation of new artists in their increasingly popular curated playlists. (The situation is complicated to an extent by the fact that Spotify, despite rising revenues, has its hands tied somewhat since it has yet to make a profit.)

Yet the fading relevance of the charts predates streaming—the BBC’s Top of the Pops was cancelled in 2006, 42 years after its first showing yet well before Spotify became a major player in the music industry. The cultural importance of the charts is not what it used to be: in the Internet Era, the charts are no longer the primary way by which consumers access new music or keep up to date with new music trends. And albums themselves will continue to become scarcer in the future, as artists continue to focus more on live performances as an effective money-earner in the digital era. It may be that alternative metrics such as ticket sales will become a more effective barometer of an artist’s success in the future.

Streaming may yet save the music industry, but in many ways the advent of streaming creates as many problems as it answers. The ways in which pop music is manufactured and delivered will be forced to change if pop is to survive. The stasis at the top of the charts is merely symptomatic of the far bigger problem, and of the massive changes that are afoot in the industry. Pop is dead—long live pop.

Decoding Fashion and Politics

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In the long build up to the extraordinary US election, the candidates were scrutinized within an inch of their lives. From excavating decades-old television footage, to digging out private medical records, no stone was left unturned, no aspect of Clinton and Trump overlooked. What they wore was no exception. Particularly because Clinton was a female candidate, and because Trump looks so… extraordinary, the interplay between fashion and politics is ripe for analysis. Indeed, a strange parallel exists on our side of the Atlantic, with May and Corbyn sitting at opposite ends of the spectrum in terms of fashion sense as well as politics.

The present moment then is an obvious time to revisit the divisive issue of whether fashion has any place in politics. My short answer is yes—politics is all about conveying a message, and fashion is an obvious way to manipulate audience perception. Why else would a politician like George Osborne pay an ‘image advisor’ huge sums of money whilst implementing austerity measures? Throughout history, the aesthetics of politics have been used to reinforce authority, to create hope, and to incite revolution.

My favourite case of fashion being used as a political force is the Suffragette movement. The suffragists put great effort into crafting a respectable image, to avoid damaging their cause. Rather than challenging conventional codes of female dress, they conformed and embraced femininity, distancing the movement from the stereotype of the ‘ugly’, masculine, bluestocking woman. They exploited conventional fashion whilst committing to subversive action, wearing feminine blouses, silk gloves, and stylish hats topped off with ribbons and brooches in the movement’s three colours—white, purple, and green. This fledgling manifestation of the feminist movement is, in fashion terms, probably as far from Pussy Riot as it gets.

Fast forward to the present day, where, in a world post-World Wars, post-hippies, post-punk, and post-1980s power-dressing, fashion and politics have an uneasy coexistence. From the burkini controversy in France, to the delicate issue of whether to wear a Remembrance poppy, the politicisation of what we wear is inescapable. Many politicians and commentators rail against this. The Daily Mail obviously provides unfailing comment on what female politicians wear, with insightful headlines such as “Never mind Brexit, who won Legs-it!”, and “Remember the first rule of negotiation, Theresa…try not to reveal too much! PM opts for daring thigh-split skirt during meeting with EU chief.” Both of these moronic articles were, of course, accompanied by a sidebar of similarly leering headlines, a catalogue of celebrity nip-slips and ‘sizzling’ red carpet looks.

Critics of these sorts of articles say that they reduce women to objects of the male gaze, diverting attention from the real issues and detracting from the woman’s credibility. I fully agree with the argument in this case—I am infuriated as much as the next person that Theresa May’s Brexit negotiations are habitually prefigured by her legs. The headline makes fashion seem trivial precisely because it is cast as the main issue.

And fashion is not trivial. It can be about confidence, authority, empowerment, and femininity. Indeed, it is an arena where femininity and power are not mutually exclusive. Chanel sought to capture this spirit of feminine power by featuring a staged ‘riot’ at the end of its SS15 show. Models marched down a runway designed to look like a street, holding megaphones and signs emblazoned with “one is not born, but becomes a woman”, “make fashion not war”, and “boys should get pregnant too.” And yet, fashion writers invariably critiqued this stunt for being facetious, for parasitically latching onto the West’s piqued interest in ‘cool’ feminism in order to gain attention.

It seems that whenever designers make their shows too overtly political, shout their messages too loudly instead of weaving them into the fabric of their clothing, the public responds with hostility and shoves fashion back into the ‘trivial’ box. This was the case with McQueen’s AW 1995 show, titled “Highland Rape.” This show’s controversial attitude towards rape and the Scotland/England tensions still has resonance and power today, in a time when we like to believe we are not so easily shocked.

When fashion does politics, it often seeks to shock: when politics does fashion, it is, more often than not, to placate, to assert authority, and to smooth over cracks. Fashion in mainstream politics must be subtle, or else it seems to lose its power and alienate its audience. This is why wealthy women such as Kate Middleton, Hillary Clinton, and Michelle Obama are often anxious to make their statements in understated, even cheap, clothing (who can forget the media controversy over Theresa May’s £1000 leather trousers?).

Fashion and image help us to decode politics: they silently express who a politician is, and who they want to be. This is perhaps why, if you google ‘Hillary Clinton outfits’, you are presented with an array of articles on her fashion ‘strategy’ and how she calculated each look during the election campaign. If you google ‘Donald Trump outfits’, on the other hand, you get thousands of results on how to create the perfect DIY Trump Halloween costume. Fashion may be on the surface, but its workings spread deep below, into the depths of our emotion, powers, and private aspirations.

Oxford University announces new diverse portraits

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The University of Oxford have commissioned over twenty portraits of alumni and academics in an attempt to diversify the portraiture currently on display.

These new portraits feature a mix of genders and include people in the LGBTQ+ and BME communities, as well as those with disabilities and from a range of socio-economic backgrounds.

Chosen from a list of over a hundred nominees, the new faces are intended to inspire and reflect Oxford’s current and future bodies of students and academics.

One of the sitters, BBC journalist and Exeter college alumna, Reeta Chakrabarti, said: “I loved my time at Oxford. There weren’tthenmany people from my background at university there. But that didn’t stop my experience from being overwhelmingly good.

“I hope this project will show that Oxford is open to everyone, and that it wants to be more so. I hope too that it reflects present-day Oxford back at itself, and that it encourages an ever more diverse range of people to study there.”

Speaking to Cherwell, Professor of History of the Church at St Cross College, Diarmaid MacCulloch, said: “I was delighted and surprised to be included in this list, since, as an elderly white male, I’m not the most obvious person for a diversification project. But apart from being relieved at this proof that I’m not part of the establishment after all, I’m pleased by it because it’s a gesture of gratitude.

“A major strand in my career has been to live my life as a gay man who can’t see that there is any issue to get worried about. When male homosexuality was decriminalised in a limited way in 1967, I was fifteen, and gay teenagers were invisible in a society which seemed terrified of the whole subject or treated it as a subject for tribal jokes to marginalise the vulnerable.

“If I’ve given any self-confidence or hope to any young person simply by being there in public, then I will be thankful for a job well done.”

All Souls College Librarian, Dr Norma Aubertin-potter, another of those featured told Cherwell: “It has been a fascinating and interesting experience, in a library one is never really sure what query will arrive though the door and in my opinion it that that makes librarianship so exciting. Sitting for the artist, Emily Carrington Freeman, has been a real pleasure, and I am so thrilled with the result.”

Dr Marie Tidball, a research associate in Oxford’s Centre for Criminology and a disability rights campaigner, said: “Rendering diversity to be more visible in the places and spaces of Oxford reinforces the importance of its more central role in the University’s intellectual life.

“I was very moved indeed to have been nominated, and honoured to be part of this important project. It was wonderful for the University to recognise the importance of teaching and research about disability in academia.

“Symbols are important; there are millions of people with a disability in the UK  but they have a lack of visibility in public spaces. More needs to be done to increase representation right across public life.’

“I am proud to have gone to a state school in South Yorkshire. I really hope that this speaks to kids now doing their GCSEs, from all kinds of backgrounds, and makes them think about coming here.

“Working with Clementine Webster (the artist) was a very special, and surprisingly relaxing, experience. After a busy year, I really appreciated the time to reflect and be still!”

The project is funded by the Vice-Chancellor’s Diversity Fund which had previously highlighted current portraits from around the University which featured people who challenged stereotypes in their successful careers.

Vice-Chancellor of the University, Professor Louise Richardson said: “There is nothing quite like walking into a room and seeing someone who looks like you honoured in a portrait on the wall. It is so important for all of us to be reminded that achievement and leadership come in all colours, shapes, and sizes.”

This initiative mirrors a similar direction shown on a college level. Last year, Balliol College picture fund reps were behind the hanging of a portrait of Carol Clark, the first female Fellow of an ancient college in Oxford, in their hall.

This was a result of the JCR’s desire to encourage diversity and to redress the balance away from the predominance of white males in college portraits.

Not all of the portraits, which are comprised mostly of paintings and photographs, have been completed but all will be displayed in an exhibition at the University later this year.

They will then be adding to, not replacing, the current collection of portraits seen around the University.

The new portraits and artists:

Diran Adebayo (novelist) Rory Carnegie

Dr Norma Aubertin-Potter (librarian at All Souls College) Emily Freeman

Dame Susan Jocelyn Bell Burnell (astrophysicist) Ben Hughes

Professor Dame Valerie Beral (Professor of Epidemiology) Samantha Fellows

Professor Dorothy Bishop (Professor of Developmental Neuropsychology) Benjamin Sullivan

Reeta Chakrabarti (BBC journalist) Fran Monks

Dr Penelope Curtis (arts administrator and former director of Tate Britain) Humphrey Ocean

Professor Patricia Daley (Professor of the Human Geography of Africa) Binny Mathews

Professor Trisha Greenhalgh (primary health care scholar) Fakhri Bismanto

Anne-Marie Imafidon (women in science campaigner) Sarah Muirhead

Professor Dame Carole Jordan (astrophysicist) Robert Brooks

Professor Aditi Lahiri (Professor of Linguistics) Rosalie Watkins

Kelsey Leonard (first Native American woman to earn a degree from the University) artist to be confirmed

Hilary Lister (first disabled woman to sail solo around Britain) Nicola Brandt

Ken Loach (television and film director) Richard Twose

Professor Diarmaid MacCulloch (Professor of the History of the Church) Joanna Vestey

Jan Morris (historian, author, and travel writer) Luca Coles

Kumi Naidoo (South African human rights activist) Fran Monks

Dr Henry Odili Nwume (Winter Olympics British bobsledder) Sarah-Jane Moon

Dame Esther Rantzen (broadcaster) Ander McIntyre

Professor Lyndal Roper (Regius Professor of History) Miranda Crewswell

Professor Kathy Sylva (Professor of Educational Psychology) Pippa Thew

Marie Tidball (member of the University’s Law Faculty and disability rights campaigner) Clementine Webster

Jeanette Winterson (novelist) Gerard Hanson

Review: “Get Out”

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Have you ever stopped to think why so many horror films feature empty houses, creepy little girls and/or screechy violins? The answer is simple: in order to scare you, horror films have to first make sure you’re ill-at-ease, and these staples of the genre are all well-proven in their ability to unsettle an audience. Get Out mines relatively fresh ground in its attempts to unnerve its audience, simultaneously functioning as a comedy, a thriller, and a satire on race relations in a “post-racial”, post-Obama America.

The premise is this: Chris and Rose have been dating for about five months, and decide to head upstate to visit her parents for the weekend so he can meet them for the first time. Chris is black, and Rose is white — but Rose assures Chris this won’t be a problem, as her dad “would’ve voted for Obama for a third time if he could”. Yet the family are almost too liberal, too accommodating: every interaction seems to bury racial micro-aggressions three layers deep in subtext, and something about the family feels…off.

The audience are keyed into the racial themes throughout the film’s setup, from the refreshingly on-the-nose dialogue about race between Rose and Chris as they plan their trip, to a fantastic, bitingly satirical exchange between the couple and a cop they meet on the road to their destination. This foundation is crucial to making the film work; only by footing itself in tangible, real-world racial politics can the film afford to take such big swings later on.

Make no mistake: the film’s racial politics will unsettle you. Chris’s interactions with well-meaning, upper-class white folks begin to make you draw uncomfortable parallels with your own views. Is it racist to meet a black guy and immediately start talking about how much you love Tiger Woods? What about a white guy referring to a black guy as “my man”, as a term of endearment?

Get Out, astonishingly, is a directorial debut from Jordan Peele, one half of sketch duo Key and Peele (their stuff is worth a YouTube if you’re not familiar). Peele also wrote the film himself, and displays an astonishing command of the material in terms of tone and story structure, and wrangles brilliant performances out of his cast. Daniel Kaluuya and Allison Williams, as Chris and Rose, are especially noteworthy, but the whole cast do incredible work in their respective roles.

Get Out is excellently restrained for much of its running time, favouring a slow-burning sense of tension to cheap jump scares. The least restrained element of the film is Chris’s friend Rod, the only explicitly comic character, who is rung periodically for advice and beautifully punctures the building tension with barbed needles of levity.

Perhaps the film’s finest achievement is its successful juggling of complex themes and wildly disparate tones in ways that make individual moments feel earned rather than spurious, and help Get Out feel fresh even when it descends into more regular genre territory. It’s a biting satire, an entertaining comedy, a gripping thriller and an unsettling horror, and when you consider that many movies don’t even manage to get one of these things right, the genius of this film is thrown into even starker relief. This is a modern classic of the genre: Get Out, and go and see it.

My town and my gown: “the world has slowed down around me”

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I’m bored. Extremely bored. This is not a feeling that I have had to grapple with much during my life at university so far. The plunge deep into the whirlpool of essays from first week to eighth, punctuated by frequent nights out, and with the potential for everyday social interaction with friends and neighbours constantly bubbling beneath the surface, I have at times experienced feelings of stress, fatigue and even despair — but never boredom.

In the high-intensity life of an Oxford student, there is no time for the feeling that now washes over me, as inevitably as the rising of the sun on my first morning back home, that there is nothing for me to do here. Do I have an essay to finish off today? No, I actually survived another term’s workload. Could I make a start on my next reading list? Afraid not, and anyway I’m now hundreds of miles away from the Bod. Well, surely I must have a lecture to get up for? Wrong again, what little structure my life as a historian usually has is on hiatus for the next few weeks. Perhaps I could start early on revising for collections? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves now.

Of course, nobody in their right mind would really want the Oxford workload to continue into the Vac, but I must admit that after hurtling through the last eight weeks at a thousand miles an hour, slamming on the brakes so suddenly has left me feeling rather strange. Sure enough, the world has slowed down around me, but I find myself struggling to adapt to the change of pace. Somehow I awake from a long overdue night’s sleep with more lethargy than I ever experienced getting up for a Friday morning tute after the inevitable Thursday night at Bridge.

Far worse than the absence of work, though, is the absence of play. Now, instead of being a few minutes, or even seconds, away from my friends in college, we are now separated by up to hundreds, or even thousands, of miles. On top of this, it is now that I remember part of the reason why Oxford’s terms seems so intense: they are actually relatively short. Of all my friends from home, the vast majority will not return for another two or three weeks, and I can hardly spend my student loan on a national tour to visit them all in the meantime.

For me, I should mention, home is the town of Stockport, which might as well be Manchester for anyone who lives outside the northwest of England (despite the reservations of real Mancunians, it is easier to say ‘Manchester’ rather than explain the location of somewhere people have never heard of, sorry). For someone who has lived here all my life, Stockport doesn’t really have a great deal to offer, and recently my main social activity has involved a Wetherspoon’s, and a night out in Manchester city centre. As great it is (no local bias here), Manchester nightlife is not an activity best undertaken solo, so after weeks of Park End and PT, I suddenly have to go cold turkey until enough of my friends get back from university for the makings of a decent night out.

So in the meantime I remain stuck in a kind of limbo, knowing I should be glad of a rest, but confused as to why I’m not. I suppose I should use the opportunity to save up for impending taxi rides home (Stockport doesn’t seem like ‘basically Manchester’ when you’re facing a £20 fare), but enviously flicking through Snapchat stories of friends enjoying St Patrick’s Day at their respective universities– the novelty of watching telly and talking to my family having long since worn off—I realise that I’m not looking forward to the nights out at home as much as I am looking back on the ones in Oxford. That’s what I want to get back to, that’s where I want to get back to. Everything else just seems second best now. Even when my friends are back home, none of them are living just down the hall.

I love the exhausting, intoxicating, maddening intensity of my life in Oxford. Without it, I feel isolated, clinging desperately to the Oxford meme community to maintain a sense of attachment to my home away from home. At least the endless stream of Oxlove posts can help me avoid revision.

‘Pretworking’: A Spotter’s Guide

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Oxford has historically been seen as a training ground for the British political, journalistic, and professional elite. Gone are the days of the famous “tap on the shoulder” from a man in a long coat, and the status of an Oxford degree (of any classification) as a guarantee of a top-tier graduate job is not so solid as it once was. Yet this institution remains one in which students not only receive a formal education, but also pick up the practices and techniques that become essential skills out in the Real World. Those “transferable skills” — never listed on CVs — which distinguish the career-climbing, high achievers, from the average graduate, are still learnt and refined at Oxford.

Before this all becomes too self-congratulatory, I should point out that I am not committed to a view of absolute Oxford exceptionalism. And I don’t mean that Cambridge also exists. The university experience — wherever it is had — is a mixture of an academic education and a training in the exercise of key interpersonal skills. But the exact phenomenon which I wish to examine seems to be a particularly prominent part of life here. As a steady stream of Guardian articles will attest, the notion of an Oxford degree as a launching pad for a top-flight career is still commonplace.

Those students who invest most heavily in the secondary Oxford education are often those most involved with the familiar extra-curricular activities on offer. Whether they are involved in the Union, journalism, theatre, or the multitude of other groups and societies, most of us will be aware of, and regularly come into contact with, the “hack”. You might have gone for coffee with one. Maybe you’re not incredibly close to them, but they were keen for you to be involved with their next play, or wanted to know if they could rely on your support in an upcoming election, or just wanted to “catch up”.

It’s this maintenance of a web of contacts, collaborators, and (usually) friends — so often taking place in Oxfords numerous coffee shops — which I call Pretworking. It’s one of the key tools in the arsenal of the hack. An innocuous coffee with the Pretworker is always, either explicitly or implicitly, a means as well as an end in itself. It never hurts to keep those people that the Pretworker may well need to solicit help from in the future familiar and sweet.

Am I guilty of Pretworking myself? Yes, probably. My point is not to call out these people for doing something wrong. It is clear that this is simply the way the world works. We rely on our friends and acquaintances to aid us in our own personal projects, whatever they are. Nor do I mean to suggest that the Pretworker sees their friendships simply as avenues for advancing their own goals. I’m sure that even the hackiest of hacks occasionally goes for coffee just for the sake of going for coffee.

But it is interesting that — through this phenomenon — we can more properly understand what it is that makes and Oxford education continue to be valued so highly. Not only will the Pretworker go on to use this skill throughout her career, but often it is the very same contacts she has made here at university, with whom she will continue to do so. So next time you’re in Missing Bean, or Handlebar Café, have a listen. Amongst the chatter, you might just make out the incessant hum of the Pretworkers.

Lola Lo’s closes down and is replaced by new retro bar

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Lola Lo Oxford closed its doors for the final time on Friday night and is to reopen on April 13 under the new name Fever, Cherwell can exclusively reveal.

Eclectic Bars, who own the Lola Lo brand, have sold the site to Fever, who run retro-themed clubs with light-up dance floors in Lincoln and Cheltenham.

Fever Bar’s Cheltenham site

The venue was popular on Tuesday nights, with organisers Encore Events hosting ‘Rumble Tuesday’. Encore told Cherwell that they will continue working with the newly-opened Fever, and submitted a poem encouraging students to try the new bar.

“Lola Lo’s was lots of fun,” it reads, “on Tuesdays we drank lots of rum”.

“Fever’s here, it’s a ten out of ten”.

One student said: “I saw them moving pretend trees out last Friday and I wondered if something was going on”.

Lola Lo Oxford was once voted the third-worst club in the country in a poll conducted by The Tab. 

Eclectic Bars have been contacted for comment. 

Atheists among the least afraid of death—Oxford study

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A study conducted by Oxford anthropologists has revealed that although the very religious are among the least afraid of death, so too are atheists.

The paper was published in the journal Religion, Brain and Behaviour, and challenges the view that religious believers are those who fear death the least.

The paper examined the relationship between death anxiety and religious belief. It involved a systematic review of 100 relevant studies, from between 1961 and 2014 around the world. examining the relationship between death anxiety and religious belief.

They found that the more religious, in terms of those who believed in God and an afterlife, were not necessarily less anxious about death.

However, some of the relevant studies they used made a distinction between extrinsic religiosity and intrinsic religiosity, with ‘true belief’ being driven by intrinsic religiosity. Their analysis showed that those who were intrinsically religious were among the least afraid, whilst the extrinsically religious had the highest levels of death anxiety.

The range of different studies examined showed variation. Over half the research showed no link between religiosity and fear of death, whilst 18 per cent of the studies found that religious people were more afraid of death than atheists.

This indicates that the relationship between religiosity and death anxiety may vary depending on the context. The majority of the studies involves took place in the United States, with just a small number from Asia or the Middle East.

Researcher Dr Jonathan Jong of the Institute of Cognitive and Evolutionary Anthropology said: “This definitely complicates the old view, that religious people are less afraid of death than non-religious people. It may well be that atheism also provides comfort from death, or that people who are just not afraid of death aren’t compelled to seek religion.”

The ageing face of fashion

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Earlier this year at London Fashion Week, a group of models aged 47 and above took to the streets to protest the lack of age diversity represented on the catwalks. Bearing signs reading “Fashion Has No Age Limit” and “Fight For Real Age Models,” these women vehemently opposed the idea that fashion should be targeted at those under 25, as part of their #GrowUpLFW initiative. The concept does seems absurd when numerous surveys provide evidence that older women make up as much as fifty per cent of consumer spending. 63-year-old campaigner Jilly Johnson said, “People seem to think that once you reach 40, you’re not interested in clothes and you don’t buy anything but that’s simply not true. A huge percentage of clothes are bought by older women so fashion is making a huge mistake by ignoring that grey pound.”

However, in recent weeks the industry does seem to have paid more attention to the so-called “grey pound”. The Simone Rocha catwalk at London Fashion Week featured four models over the age of 50. One model, Jan de Villeneuve, 72 years old, said to the Telegraph, “Life doesn’t end when you start getting a pension. Older women love fashion too. I’ve always thought it would be nice if people of all ages, shapes and sizes were included because that’s more relevant to day-to-day life.”

Moreover, to mark Dries Van Noten’s 100th show, three supermodels who had walked in his first catwalk in 1993 were welcomed back alongside the usual fresh-faced teens, and 43-year-old Amber Valetta was the star of Isabel Marant’s Paris show.

The older woman has made an appearance in lesser-known labels, too. Lonely Lingerie’s latest campaign features 57-year-old model Mercy Brewer, photographed in a variety of sumptuous lingerie pieces and underwear sets. This is an important campaign, not just because it recognises the need for age diversity among models and acknowledges the older woman’s presence as a consumer, but also because it allows someone classed as ‘middle aged’ to be powerful, sensual, and sexy. Lonely Lingerie—a brand also known for promoting body and ethnic diversity—is a world away from the typically drab collections aimed at the “grey pound”. What’s important about this campaign is not just the fact that it includes older women, but also the way in which it demonstrates that older and younger women do not need to be viewed as separate consumer markets at all.

Of course, these age-blind movements are niche. As the #GrowUpLFW campaign illustrated, older women still feel shut out from the industry, and there is a long way to go before full diversity—in terms of age, ethnicity, and body types—is recognised in the fashion world. That said, it is undeniable that progress is starting to be made; older women are becoming increasingly accepted and moreover, represented, in the fashion world. Better late than never.

Marvel’s Netflix universe is going badly wrong, and it’s the writing that’s to blame

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When the first season of Daredevil launched in April 2015, it seemed to signal a fresh beginning for superheroes on television. Following the explosive success of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, various shows had attempted to cash in on the superhero craze. The CW was laying the groundwork for its own interconnected universe with shows such as Arrow and The Flash; Gotham, Fox’s Batman prequel, had debuted the previous September; and even Marvel were getting involved, expanding their universe to the small screen with Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD and Agent Carter on ABC.

But Netflix’s Daredevil was the first show to truly capture the magic of the superhero genre and bring it to life on television. It was an uncompromising take on one of Marvel’s most famous heroes, brutal, violent, and unrelenting. This was a superhero show for the Golden Age of Television, marrying an exciting premise to killer visuals and consistently impressive writing, respecting its source material while creating something accessible for a wider audience. It was far from flawless: it was slightly too long, and its writing could be too obvious at times. Nonetheless, there was real potential there, and the prospect of an interconnected set of Netflix productions running alongside Marvel’s big screen offerings seemed tantalising.

And now we are here. Iron Fist, the latest instalment in the Netflix Marvel saga, sits at an abject, dismal 17% on Rotten Tomatoes while Luke Cage – last September’s offering – attracted a torrent of criticism despite its promising start. How has the Netflixverse – an endeavour with so much promise – ended up in such a sorry state?

The problems afflicting Marvel’s Netflix Universe are manifold, but some issues seem to recur across its catalogue of shows. Most notably, each series seems significantly too long, incapable of sustaining its thirteen episode run. Designed for binge-watching, this bloat undermines the fundamental appeal of the show, stretching out what should be high-octane superhero action to unnecessary lengths. No show seems to have escaped this problem entirely: even Jessica Jones and Daredevil’s first season fall into a rut in the middle before regaining momentum in the last couple of episodes.

Both Daredevil and Luke Cage attempt to resolve this issue through a mid-season shift of plotline: in each series, the arc of the first half is put on the backburner in order to make room for a new, greater threat; in each series, this device results in a catastrophic failure. Daredevil’s four-episode Punisher arc, replete as it is with violence and difficult questions about the role of the vigilante, stands head and tails above the first season. However, as soon as the Punisher has been dispatched, the show deflates, desperately piling on new plotlines and threats and twists in an attempt to regain some semblance of the magic it previously had. The result? An exhausting, limp, borderline nonsensical run of episodes concluding in a finale which inspires nothing but a sense of relief at having made it to the end.

Luke Cage, meanwhile, descends into an even larger mess: its introductory episodes position the show as one which wants to discuss the black experience in modern America, linking Luke’s struggles to those faced by young black men in general, and connecting the battle between Luke and Cottonmouth to the battle for the soul of Harlem. This novel take on the superhero genre – enriched by an amazing soundtrack and by stunning performances from Mahershala Ali and Alfre Woodard – is promptly discarded in favour of an increasingly ridiculous, generic superhero story.

Instead of the unpredictable, challenging villain Cottonmouth, the viewer is saddled with the ludicrous Diamondback, Luke’s Bible-quoting, rage-filled half-brother. This change in direction did not have to be such a failure: the discussions of Diamondback in the first few episodes paint him as a powerful, successful, merciless crime lord. Such a villain would have been a brilliant foil for Luke and a welcome change from Cottonmouth’s visceral emotionality. Instead, he turns out to be a man driven by inexplicably petty emotions, whose conflict with Luke can be linked to the black experience in only the most agonisingly contrived ways. When, in its finale, the show attempts to backtrack and claim that the second storyline has maintained a profound discussion of Harlem’s role in black culture, it is difficult to do anything but laugh.

Setting aside the failures of the individual shows, one might hope that they at least contribute to the Marvel Cinematic Universe, expanding its horizons while introducing new characters of which the movies can make use. Damningly, the shows do not even work as complements to the wider project. Rather, the movies seem to want to ignore them, to shrug them off: the Netflix series are not a meaningful expansion of this beloved franchise, but parasitical entities leeching off its popularity to plaster over their own increasingly apparent flaws.

These devastating problems hint at the fundamental flaw of these productions: the more content that Netflix produces, the more it seems utterly inessential. The shows run thirteen episodes because they have to, not because they have thirteen episodes of story to tell; the shows exist not because they ought to, but because Netflix’s plan demands it; this section of the MCU keeps going because it has started, and not because it has anywhere to head. Four seasons in, it is hard to see how this Netflix Universe is shaping into anything cohesive, or how The Defenders – the upcoming crossover series – can be anything other than a mechanical conclusion to an inessential story. Each series feels increasingly disposable, one piece of a story which seems to perpetually defer gratification without ever delivering it. This criticism – often unfairly levelled at the filmic components of the MCU – is utterly justified when it comes to these shows.

This is not to say that the Netflixverse is unsalvageable or without redeeming qualities. Both Daredevil Season 2 and Luke Cage have incredibly good beginnings, beginnings which demonstrate that their showrunners are capable of producing excellent television.

Jessica Jones has been largely absent from this discussion because it largely manages to sidestep these pitfalls. Despite being a couple of episodes too long, the show is an impressive example of quite how good female-led superhero shows can be, with Krysten Ritter’s sensitive portrayal of Jessica as a hardened, damaged rape survivor making for powerful viewing. David Tennant’s Purple Man, meanwhile, is simultaneously despicable and compelling, a repulsive, captivating presence onscreen. Unlike the series which followed it, Jessica Jones feels unmissable, feels essential, not just in order to keep up with a rapidly expanding universe, but on its own merits as a television show.

The Defenders may very well succeed, imbued with new energy by having such a diverse set of characters interact for the first time. I truly hope that it does. I write this not as someone revelling in the Netflix Universe’s failures, but as a huge fan and lover of superhero stories. If the creative teams manage to get their series back on track, they have the opportunity to create an essential bastion of superhero shows, the prime example of how to create an interconnected universe on television. All they have to do is not squander such a golden opportunity.