Songs In The Key Of Anger by Allen Miles

I wrote a blog some months ago when I was drunk about the sense of apathy in this country, particularly amongst our young people. It saddens me deeply that I am now too old to be part of any revolution, because as my fellow writers Mr Featherstone and Mr Ware will identify, my 32 year-old brain simply refuses to accept the world as it is. The idea of doing a Back To Mine-type article in which one would choose to write about ten songs on a certain topic is one I’ve had for a while, yet I could never think of an appropriate theme. I wrote a brief facebook blog about miserable songs a few years ago, but I realise that I am in danger of becoming a bit of a self-pitying caricature in some-people’s eyes, and given a recent spate of less than flattering reviews for my ultra-miserable book I’ve decided I’ll leave the navel-gazing for a bit. So as I read about the latest slaughters our repulsive Prime Minister intends to inflict on the country along with being in a generally bad mood with my ailing physical condition and the fact that Lily Allen is making a comeback, I give you a new series of articles entitled Songs In The Key Of…

Anyone is welcome to have a go, but I’m going first. Here are the ten ANGRIEST songs ever written.

10. Killing In The Name Of – Rage Against The Machine

The lyric to this song, despite sounding like a repetitive screamed dirge, is actually an eloquent diatribe regarding the republican party’s amazingly convenient policy of choosing members of the ethnic minorities to fight on the frontline in all the good ol’ US of A’s silly wars. The reason it sounds so incendiary is due to the hard funk soundtrack and the avalanche of “f” words, tailor made for twenty year-olds wearing baggy jeans to shove each other around on a dancefloor. Rage frontman Zach de la Rocha is an actual political activist, and allegedly one of only three musicians the FBI have ever kept a file on.

Angriest bit: Probably the bit where he shouts “Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me” sixteen times.

9. Where Did It All Go Wrong –  Oasis

Oasis weren’t an angry band. There were about love and happiness and good times. Until one day in 1998 when Noel Gallagher woke up from a four-year cocaine bender and realised he utterly loathed everyone who had managed to blag their way onto the way onto the Oasis funbus and he had come to the very brink of pissing away his status of best British rock and roll songwriter of all time. The anger here is not in the song itself but the performance. Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants is his comedown album and this Wall-era Pink Floyd-sounding howl is the sound of a man looking in the mirror and saying to himself “What the fucking hell have you become?”

Angriest bit: All the choruses. A man whose trademark is lighters-aloft optimism, screaming utter self-loathing.

8. She Watch Channel Zero – Public Enemy

Remarkably prescient for a song written in 1988, one of Chuck D’s finest raps about finding nothing but shite on TV. This is what hip-hop could have been. It’s so fast, so precise, so violent. The main riff is a Slayer sample, and Chuck booms away with the utmost authority while Flav cackles around him like the weirdo who hangs on to the school bully. The percussion is relentless. They were essentially a black punk band. If they hated television this much in ’88, what the hell would they make of it today?

Angriest bit: The utter genius of this passage from the third verse. If I may quote:

“Her brains retrained
By a 24 inch remote
Revolution a solution
For all our children
But all her children
Don’t mean as much as the show”

7. Gimme Some Truth – John Lennon

Classic, Vietnam-era anti-government tirade from a man who was an absolute expert, in the same way that Bob Dylan and Lou Reed were, at using words and music to hurt people. I don’t just mean shock or offend, anyone can do that with a few swear words, but Lennon had that unique gift that so very few writers have of being able to personally insult people that he’d never met. His voice on this track is amazing, only Noddy Holder and Liam Gallagher have swallowed as much sandpaper as Lennon did. He really hated everything.

Angriest bit: 2:07, where he actually loses his breath.

6. Of Walking Abortion – Manic Street Preachers

The evacuating of the bile duct of an alcoholic intellectual at the end of his tether. This is the only song on this list that isn’t sung by the person who wrote it, which makes the performance of James Dean Bradfield here a mission of the most extreme voyeurism. The ugliest song on one of the ugliest albums of all time, a four minute vomiting-session during which Richey Edwards props himself up on his elbows and declares that he’s disgusted with every single thing he can see. The outro is so intense that it could make your grandmother’s neck veins bulge.

Angriest bit: “WHO’S RESPONSIBLE? YOU FUCKIN ARE!!!”

5. Free Satpal Ram – Asian Dub Foundation

Asian Dub Foundation should have been massive. They were the first proper ethnic punk band in the UK, their songs were as good as anything The Specials ever did, and when I saw them in 2003 supporting Radiohead, the biggest band in the world, they blew them offstage. Satpal Ram was an Englishman of Asian descent who was attacked by six skinheads in a Birmingham restaurant in 1986 over an argument about music. He stabbed one of his assailants with a table knife in self defence after being  stabbed himself and glassed in his face. He served 16 years in prison for murder. The defense lawyer he was assigned didn’t meet him until half an hour before his case was up in court.

Angriest bit: The row of the guitar solo at 1:57

4. Common People – Pulp

Class war is a very English phenomenon. And other than Billy Bragg and a band you’ve never heard of called McCarthy, Pulp are England’s best musical exponents of it. This song will either hit you in the exact centre of your heart, or you will just think of it as a cool song to dance to. I remember my disastrous attempt at going to university; my schedule consisted of getting up at six to go to work, then getting on the bus from work at eleven to go for my lecture, then running for the bus back to work which pulled up six minutes after my lecture finished, then working till eight. Repeat to fade. Repeat to exhaustion.  Coupled with the fact that I had to pay £500 a term and received no sort of bursary or grant, I was living on the very edges of my nerves. One rainy Thursday morning I slumped down in my chair for my eleven o’clock lecture, having had about two hours sleep, full of red bull and my eyes rolling back in my head. Some kid from my group called Lee sat next to me and said, “I really don’t get on with these early lectures, brother.” It took me every calorie of strength I had to stop myself from biting his eyeballs out. And that is why I love this song. And it’s finest achievement is that it gets the very kids he’s slagging off dancing to it.

Angriest bit: “They will NEVER UNDERSTAND how it feels to live your life….” it’s not on the single version…

3. Streets Of Sorrow/Birmingham Six – The Pogues

Before Shane MacGowan became the shambling drunken mess we know him as today, he was one of the finest songwriters in the world, a master of the love song, and for this writer, one of the top five lyricists of all time. This song, about the sixteen year imprisonment of six innocent men on a charge of being IRA bombers, starts with Terry Woods’s fragile acoustic lament about the unbearable sadness of the Troubles, then MacGowan elbows his way in and starts snarling through his splintering, gritted teeth about the dangers of “Being Irish in the wrong place and at the wrong time.” Tory party lizard Douglas Hurd actually amended the Anti-Terrorism Act and had the song banned from the BBC in order that  “the British public should be prevented from hearing terrorist organisations and their supporters.” Hugh Callaghan, a member of the Birmingham Six, having been released in 1991 saw it differently: “The last thing the government wanted was people like MacGowan educating the public about the Birmingham Six.”

Angriest bit: “May the whores of the empire lie awake in their beds/And sweat as they count out the sins on their heads.” Political protest was never so poetic.

2. Mosh – Eminem

Eminem is at his best when he’s at his angriest, and I nearly picked The Way I Am, but while it’s a brilliant song, we can’t really relate to his anger about being rich and famous. This however, a call-to-arms in protest against a moronic war-mongerer who somehow came to be in charge of the most powerful country in the world, is an poundingly aggressive statement of disgust. It is a genuinely frightening piece of music. Every moving part functions; the military beat stamping all the way through, the thunderclaps and twisted synths, the parrot fashion Pledge of Allegiance from whiny school-kids at the start. The video is absolutely superb, and then of course there are the words and the voice; never has such unbridled rage been so articulate. And the best thing about this song, is that where the likes of NWA and Ice-T would be banging on about shooting cops and taking sawn-offs to the white house, Mr Mathers is simply trying to get people to vote. Eloquence in screaming, indeed.

“Maybe this is god just saying we’re responsible/For this monster/This coward/That we have empowered…. How could we allow something like this/Without pumping our fists.”  Whether you like him or not, he’s brilliant with words.

1. Tramp The Dirt Down – Elvis Costello

After the blazing torrents of bhangra, punk, hip-hop and rock on this list, it might seem somewhat odd to see a simple folk song featuring nothing more than a couple of acoustic guitars, a snare and a tin whistle sitting on the top of this unholiest of trees. But listen to it. Here is a song that was written at the arse-end of Margaret Thatcher’s despicable time in office by England’s greatest ever lyricist (yes Dunham, he’s better than Morrissey) at the age of thirty-four; old and wise enough to not have to try hard to rebel or shock. It is a song that states in the most languid and poetic manner that the writer wishes to see another human being dead. Now listen to it again, hear how he rasps and growls in such hushed tones, and how you can feel the spit hit the microphone as he lists the atrocities that she committed unto the people she was supposed to be representing. Listen to the bit at 3:24, where he gets choked up and sounds like he’s going to burst into tears of rage. Famously driven by “revenge and guilt” to write songs, Costello here bleeds over his guitar as he watches his own country get battered into submission by a group of back-slapping school-tie wearing bacteria who simply do not give a toss. He knows he’s defeated, and he can only take pleasure from the vision of standing by her grave laughing. This song was written in 1989. It could have been written yesterday.

Angriest bit: All of it. Every last snarled word.

profile b and wAllen Miles is 32 years old and lives in Hull. He is married and has a 2 year-old daughter who is into Queens Of The Stone Age. He is a staunch supporter of Sheffield Wednesday FC and drinks far too much wine. He spends most of his spare time watching old football videos on youtube and watching 1940s film noir. He is the author of This Is How You Disappear, which is widely recognized to be the best book ever written. It is available here. http://tinyurl.com/disappear2014

Divisive In Office, Life and Death by Paul Featherstone

One of the small wonders of my iPhone is it’s ability to flash up world headlines as they happen- like a tiny little Associated Press representative in my pocket. Being an information junkie, it allows me to work long hours at work and not be blindfolded from the world.

Only recently, I had discussed this with my Dad, and the conversation had led to the day it flashed up with the news of Thatcher’s death. To the outsider, this may seem callous and ghoulish, but my Dad was one of the 1,200 workers who went on strike at the Reckitt’s factory in Hull, on the only day Thatcher ever visited the city. This action led her to to re-arrange her plans and visit the Smith And Nephew factory instead, where a further 1,000 workers walked out in protest.
Regardless of my own feelings towards Thatcher, the conversation primarily arose from the knowledge that my Dad would be satisfied (and note that word) that she was finally gone. There is a huge difference in being satisfied that someone you saw as not just an opponent, but the enemy, was no longer inhabiting the same Earth as you, rather than holding an all night rave at their child’s home in celebration.
The immediate reaction of some people, to anyone under the age of 35, greeting news of her death with anything but remorse was a simple “you weren’t even there”. Yet, Thatcher hung over my childhood from day one. My Dad likes to spin the tale that I was “conceived on strike”. The Sun newspaper was banned from our household. My Mum once kept a Conservative election poster, leading to an angry reaction from my Dad as to why it was even in the four walls, rather than placed straight in the bin? One of my earliest childhood memories is of waking up the morning of Thatcher’s final election victory, asking my Mum if “we” had won, and giving her a hug upon hearing Kinnock had again failed to deliver.
There is, of course, an inherited belief system at such an age, much like taking a small child to watch your favourite football team. However, I like to think there is an intuitiveness at such an age about what matters to your parents, and what affects their daily happiness. They are your whole world up until your teen years, and a sadness, or anger, that a foe inspires in their voice sows the seeds on how you view the consequences of their actions against them.
That is not to say that we cannot change those inherited world views over time. If that were the case, the country would view half of Europe as the enemy, women and ethnic groups as inferior human beings and homosexuality as an illegal act to be kept hidden being closed curtains. With maturity comes education, and the ability to form one’s own opinion.
I was one of the people who took satisfaction in Thatcher passing away on Monday. Not because of my Dad’s opinion, or my political allegiances, nor indeed of the time I had taken to read about her before her death. I took satisfaction because I could not bear to afford her the respect in death that I felt she failed to afford so many she was elected to serve in life.
The immediate reaction of many to that was disgust, which I could understand. Yet, if you admire Thatcher for her political fortitude of not caring if her policies meant whether she was loved or hated, do not expect she would want anything less in death. I read that Nelson Mandela forgave her for her views on apartheid, I think it is fair to say I am not half the human being that he is.
How many deaths of certifiably insane killers, driven by madness to commit acts of horror, have been celebrated within the national press or widespread public? Evil is much a harder thing to quantify than insanity, yet it is often justification for spitting on the graves of those recently departed. Whilst Thatcher was certainly not a serial killer, have a conversation with a family member of a Belgrano, Pinochet or Pol Pot victim, then tell them they should not delight in her death. The opinion of others, and the consequences of all our actions, are a hugely difficult thing to gauge, perhaps only when we are finally gone?
My political beliefs are mainly based on, like many people, the wish for all in the world to live an equally rich standard of life. If the people of Britain did not believe that, Red Nose Day would be defunct and unnecessary. The vast majority of my anger and frustrations at politics, and indeed the wider world, is that this does not exist. My blood boils at the thought that a child requires charity funding to allow them a fragment of a childhood, due them being a full time carer of a sick parent. I fear to tread into a political career due to the weight of responsibility that would hang heavy on my shoulders. If I left office having failed to improve the lives of an electorate, hated and despised, I could not sleep at night, nor live with myself.
Here is where my deep rooted disdain for Thatcher stems. She did not strike me as an individual who carried such weight on her shoulders.There is being ideological, there is having the admirable strength of mind to stick to your political goal, and then there is having little time nor thought for the collateral damage of your actions.
On a human level, I despair at whole communities and families destroyed for political ideology. I despair at men driven to suicide or alcoholism, when they can longer take the shame of not being able to provide for their family, their lifelong trade deemed irrelevant.
Government, by nature, requires tough decisions. I often think of the Conservatives as Tony Montana in Scarface. We need them around, so we can point the finger and say “that’s the bad guy”. However, tough decisions should not come with a human cost, and certainly not so widespread that they cannot be ignored, nor guilt felt for them.
Thatcher was unrepentant in the human costs of her decisions. “The medicine is harsh, but the patient requires it to live”. That is where my quarrel with her lies. Not a misguided wish to improve the world that backfired. Not a hope to unite society, so that future generations may reap the rewards, that never surfaced. Just an ideology based on division and finally conquering those who had been in your path.
Perhaps the real satisfaction was just that she was finally gone? That she had no longer inhabited the world a day more than men and women taken far too early, who had seemingly done much more to enrich the very society that she believed did not exist?
I feel no guilt for not being moved by her death (or any of the above), and maybe my soul is a little poorer for that, but it is also diminished by every day I do not weep nor take action for the children killed by Assad’s regime in Syria, instead choosing to sit and watch Geordie Shore on my TV.
However, please don’t mistake the reaction of many to be the celebration that “the witch has gone”. The wounds are deeper and more intricate than that, and run through generations in vastly different forms.

It is for future generations to judge equally divisive figures as Blair and Bush, and for not one second will I chastise anyone who delights in their deaths if I am still around. The minds broadened, lives affected and wounds inflicted by such public figures, deserve far more respect than that of their mere beating hearts. For surely, that is truly how the measure of their life’s achievements should be gauged.

 

 

Paul FeatherstonePaul Featherstone is 31 years old and lives in Hull. Most people call him “Fev.” He has an encyclopaedic knowledge of football and music and uses the word “c*nt” far too much in everyday conversation. He spends a lot of his time blagging his way into celebrity parties. He is to be commended for once meeting Jo Whiley and refraining from beating her to death with a big stick. You can read more of his vitirolic comments on http://twitter.com/FevTheRevoff