capitalism

Reeling in the Real: Pale Eyes’ sweatshop Reviewed

Pale Eyes - Sweatshop

Ben McCarthy and Lisa J. Smith, formerly of Archivist (see my earlier review), have formed a new project called Pale Eyes, producing a debut album called sweatshop. It contains songs for the new age of anxiety, in which we feel the claustrophobia of globalization, and the disgust of complicity. Frequently confronting you with ugly feelings, Pale Eyes produce electronic violence; and broken hip-hop, time of fractured joint, when it won’t be long before we all come tumbling down. Their music and lyrics also perform a vivisection on the heaving mass of human need, and its peculiar anatomy of melancholy. sweatshop is comparable, and every bit as important and striking, as The Knife’s Shaking the Habitual. Pale Eyes’ debut is about futility, but also about facing up to that pointlessness. The heavy use of sampling and synth processing stitches together a whole from the disparate, leaving frayed edges that threaten to unravel, embodying the failure to repeat.

The opening track “waves & radiation” is a plunderphonic sound collage of tension, starting with a metronome and ending with “if I didn’t have my art, I would be madder than I am.” It is musically reminiscent of Portishead’s “Machine Gun,” and neatly introduces you to the ideologies working within the entire record, including memories of real protest, and the mental and emotional implications of our current world order.

It’s followed by “kltr kma,” the title of which makes me think of Massive Attack’s “Karmacoma.” It features an earworm chorus, and the breaks mirror the cracking of the pretence of the human pose. McCarthy alternates between rapid-fire wordplay and elastic, cyclical vocals that ply your brain, while Lido Pimienta moans behind him in a fractious, urgent way that reminds me of Sue Denim. McCarthy sings:

These bloody needs the body’s fee;
you must be hungry just to be.
It was the sun that taught your lungs to breathe
for a mesh of metaphor with a mouth for the meat. . . .

So take the fist and take this kiss,
and take our common helplessness,
cause the very very body you resist
is the flesh upon which all this subsists.

Pales Eyes continue to interrogate this schizophrenic human reality that belies the figurative sense of a universal, whole humanity in songs such as “empathy exhaustion (also sprach Sarahthustra)” and “the consolation of action.” A collaboration with McCarthy’s sister, Sarah (who I assume to be the Sarah of the final track “Sarah says”), “empathy exhaustion” is all sharp dissonance tied together with a weaving double helix of a melody line, carried ethereally by Pimienta. The lyrics are begging for release from the fatigue of a debt-laden, neoliberal existence, cleverly tying moral debt to the general debtfare lives of this generation. This track is followed by “the consolation of action,” which takes its title from John Gray’s Straw Dogs, an excellent argument against the idea of Humanism, and its unwavering belief in redemption through progress. (Of course, Pale Eyes is not the first band to draw on Gray’s work; Vanilla Swingers crafted a concept album inspired by it, and the Manic Street Preachers have also referenced Gray in recent years.) In this track, as in Gray’s book, there’s a friction and fear of letting go of the “need” for action and changing the world. The idea is one that I feel is at the crux of Gray’s thesis, one which I return to again and again: “The aim of life was not to change the world. It was to see it rightly.” The attempt to reconcile this possibility for a new paradigm with our own reality leads to additional feelings of lack and guilt. The sacred profanity of this wrecked psychological space blurs into poetry:

wake up the grace has fled
amplified daily dread
first day of the rest of your life
breaking across your head

have you been misinformed?
do you really not know what you do?
what were you crying for?
sweatshop livestock auto-tune?

Pimienta’s vocals are primal and fragile as the minimal sampled background sputters and clatters behind her. Lagging with the weight of conflicting culpabilities, McCarthy languidly sums up the earlier verses with the brilliant phrase “porno kingdom cum,” and then debt anxiety creeps in again as he follows it with “we cannot afford this wealth.”

There are more efforts to ease this cognitive dissonance and its discontents. “figure/ground” is achingly beautiful and soulful, easily oscillating between a foreground of smooth woodwind sound and a background of stuttering, glitchy beats liberated from Radiohead. Trapped between order and entropy, McCarthy’s vocals are striving yet dropping at the end of each line, lapping at and slowly eroding his own footing. In “philosophka,” access, and the choices it presumably offers, only succeeds in smothering you with the ghosts of the “what if” and the circling paranoia of always missing something. Embattled by expectations, McCarthy quietly sings, “Spoiled for choice don’t make me free, this is a necessity.”

In “little rain,” apocalyptic fervor dissipates into an honest message to a future generation, in this particular case, an infant son. McCarthy’s vocals are soothing in their melancholic glissandos, as the synth sounds drip and drop, rolling like tears from beneath a blindfold. It’s a refreshing conception of “the child,” resisting the simple purity/innocence/hope for the future trope; McCarthy sings, “I’m disinclined to see you for the dream you are, little boy, for I know what dreams can become.” The further lament of “cry out your goddamned eyes at the movies” spins through slices of distortion as it bisects, dissects, intersects, intertexts, sexes, vexes. There is only a superficial catharsis. The self-aware-monster-inside motif, similar to that of Kevin Barnes’s more recent material, does not provide relief or a way forward. “cry out your goddamned eyes at the movies,” along with the track “Trust,” warps Marvin Gaye references into a brittle rendering of passionate resignation.

Rather than a desensitizing lyrical crutch, the extended use of “fuck” on five out of the eleven songs displays a nuanced polyvalence, placing carnality on a parallel plane with ruin, hopelessness, frustration, manipulation, and hostility. You get the feeling that we are all being endlessly violated by circumstance, and that sex and intimacy are just other parts of the broken system. Many of the comedown moments in sweatshop feel like coiling up in an empty, post-coitus position after being consentingly fucked by capitalism.

sweatshop sounds like inner war, the struggling and juggling under the weight of hypocritical, perhaps nonsensical, guilt. It asks the question of how we can truly protest, especially when the technologies that allow for pockets of protest to form around the world are the same that devastate the environment, exploit others’ labour, and depend on the corporate states. As we all move toward immaterial labour, playbour, affective labour, etc., which is often overlooked in terms of capitalistic value, we are ever more implicated. At the heart of this first question, is another one: What do we truly “need”? Perfection is impossible, happiness is temporary, and progress is a myth. Is seeing the world rightly enough? I’m inclined to think so, especially as I see despair as more productive than joy, and depressive people as having a firmer grip on reality than anyone else. When all of the manufactured stabilizers, like the nation state, religion, science, time, Humanism, and monogamous relationships, are removed, there could perhaps be an opening for a new model; however, as sweatshop intimates, we will probably make new fictions to cope. At the same time that so many British musicians are exploring the failed utopias of modernism and social welfare, the Canadian Pale Eyes have moved in a different, less nostalgic, way to try to take up the same challenges. They have also succeeded in penetrating my general numbness, making me feel bad, and then making me wonder why I should feel that way.

sweatshop is released on August 6 via Bandcamp. See the Pale Eyes website for further details and updates.

kltr kma – Pale Eyes

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The Blueprint for Sham Ruins: Manic Street Preachers’ Generation Terrorists Revisited

Manic Street Preachers - Generation Terrorists

For the past seventeen years, the Manic Street Preachers have been repeating their trauma, not only in the context of their songs, but also in the re-telling of their story. Particularly in the last seven years, via interviews in various media, anniversary edition DVD features, retrospective boxsets, and Nicky Wire’s Polaroid collection published by Faber, they’ve been reinforcing their history and legacy. More than most bands, they were born to do this kind of reminiscing and cataloguing. Their entire essence is built upon reflexivity and myth-making. Now twenty years after their debut album, Generation Terrorists, they are returning to the beginning. I’ve already written about my emotional and intellectual experience of the Manic Street Preachers’ first record at The Vinyl Villain, and I’ve written a bit about the band in the context of memory, archive, and monumental ruins, so I hope to achieve something slightly different in this post. On its twentieth anniversary, I want to revisit Generation Terrorists, my second favourite Manics album after The Holy Bible, and deconstruct the extravagant blueprint from which James Dean Bradfield, Richey Edwards, Sean Moore, and Nicky Wire built. There’s an element of the trümmerfrau in this work.

Unlike their two “masterpieces” The Holy Bible and Everything Must Go, which both received anniversary edition treatments one decade after their respective releases, the Manics’ debut album had to wait twice that amount of time. Most don’t consider it a masterpiece; it’s too long, it’s too ambitious, it’s too naïve, it’s too uneven. In his mini-essay, “Assassinated Beauty – An Appreciation of Generation Terrorists” for the twentieth anniversary collector’s edition, band biographer Simon Price observes: “The album you hold in your hand is not a ‘classic debut,’ nor anything so monolithic or museum-ready. It does not stand as an engraved marble edifice, immaculate and immovable, facing us down across the ages with its solemn, intimidating certainty.” In recent radio and online interviews, Nicky Wire has referred to Generation Terrorists as their folly. The architecture of Generation Terrorists is definitely on the side of absurd extravagance, but it’s purpose-built despite its hyperbolic ornamentation, perhaps fooling listeners into thinking the Manics were just another trashy hair metal band. Sham ruins that are, nonetheless, “4 real.”

Nicky Wire also lately stated that the Manics wrote their myth before they lived it, an element I alluded to in my observations about The Holy Bible. At the time of Generation Terrorists, they formed an ethos that took the idiotic idiom of cock rock hair metal and turned rock ‘n roll into something worthy of epiphany. They created a rock album and an image that paraded the iconography of the iconoclast, showcasing Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Liz Taylor, crucifixes, and Marlon Brando. They were autodidacts in excelsis, and romantic nihilists. Their soundbites in those first interviews came at you like parallel telegraphing fragments, spoken like some sort of poetry slam contemporary art performance by disaffected zombies who had eaten too many brains—those of Guy Debord, Friedrich Nietzsche, Albert Camus, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Karl Marx—and eventually spat out Plath and Pinter. They managed to fit so many aphorisms into the songs themselves, including the phrase that was originally the title of the album (culture, alienation, boredom, and despair) that their songs actually emulated the pithy style of their interviews:

All we love is lonely wreckage
Nagasaki dolls are burning
Classified machines die misunderstood
Everywhere death row, everyone’s a victim
The only free choice is refusal to pay
Death sanitized through credit
You’re going to pay for my intelligence
Too much comfort to get decadent
Lips I kiss just another plague
Repeat after me, fuck queen and country

Richey Edwards and Nicky Wire melded the sloganeering of groups like the Futurists, Situationists, and Vorticists with the taglines of the globalized branding age. Whilst The Holy Bible is a challenge to memorize and sing along with, Generation Terrorists fully allows for breathless collective moments. Many of the songs from their debut are still in the setlist, and they often provoke the largest reaction. Perhaps this enduring appeal is because their first album is the one most built upon youth, and it’s the one with which the band seemed to have the most fun. Though they delivered the same adrenaline rush as Guns ‘n Roses, their rebellion felt more meaningful, more substantial. As much as the musical content is perceived as secondary to the cut-up lyrics, manifestoes, and DIY glam messthetic, it provides an essential backdrop for the incendiary ideas and internal logic of the band. James Dean Bradfield and Sean Moore proved to be more than competent musicians, creating anthemic music that preached anathema. Their sound wasn’t that of the defeated, nor was it the sound of perfection. It was the necessary emotional appeal to support the lyrical appeal to intellect. They were just as profligate in their music as in their ideas and objectives. For musical ambition gone nuclear, listen to the epic album conclusion “Condemned to Rock ‘n Roll,” which features one of the best howls of existential angst and one of the most blistering guitar solos.

Putting Generation Terrorists into its 1992 context sheds more light on why it was a significant anomaly. The Manics appeared to come through a wormhole that bypassed the Second Summer of Love. If you agree with Joshua Clover’s thesis about music post-1989, music began to reflect a brave new world in which capitalism and the West triumphed as Jesus Jones’s vacuously jubilant “Right Here Right Now” played over top of endless footage of the Berlin Wall coming down. Clover argues that the political rap of artists like Public Enemy, which had aimed at external powers, was shifting into the gangsta rap genre that turned anger and violence in on itself; grunge took the anger of punk, and too, focused it inwards, documenting a more solipsistic struggle; and acid house kept revolution inside the head, producing at best apolitical resistance. I think it’s quite telling that the Manics chose to model themselves off Public Enemy and The Clash; they were wholly out-of-step with their times. They also clearly came out of the decade of Thatcherism and the post-punk/C86 genres it provoked, conveying independent ideals in a commercial package. “Motorcycle Emptiness,” arguably the album’s best track, seems like an uncanny hybrid of The June Brides’ “Josef’s Gone” and The Jesus and Mary Chain’s “April Skies.” Straddling the gap between Madchester and Britpop, which I would contend were also navel-gazing in their parochialism, the Manics were hardly celebratory, especially about their own country. Coming from a working-class, Welsh background and performing a less normative masculinity, they were outsiders, and championed underdogs of sexism, racism, and classism. In Generation Terrorists, the success of capitalism was not met with self-satisfied merriment. The Manics were kicking out in as many directions as possible with the desperate energy of those who may never get another chance.

Prostitution. Democracy. Suicide. Capitalism. Deception. War. Religion. Disease. Anesthetization. Debt. Discrimination. Incarceration. History. Impotence. Censorship. Alienation. The Manics covered an astonishing amount of ground in Generation Terrorists, using the rhetoric of the jaded and degraded to empower themselves. In the mesmerizing lilt of his Welsh accent, Edwards declared: “Our romance is having total power in that we’ve just got nothing to lose ‘cos we’re secure in the knowledge we already lost a long time ago.” This preemptive strike gave them the upper hand, and allowed them to oscillate between two seemingly opposite postures. They performed as spectators and aggressors, the useless generation and generation terrorists. Impulsion and repulsion alternated throughout every track, articulating imagined audiences and alliances, and drawing you in with inclusive pronouns whilst simultaneously addressing a second person enemy: “You are pure, you are snow, we are the useless sluts that they mould,” “We are not your sinners/Our voices are for real,” and “Find your faith in your security/All broken up at seventeen/Jam your brain with broken heroes/ Love your masks, and adore your failure.” The interesting tension extended to the friction between their decadent performance through meticulously crafted, self-conscious semiotics, and their naïve DIY authenticity and aspirations. Their stance was carnivalesque, but genuine. Working-class bright young things.

When I first started listening to the sprawling eighteen-track album, I found the lone cover song “Damn Dog” to be jarring in its simplistic, stripped down lyrics and riffs, and believed it to be filler. But then I watched the 1980 cult film Times Square from whence it came, as befits the typical education arc of a Manics fan (there’s an extensive reading list as well). The film, which stars Robin Johnson and Trini Alvarado as teenage runaways in New York City in the advent of the Times Square clean-up, is just as significant an influence as the myriad theorists and writers the Manics favoured. Conceived of as a punk rock Saturday Night Fever, the film seems easy to mock, along with the earnestness of the two main characters, Nicky Marotta and Pamela Pearl, the former, a street kid with a criminal record and a passion for electric guitar, and the latter, the depressed daughter of the city official who is spearheading the regeneration of Times Square. With its offbeat spoken word poetry, scenes of urban decay, use of bandit eye stripes, escape from shiny consumerism into a fantasy world of rock ‘n roll fame, and gestures of glamorous (self)destruction, it becomes easier to see the connections between the film and the Manics’ early incarnation. There is definitely more to mine in Times Square, not least the lesbian subtext, which was subsumed and suppressed in the final cut. In addition to pushing boundaries of gender, sexuality, and class, the film interrogates the representation of young people, especially girls. It depicts attempts at their containment, and the pathologization of youth itself (the two protagonists meet at a hospital where they are being monitored for mental illness). Another invented disease, indeed. Nicky seemingly poses a threat and challenge to the status quo because she willfully breaks down the division between private and public spheres, toting a boombox rather than a walkman, living on the streets rather than in a house, playing guitar solos in back alleys rather than attending school. Dubbing themselves the Sleeze Sisters, Nicky and Pamela are essentially generation terrorists. Nicky, who sports a haircut reminiscent of Ziggy Stardust and prescient of Nicky Wire’s, says, “Once you’re famous, you can’t just disappear.” It’s a sentiment that the Manics would come to embody in more ways than one. The final scene of the film in which Nicky Marotta gives an illegal rooftop performance of “Damn Dog” to her adoring female fans, who have dressed themselves in bin liners and excessive make-up, echoes the kind of effect the Manics had and have on hardcore fans, who are very often female.

The twentieth anniversary collector’s edition of Generation Terrorists features four discs, including the original album, b-sides, demos, and a DVD, along with other bonus material like a replica backstage pass lanyard and a photograph of Richey Edwards’s “You Love Us” collage. In my opinion, the most valuable items in the box set are a vinyl 10” of their BBC Radio 1 Rock Show Live Session, and the DVD, which includes a documentary about the making of the album; the rest of the material is another case of underestimating the dedicated fanbase. I would think that many fans would already have collected these b-sides and demos as I did. The DVD itself also features a fair amount of re-packaged material, including official music videos and television footage that most fans would have likely already seen, purchased, and/or recorded. In fact, fans probably have a larger, more diverse archive than Sony would ever release. At this point, the more interesting material might be what those outside of the band collect and create. Maybe there needs to be a sequel to Jeremy Deller’s The Uses of Literacy.

The Manics often say that they inspired more dissertations than bands, which is apt, but also unfortunate. I desperately wish for a contemporary band that could match the kind of intelligence, outrageousness, naïve passion, and self-belief that Manics espoused in 1992, but it seems that newer bands who strive to build a more complex, intelligent musical concept either fade into obscurity before they get anywhere, or they struggle on without even a cult following. There are some interesting bands with cult followings and distinct, eccentric images, including the likes of British Sea Power, who has swapped politics for nature obsessions and a quirky antiquarian sensibility. However, the closest to a current band who can offer a lifestyle choice, so to speak, is The Indelicates, who combine intelligence and politics with accessibility, producing a complete world and set of ideologies unto themselves. Interestingly enough, they are in the process of releasing their own musical commentary on social pathologies: Diseases of England. A recent interview with Saint Etienne highlights the lack of contemporary bands to come with an entire worldview, manifesto, and aesthetic. The boring bands who could only talk about their effects pedals have been replaced by the boys in their bedrooms hitting keys on their laptops. You would expect that the current climate of global economic crisis, rampant neoliberalism, mind-numbing, patronizing entertainment, and ongoing threats to freedom and access in the digital environment would produce more bands with an overreaching agenda of anger and passion. Where are the regeneration terrorists? I don’t want an innocuous rock band named after inoculation. I don’t want bands to sing about the fact their generation has nothing to say. In the landfill indie landscape of the recent decade, the Manics’ rubbish looks positively beautiful.

Generation Terrorists wasn’t about being wise and mature, it was about youth and stillborn energy. It was absurd madness proselytized in public. Folly can be defined as mania and rage, sin and harm, glamour and foolishness. Folly is most often associated with the young, and unnecessarily discounted or excused for that reason. Despite this, follies also often remain timeless attractions.

Motorcycle Emptiness – Manic Street Preachers

Generation Terrorists (Live at Hull Adelphi, 1991) – Manic Street Preachers (earlier version of “Stay Beautiful”)

Damn Dog – Robin Johnson

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Myxomatosis #3 – Capitalism is the Crisis

I’ve never paid much attention to London rapper Plan B, aka Ben Drew. He was that rapper/soul singer in a sharp suit, who I vaguely remember performing on the Brit Awards last year. Then Dorian Lynskey wrote this blog post for the Guardian, describing Plan B’s latest Shostakovich-sampling single, “Ill Manors,” as the greatest British protest song to hit the mainstream in years. I would tend to agree with Lynskey. Whether you’re a fan of Plan B’s music or not, and whether you see the “Ill Manors” music video as glorifying last summer’s riots or not, this single is the first real attempt in the realm of popular music to articulate the self-fulfilling pathology of this particular manifestation of class unrest. Question his intentions or method all you like, but at least you’re bothering to question the underlying issue at the same time.

Literally a week after I returned from London last summer, large parts of it were burning, and shops were being looted. Not being a Londoner or having lived there for any considerable amount of time, I didn’t know how to react to the ongoing news footage of the riots. As they spread to other cities around the country and as David Cameron made more speeches about coming down as heavily as possible on the perpetrators, I couldn’t help choking on the hypocrisy. No matter how ambiguous I feel towards the rioters and their seemingly futile actions, I can see that they were used as scapegoats by the government: “Look at how disgustingly materialistic these young poor people are…they rioted for nothing of value, just trainers and electronics. Thank goodness they lived up to violent stereotypes. We can’t imprison bankers, so we’ll make sure we punish the poor to make ourselves feel better, and we’ll feel even more in control in an otherwise uncontrollable situation if we become the noble brandishers of brooms.”

Granted, these seemingly sudden metropolitan revolts are complex and the result of many converging causes, but Owen Hatherley and China Miéville give me, at the very least, a different lens through which I can perceive them. Hatherley, as a socialist and an architectural critic, contends that these riots were inevitable due to the structure of London itself. He highlights the failure of “urban regeneration” and the parallel worlds created by this type of urban planning in which the powerful and powerless live cheek by jowl, the latter rendered invisible to the former. In many ways, Miéville, a writer of urban fantasy, has pointed to a similar unspoken dynamic in his 2009 novel The City & the City, and in this latest essay, “London’s Overthrow,” he traces the faultline of dissent and tension snaking through the English capital, an economic Molotov cocktail that is only exacerbated by the preparation for and arrival of the Olympics. He brings in strikes, council housing, grime music, and diaspora along the way, a chain of meditations on London’s undercurrent of chaos. It may be a bit of a stretch, but I would argue that the recent British television series Misfits expresses the anxieties felt about the young and poor, and in turn, mocks their demonization. In a satirical representation of middle class fear, superpowers are conferred upon the otherwise powerless ASBO bugbears; they then go on to commit ever more graphic, blackly comic acts of violence and chase each other through perpetually grey cityscapes dominated by Brutalist council housing and grim alleys. To push this hypothesis even further, I can hear the sonic similarity between the dystopian drone and harangue of Public Image Ltd.’s “Careering” and The Rapture’s “Echoes,” the theme song for Misfits. The English riots of last August and the ceaseless tensions around economic disparity in the UK are, of course, not the only indication of the enduring recession. They are the surface damage on a diseased ideology.

In the process of trying to figure out what has gone so terribly wrong, we create documentaries like the two-part The Party’s Over: How the West Went Bust on the BBC and the Canadian-produced Capitalism is the Crisis; however, this kind of analysis hasn’t done anything to ameliorate the issue. We know the system is broken, and we can even trace the reasons why, but we are at a complete loss at how to repair it or imagine life without it. Though Canada has ostensibly fared pretty well in the face of the financial meltdown of the Western world, it is by no means immune (it would be preposterous to think any country was safe in a globalized financial catastrophe), and with a Conservative government still in power and various Canadian industries going down with their US counterparts, I don’t feel confident. The last time we had a Conservative regime, we ended up with a massive deficit. This time we could also end up with environmental disaster due to colossal oil pipelines and ongoing support for the oil sands, and continued slashes to public services, the arts, and old-age pensions. All the while, we try to ignore our own parallel world set-up in which we never resolve the past and current mistreatment of Aboriginal people. We have had more regulation than other countries when it came to our banks, but we all know whose interests our Conservative government is protecting. As in England, many of us did not vote for this party. Both of our countries were kicked in the ass by first-past-the-post.

In terms of music, Plan B’s latest single wasn’t the only song to strike me as symptomatic of the seesaw of impending economic apocalypse and hopeless malaise, what Miéville refers to as “outrage-fatigue.” Around the same time, Akira the Don released his rather chipper “We Won’t Be Broke Forever, Baby,” which featured guest vocals from Gruff Rhys; though it doesn’t explicitly reference the current crisis, I can’t help but read it as a comment on the ostensibly never-ending recession. Then, I stumbled across Bernholz, aka Jez Berns, whose latest single is entitled “Austerity Boy.” It ends in a garbled sample of Madonna’s “Material Girl,” simultaneously retooling the greed-is-good, yuppie days of the 80s and recalling the more recent bizarre show of Occupy solidarity from Rufus Wainwright and Sean Lennon. These three songs then inspired the mix below. I’m angry, but I also feel impotent. Changing or improving on capitalism is attempting to reverse a tsunami of over four hundred years of ideology without any conception of or control over where the water could go.

Download Myxomatosis #3 here.

The Recession Song – The Indelicates featuring Mikey Art Brut, Nicky Biscuit, and Keith TOTP

Career Opportunities – The Clash

The Party’s Over – Jonny Cola and the A-Grades

Council Home – Denim

The Day That Thatcher Dies – Hefner

We Won’t Be Broke Forever, Baby – Akira the Don featuring Gruff Rhys

Wall Street – Johnny Boy

Credit in the Straight World – Young Marble Giants

Money (That’s What I Want) – The Flying Lizards

To Hell With Poverty! – Gang of Four

Rock for Sustainable Capitalism – Propagandhi

Mathematics of Chaos – Killing Joke

Ill Manors (The Prodigy Remix) – Plan B

No Future Shock – TV on the Radio

Volatile Times – IAMX

The Drinking Song of the Merchant Bankers – McCarthy

Austerity Boy – Bernholz

I Love the Sound of Breaking Glass – Luke Haines

Poverty – David Shane Smith

The New Improved Hypocrisy – The Radio Dept.

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