As an instantly updated, live streaming pantheon of information, the internet is, clearly, the one source that has the potential to unite people everywhere through the establishment of channels of debate and fresh news bulletins. The BBC, CNN and other news networks no longer control news content; with a population that has access to forums where they can post their views, updates appear much faster than correspondents on the ground can react. This much is obvious. But it seems that so much of this story, perhaps the most tragic single event in the USA since 9/11 (see the common theme with the branding?) has been generated, distributed, reacted to and developed online, by those who were there, who took mobile phone videos, pictures, who called their friends and families, and who witnessed the events first hand. Especially in a situation that was already confusing, what with the second attack following the first two hours or so later on, you could be forgiven for thinking that an excess of information would cloud the issue further, and make it even more difficult to decipher. But, and I hate to sound morbid (if I do please forgive me), the atrocity in question seems to lend itself rather well to the proliferation of online data – between the first and second attacks, the killer, Cho Seung-Hui, sent a package to the US news network NBC which included a ‘manifesto’ (view the truncated version here) and twenty-three videos. NBC, out to attract as much attention to themselves as possible (and who can blame them – any other network would do exactly the same, which is why the criticism leveled at Al-Jazeera for showing clips of Osama Bin-Laden’s speeches is entirely hypocritical) posted the information on the internet, including the video which has become notorious.

Of course, all of this flew around the web at such a fast pace that very few people could keep up – with Hui’s guilt sealed, searches rocketed – even today, the terms ‘cho seung-hui’ and ‘virginia tech’ are still (at time of writing) top of Technorati’s blog search list. It is a testament to the power of the internet that for many it is their first port of call for information of all kinds, a fact which often makes me despair. The quality of the content does, of course, vary wildly, from ill-informed diary entries, to musings about whether he was possessed by the devil, to level-headed commentary. Intersecting it all, there are some nice gestures, like this blog, set up on WordPress just to act as a noticeboard for people who want information about friends or family members, or ‘Hokies 4/16: A Memorial Project’, which is pretty self-explanatory. User-generated content ruled the day, especially clips taken on mobile phone cameras:

The tragedy about using media distribution channels like youtube for subjects like this is that the gravity inevitably becomes lost – internet viewers, raised on films and games, experts at becoming detached from reality, go mad with exclamation marks (“VIRGINIA TECH SHOOTINGS – Cell phone reporter from VT campus!”) and trivialise matters with inane abbreviations (” wow.. i wonder who was the one screaming after the video ended.. itr kinda sounded like the guy… omg … this is crazy”). And I can’t help but wonder why someone would wish to post their experiences on the internet; at times, it seems as though the rival camera clips tussling for top billing on popurls.com and digg.com are engaged in a sick war of one-upmanship, as though their fateful recordings of muffled gunshots are worth more than those made by other people.

And then the backlash against multimedia, web-based intervention began. Questions have been asked about how college killings have become an aspect of American alternative culture – Cho Seung-Hui, in his rambled testament, talked about martyrs “like Eric and Dylan”, the two boys who carried out the Columbine killings. The police carrying out the investigation, family members and students at VT have branded NBC “insensitive” for broadcasting the material, while many bloggers have been quick to establish a form of internet self-regulation by lambasting the presentation of the workings of a deranged mind. Harry Shearer, who writes for The Huffington Post (one of the US’ foremost politically opinionated blogular platforms) said this: “what is the possible journalistic explanation for splashing Cho’s self-dramatizing poses and self-justifying bullshit over network and cable air?” He goes on: “…a hundred thousand self-pitying mentally ill young men (and women?) have just been shown the road to glory one more time.” A fair point, and one that many other media figures have been quick to make. It is the instant update nature of the internet that makes this cycle of comment and counter-comment inevitable; the preliminary assessment and the rush and the push to get there first lead to mistakes. Of course, the video clips and the photos from Cho’s ‘media manifesto’ were also shown on television, but it was the web that seized the initiative and made the most of the material, with browsers able to play and replay material, forward it, blog it and comment on it. Youtube’s facility for posting video responses to existing footage seems worthy of mention:

And, of course, the moderating commentators (everyone, basically) react: “nice try, but you never really addressed the point…the video of the guy is out there, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not, and your so called “protest” isn’t really doing much damage to the viewings of the killer video’s so your ‘boycott’ or ‘protest’ is pretty much nullified.”

But now everyone who follows the news has had the opportunity to give their two-cents about Cho’s paralysis of moral objectivity, the “almost pornographic” (as one prominent newspaper commentator put it) nature of the spectacle has become tired faster than most stories; it is a sorry state of affairs when tragedy falls from being newsworthy, but it seems like it will go that way. The horror of the event has been overshadowed by the ill thought out news coverage it received. Every possible avenue of investigation has already been followed and NBC have come away with a bloody nose – but if they ever get the opportunity to throw another story to the internet-based lions, don’t think they’ll pass it up.

Zeitgeisting It Up! – This week’s report from Google’s popular searches list centres around the death of Kurt Vonnegut, one of America’s most respected authors, who wrote Slaughterhouse-Five and Cat’s Cradle (among other things, obviously). The Times can manage a better obituary than me, so I’ll let you peruse what they have to say.

“Don’t move,” he thought to himself in a whisper, “don’t move or the peace and quiet might dissipate. And when there’s no peace, there’s stress.” Stress, the killer stalking John and his jumpy heart, and the reason for his enforced move to the country and for his convalescent position. So, to avoid the trap, he gripped the thick arms tight so as to become immovable, and his thoughts turned to his recovery.

“The heart, the heart comes first,” he thought. “Just sit tight and for god’s sake relax and bloody hell that wasp is doing a lot of circling but RELAX.” And with the assertion of the relax, he sighed. The word itself was a claming tone; the x was so easy, such a deeply satisfying finish to a word.

“But I like assonance,” thought John. “I like the hissing.” Then it struck him: “like stress…I like the assonance in the word stress…maybe I should be an s, coiled and sprung, like a sssnake,” he mused. “No! Grip tighter. Be calm. Reach for help.” And with that, his right hand reached out blindly to the table where he kept tablets and soft (smooth, pure and easy) orange juice. No bits for him, no sir. Coarseness would not be tolerated. One tablet two, gulp gulp, and the simmering in his veins receded. He relaxed.

His nurse was in the garden, pottering. Her name was Daisy, very calm. But daisies spread across the garden, he thought, like she is now. They make a mess, like she is now. Stop! The yell entered his throat but didn’t pass his lips; he hushed it, flattened it at the last moment and choked on his half-swallowed words. Relaxed men don’t yell, said the tablets as they cruised (smooth transit) to his brain to numb the fire. But the choking had been rather unpleasant; he was spluttering, coughing and hacking like a smoker (stressed individuals), and Daisy was running towards him, yelling (yelling! After all he’d been through!) for help from her colleagues (she was, after all, part of a chain). She grabbed John and repeated his name until the coughing passed and he fell back in his chair, exhausted but also delighted with the panic. His heart had soared to new beating heights – thump, thump, thump, and he yelled, triumphantly, “I’m fine!”

“Just relax,” she said, and went back to pottering.

“This relaxing isn’t easy,” thought John. Daisy had put an enormous parasol over his chair to keep the sun, wasps and stress away. “Assonance again, banish the hissing s sounds, forget them.” He whispered to himself. The enormous parasol drooped at the edges and made him look even sillier in his chair – the thought had crossed his mind before, but Daisy had told him that it wasn’t important; nothing was, apart from the heart. His heart. He sighed, and tried to make his peace with the situation. Lunchtime had come and gone, and as usual he had calmly pushed his green salad to one side without touching it. And, as usual, Daisy had protested, but she also remained calm. Sometimes he wished she would get angry, turn over the tray and yell; then his heart might start thumping again, which would surely be better than it weakly ticking. But people like Daisy are a mystery; no one knows where they sleep, eat and perform all their bodily functions. They exist to be called names like Daisy, and to revel in their own supposed sweetness – they don’t get ill, as normal people do, they’re steady, steady and relaxed individuals. Nothing bad for Daisy, got to look after the heart. Her heart. She was simple, but that was allowed, preferred even. Any complex sharp edges would be prone to tear at stressed, assonated individuals like John, men who burnet blue fire for years, then sunk, in a funk, into a decade (perhaps two?) of malaise and parasols. John too had lost his edges, Daisy had made sure of that. Her words and the soft, swelling x of relax had filed them down, blunted them. Now they were two rounded pebbles, slowly, softly, grating against each other on the beach. But Daisy, being a lovely young lady, had no view on the matter: “got to look after you heart,” she would say incessantly; “heart heart heart, for god’s sake woman have a heart!” Again the words were close to passing his lips, but the drive wasn’t there anymore; nothing existed to John now but his chair, the parasol, Daisy, and the knowledge that, as though trapped in quick sand, he would sink into death with a gurgle and a whimper, the doctor (being sharper than Daisy) having given him a year. And, like quicksand, the harder he struggled against it the sooner it would come. This certainly seemed to be Daisy’s philosophy. But he was tired of her condescension, and yearned to be at the helm again. “Don’t be daft,” he told himself, “just sit tight and wait for dinner.” Dinner. Daisy called it tea; she would come out with a little tray and genially say “teatime”, and then “enjoy.” And the way she walked! No scuff, no drag, quick, brisk perfection, heels raised high in raised high heels; maybe today she’d be humming again. Well, not on my watch she’s not, yelled John in his head – but it had crossed his lips! “Not on my watch! Not on my watch! Not on my watch!” He repeated joyously, upturning the little tray and dashing onto the lawn. He could hear yells from the house and see figures to his right, stressed (stressed!) little nurses in their aprons and sensible hair. “John, John!” They cried helplessly. “Piss off!” He cried, deliriously happy, and then: “I’m assonating, and you can’t stop me!” Giggling like a baby he ran between them, dodging and diving, laughing and poking fun; he knocked over the chair and parasol with an out flung right arm and then, sensing an opportunity for more fun, threw out his left, took off in his mind and strafed Daisy with a rat-a-tat-tat! And down she went, swirling and twirling towards the hard concrete of the patio and then kaboom! Another kill for John! Another mark beneath the cockpit! But then, out of the sun, came another, and he sensed fire in his left wing and tumbled, tumbled, tumbled…

Daisy hurried to where John lay on the grass, still wondering what the rat-a-tat-tat had been for. A quick feel of his pulse showed him to be dead. A year, she thought. He had a year but he’d thrown it away.

By Chris Rogers

‘Pigs are actually very clever,’ someone replied. ‘The average pig is as intelligent as a three year old child’.

‘Yes, but they are still ignorant of their own existence,’ said the voice again. A long haired guy next to me was drooling, but I don’t think he realised. A television was making noise somewhere, and I realised I had gone too far.

‘Fuck you. Fuck all of you!’

A horrible fear was kicking in – everything was moving too fast, too many thoughts, none of them satisfying. Time rolled on, and I realised I had no idea how long we’d been sat there in the dark silence in our New York hotel room.

‘What time is it?’

I think that was me, but I couldn’t be sure. It couldn’t have been the drool guy because he was now dozing quietly, a long trail of saliva running from his mouth down onto his crotch.

‘Eight.’

‘Wha, i’moiain?’

‘What?’

I realised I had been slurring my words rather torrentially, and tried to start again.

‘In the – er – morning?’

‘Yes.’

I got up and stumbled to the window, opened the thick red curtains a crack, and a shaft of white light stabbed into the room.

They say every action has a reaction, to which this one was ‘Oh fuck. Errgh…’ Someone was evidently not happy with the light. I shut the curtains again with a determined yank.

‘We must leave’ I announced. ‘I need to get out.’ We’d been in there for what seemed like days, and I was starting to lost track of why we’d even come to this city. Ah yes, the ART!

‘Come on you sordid fuckers, we’re in New York! Get off your arses, let’s go!’ The sick feeling in my stomach was gone now – day had given me a second wind, and I wanted to go PS1.

And so we found ourselves on Lexington Avenue, and after a quick bagel at Scotty’s Diner – mostly to stave off the absorption of any more booze from our stomachs into our blood stream for at least another half hour – we headed off towards Central Station to get the subway. Lighting up a cigarette, the sharp cold wind hit my fingers. Leaving your warm hotel in February in New York is like jumping in a lake in Cumbria in Winter. We sped up, and soon we were huddled in a speeding metal tube on our way to Queens. We’d only been there a week, but one of New York’s many virtues is how welcoming it is. The city is laid out in a simple, logical way, so after a single day you feel completely confident navigating around. Complemented by the friendly Manhattan people, always prepared to help, we already felt like locals.

On arrival at Queens however, we realised how wrong we were. This was a different place altogether – no high rise buildings, less hustle-bustle, and the familiar brand names that we found so comforting in Manhattan were nowhere to be seen. The sun was shining, however, and its warmth was beginning to cut through the icy breeze. Time for another cigarette, and on to PS1.

‘This is the place’ Ralph said.

‘What do you mean?’ I replied, confused by his abstract, random remark.

‘Things really mean stuff here. Or stuff really means things. I’m not sure.’ But he was right. In New York, if you did something, it would have an effect. Back in England, I felt that anything we said, did or made would spread a short way like ripples in a pond, but the ripples would slowly die our before they got anywhere. Here, do anything, and the effects were almost immediately visible. Before you could start thinking about what to do next, the ripples would be coming right back at you. I suddenly understood why so many artists and musicians had found fame in New York.

PS1 truly was a headfuck, helped in no way by our somewhat fragile states of mind at that time in the morning. We’d been up all night, and like Raoul Duke, were in no mood for coffee or donuts. The idea behind the place was bizarre – a cross between a college, a commune, and a gallery – a concoction so fucked it could only have been created by an American. Upon entering, a lady made me give her two dollars. I didn’t really know why, but the big angry looking black guy stood next to her made me feel like I should. After we paid our money to see this freak show of ideas, we started to explore.

Any of you who have been to a normal gallery will probably have taken some solace in it’s user-friendliness – without realising it you walk around the gallery in the same way as everyone else – big writing explains to you what is happening, who the artists are, and what they did, and this comforts you. You feel reassured, safe and happy. Needless to say, I was neither reassured, nor safe, nor happy. My head hated my body, my body hated my head, and all of me hated this place. We didn’t know where to go, what we were looking at or why we were even there.

We wound our way cautiously through the facility, which used to be a school, or so they told us. It reminded me more of an old hospital or prison – all brick and iron. However, it had a definite charm, and as we stumbled upon random drawings, etchings and scribbles on the walls, we asked ourselves who did them. Was it the students? Perhaps it was some visitors. It couldn’t be the teachers, could it? Were there teachers? Too many questions again, rushing around and around, spiralling away and making my head hurt. We entered an underground room with exposed piping – an old basement storage room perhaps – and began looking around to see if there was any art here, or if it actually was just a disused room. A security lady was looking round the door at us with an expression I couldn’t quite discern. She seemed a little confused, as if she had even less idea what was going on in this place than we did. All of a sudden, a blast of sound emanated from huge speakers. Others began to make noises too, and we realised there were five or six of them around the room. Vast, mechanical noises, so loud you could comprehend nothing else. Then silence. I began to understand what was going on here.

Later, we came to a room with nothing in but two ladders going up through holes in the ceiling.

‘Is this art?’ asked Fergus, obviously as confused as the rest of us.

‘I don’t think so,’ Owen replied, ‘but I can’t be sure’.

We must have done too much last night, I concluded. We didn’t even know what was art, and what was just stuff. And we were art students; we were supposed to understand this shit. Had other students from our trip come here? I bet they’d understood it, the bastards. I had to do a write up on this stuff. How could I possibly do a write up on ladders – if they even were the art? Ladders for Christ’s sake! We’d fucked up. We’d be found out, kicked out of college, and resigned to working for B&Q for the rest of our days. This was a disaster.

However, looking around, I realised no-one else knew what the hell was going on either. This made me feel better – it was simply this place that was so backwards and stupid. I noticed a sign on the wall:

CLIMB LADDERS AT YOUR OWN RISK

‘I’d better do what it says,’ I thought. ‘This isn’t the kind of place you want to upset.’ Poking my head through the holes in the ceiling, I was overcome by an intense rush of blue and white. I nearly fell off the ladder, but some part of me realised this would be a bad idea. I looked out across what can only be described as an ocean – crisp white icebergs were floating on a blue sea, and my head was emerging from the depths of this ocean. Suddenly, Owen’s blonde mane popped up opposite me – he must have been on the other ladder.

‘Fuck!’ he shouted. ‘What the tits?!’ The two of us collapsed in laughter at the insanity of what was going on, but at the same time we were both stunned by its genius.

The ‘Emergency Room’ was even stranger. Scribbled notes were pinned up everywhere, videos showing Bush and Iraq were playing with no sound, and nail bombs with name tags of the London bus bombing victims sat in the middle of the room. Next door, the delay room attempted to offer some vague explanation of the idea behind this delay room. The basic idea was one of immediacy and improvisation – nothing should be planned or contrived, and the work is changed every day, replaced with new ideas. This was the cutting edge of contemporary art, we had been told – hotter even than Matthew Barney, aka ‘The Shiz’. This was the now artscene, it was immediate, it was happening – but was it just pretentious bollocks?

It was certainly beyond my comprehension, especially considering the circumstances. Ralph was stood next to me, shaking his head in utter despair – he later explained to me that the experience had changed the whole way he saw art, and to an extent it had changed my views and understanding too. There was only one answer. More gin.

Although upon first listen one might think that the lyrics are solely about drug abuse, particularly of the hallucinogen LSD, and though on one level you may be right, there are some deep meaningful statements made. The first line that fascinates me is this:

“LSD hints to us that there is an area of the mind which could be called unsane, beyond sanity and yet not insane.”

I believe that this ‘unsane’ can be compared to a state of ‘no mind’ often referred to in Zen koans. This is a state in which the unnecessary thought processes of the mind – such as emotions like fear, and worry do not exist, nor does the concept of time (i.e. using the future to avoid the present moment, if, for example, it is currently unpleasant). This state is one in which you becoming totally aware of your body, ignoring the conversations of thought, giving much more of a connection to the world around you. It could almost be seen as a point of both super-sanity and super-insanity, where the two extremes join to create an absence, yet presence of both at exactly the same time.

“They are afraid that there is more to reality than they have ever confronted. That there are doors that they are afraid to go in and they don’t want us to go in there either because if we go in, there we might learn something that they don’t know”

This line is even more intriguing… in 1965 the US government passed a freedom of information act – this was entitled ‘The Sunshine Law.’ This was also, perversely, the year acid became illegal… it earned itself the nickname ‘sunshine’ due to the ‘shedding of light on reality and whatnot.’ From my limited knowledge, I think one of the reasons the drug became illegal was due to the new realisations of reality experienced by many of the bohemian types of the time, leading them to start to drop out of society, as Timothy Leary’s famous quote goes ‘tune in, turn on, drop out.’ The obvious example of this I can muster is Jack Kerouac’s novel, On The Road, telling the story of a man fed up with society, working to have his money taxed – the usual story .This line, from the song ‘LSD,’ is definitely a reference to this.

These musicians are obviously very wise people – apparent from the complexities of the music, so well composed and arranged, it is possible to imagine the music being written down immediately upon waking from a dream.

“During [the first] stage, the dream is beautiful. The second stage… is not quite so long… and it’s a little unsettling… and there’s an element of instability in it… a certain touch of insecurity… In the third stage which is not… again so long… the forces of light and the forces of darkness of good and of evil are equally balanced.”

This statement can be taken on a huge number of levels, but at base it describes the myriad of experience and life: birth and death, happiness and sorrow, and the fractal nature of the universe. Every level that one can experience, or indeed imagine is identical to any other, though there appears to be differences, or maybe a series of ‘stages,’ life is still nothing more than a circle.

Jimmy

Sorry for this being a day late – it was purely the Editor’s fault.

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There has scant been a time in modern history when Iran has spent long outside the spotlights glare. Perhaps it is an echo of its grand past, perhaps it is a defiant attitude of a people who feel it to be their birthright to be noticed but for good or ill, Iran is important. It has had a state that has for over a hundred years been loathed either by its own people or by those outside, often both. Today, we are faced by an Iran headed by the conservative cleric, Supreme leader Ali Khamenei and a radical populist, President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. It is fermenting trouble in its region, it is accused of seeking nuclear weapons, regularly spitting anti Zionist rhetoric, known for oppressing its own people, and interfering in Iraq. And yet, of all the world’s “outposts of tyranny,” Iran is the home of surprising nuance, and a more open system and culture than one might think. It has not been ground into poverty through incompetent Government; indeed it is broadly comparable to Turkey in statistics (Population and GDP per person at purchasing power parity). Unlike North Korea or Burma, it is no secretive monolith, devoid of audible opposition. Unlike Zimbabwe, Sudan or any number of other African dictatorships, it is not especially corrupt, nor is it run for personal gain. Indeed, it can claim credibly to be one of the most plural democracies in the region, in this it is only beaten by Israel, the Palestinian Authority and Lebanon. Its Unicameral Parliament is fully elected through universal suffrage; the same is true for the office of president, an office with the power to appoint the government. It is often suggested that a true democracy is one that can produce a surprise result; the 2005 election of Ahmadinejad was just that. There is an 86 member Assembly of Experts, elected in eight year terms, which choose the supreme leader, and are able to fire or hire him at any time. Democracy in not just about procedure, it is as much about freedom of association and speech. In this Iran compares favourably to most Arab states; protests are small but common; the president has been heckled, even egged on occasions, without anything of the violent recriminations one would expect in Zimbabwe, Saudi Arabia or from John Prescott. The press is also surprisingly free (more a credit to courageous editors and journalists than state benevolence), editorials regularly lambaste the government for incompetence and the blogosphere is alive with dissent that comes not just from noisy exiles, as we saw in Iraq and see in other dictatorships, but from those still living in the country. Reformist presidents and members of parliament have also been elected; people who sought to improve relationships with the west and pluralize the system of government, views that run counter to those of the conservative elite. Women and minorities, including a Jew, have also been elected to parliament.

That is a rose tinted picture, empty of the many just criticisms. The press is given a very hard time, a handful of political prisoners still exist, newspapers are often closed, and this became more prevalent in the early naughties, when the reformist president Khatami prompted a backlash from the Conservative elite. The Parliament and the president may be elected, but candidates must be approved by the “council of guardians,” A body of twelve, half appointed be the supreme leader and half appointed by the head of the judiciary (then they must be approved by parliament); the head of the judiciary is also appointed directly by the supreme leader. The Assembly of Experts must also be religiously trained (though liberals have challenged this). The supreme leader also holds power over the army and police, as well as appointing a hugely powerful expediency council who can manipulate politics, as they did in 2004, when they ensured that nearly all liberal candidates were barred from standing in Parliament, in a deliberate snub of the courageously reformist then president Khatami. So, the procedures of government are far from perfect and there is little separation of Legislature, Judiciary and Executive, but directly or indirectly, all arms of government are accountable to some democratically elected body. If the overwhelming will of the public was towards reform, the electoral process of changing the Council of Experts, the Parliament, the supreme leader and the President could be achieved. From this point the President could appoint a government that would change the constitution and the new supreme leader would support it. It is a very convoluted, almost imposable path to reform, but it exists, more than can be said of a truer autocracy like that of Saudi Arabia.

Ever since the Islamic revolution in November 1979, led by the first supreme leader Ayatollah Khomeini, the west, especially the US, whose embassy staff were taken hostage for 444 days, have been sour. Given Iran’s nuances, surprising appetite for pluralism and its election of a reformist president (Khatami) in 1997 and 2001, is as odd as it is disappointing. One would have thought that the West would have sought moderate partners to deal with, improving relationships, and Iran’s moderates would have been emboldened by the benefits they could bring to their country from closer ties to rich countries, especially given their vast reserves of oil, the third largest easily available reserves on earth. The key factor in maintaining the hostility has been an Iranian national psyche scarred by the series of exploitations and shameful betrayals perpetrated by the west pushing Iran into a reactionary hostility, and a lack of vision in the west, where we are often incapable of seeing Iran as anything but the autocratic, confrontational monolith that it isn’t, or at least does not have to be. The sad truth is that if you besiege a county like we have done Iran, it will inevitably gain a siege mentality. In the Past hundred years, we have done much harm to Iran, emboldening its extremists and comprehensively discrediting its moderates.

In the power tussles between Britain and Russia that followed the fall of the Shiite Safavid Empire, Britain came off better. In 1903, the D’Arcy oil concession signed over the drilling rights for Iran’s oil to the UK (Anglo Iranian (later becoming BP)); by the 1940s 85 percent of oil profits went to Britain. This concession was made by a Turkmen, a man who most Iranians saw as a foreigner and this was the basis of hatred and distrust of imperialism during the larger part of the 20th century. After World War One, the USSR had lost most of its appetite for imperialism (for a time), Iran had ceased to have value as a buffer against the now fallen Ottoman empire and had become a purely commercial exploit. Iran had signed a constitution in 1909, allowing for a degree of democracy; reformers had hoped that this would strengthen the country against Russia and Britain, but it was seldom adhered to; Reza Kahn, a Cossack army officer, staged a coup and appointed himself king, or Shah. Anglo Iranian assumed a role similar to that of the British East India Company, bribing and brokering power. World War Two made Iran even more critical; Oil was a key resource, and Iran showed some sign of strengthening its ties with the Germans, so the Allies invaded in 1941. The Iranians were hugely sidelined; by this time nearly all oil profits went to the British. It was after World War Two, a time when Iran took its first, arguably only, foray into democracy, when Iran tried to rectify this. People could smell the death of empire, Ghandi had been victorious in India, colonies were developing strong independence movements and dependencies were showing a greater appetite for nationalism. Mohamed Mossadegh was elected president in 1951; he was popular and fiercely independent. He nationalised the oil industry. Anglo Iranian was to lose out. This sparked the Abadan crisis (named after the oil town of Abadan in the south) when Britain and Iran were brought close to war (this was echoed half a decade later when Egypt’s President Nasser nationalised the Suez canal, bringing Britain and Egypt to a disastrous war). Instead, enlisting the support of the United States by convincing them that Mossadegh was a communist, reliant on the communist party (which he did eventually come to be after the west undermined his other support). They launched a campaign against the man, showing that now sadly commonplace disregard for democracy when it does not produce favourable results. They accused him of being homosexual, fuelled dissident groups, openly suggested that the Shah (by then Reza’s son Mohamed Reza Pahlavi) fire him and take over, sent operatives to stir trouble and staged fake government retaliation, and eventually a coup, Operation AJAX. Mossadegh’s nationalisation may have been bad for the economy, he may have improved relationships with Russia, he may have been authoritarian, but the later two of these were mainly as a response to the unrest fermented by the CIA and the British. The Shah had at first been opposed to taking over, but changed his mind. He was exiled for a short period in January 1953, but returned soon later, and Mossadegh was forced out by a Military coup incited and supplied by the CIA. The Shah appointed a new prime minister, but essentially ruled the country. Anglo Iranian was split between British petroleum (40 percent), five US companies (40 percent) and royal Dutch Shell; in other words, once again, there was very little Iranian about Anglo Iranian. In the 16 years of his rule, the Shah had become a western puppet; he built up a vast and powerful military to act as a buffer against the USSR, supplied by the west and had a network of secret police, the SAVAK, trained by the CIA and Mossad, who tortured and enforced by fear. He was adored by the west and hated by his own people. This was the first of the West’s two great modern betrayals of Iran.

When faced with a dictator, people tend to turn either to democracy and pluralism, or to religion, sometimes both. The Islamic Revolution of February 1979, when the Shah was forced into exile and Ayatollah Khomeini, the spiritual leader who had spent years in exile, returned to become supreme leader was as much a rejection of outside interference and dictatorship as it was an embrace of religious rule. Indeed, liberals played a large part in it; the first president was Mehdi Bazargan, a democracy campaigner who resigned after the siege of the US embassy. The liberals were then crushed as the hostage crisis wore on and Iran became alienated, but they remained a political force, publishing newspapers, running and winning in parliament.

On September the 22nd 1980, Saddam Hussein invaded the newly formed Islamic republic; after initial victories, the Iranians fought back. They looked like they would take Basra and Iraq’s southern oil fields; the west’s second, more vicious betrayal of Iran began. British, American, French and German companies busied themselves selling military hardware from aircraft to nerve agents to Saddam. The Americans gave the Iraqi’s satellite images and sent the navy to “secure oil routes” out of Iraq (they shot down an Iranian airliner in the process). The Iranians, fast running out of the tools of war that the Shah had spent so much money on, were forced to buy weapons from the Chinese, Israel (yes, Israel, the Israelis saw Saddam as a greater threat than the Iranians, they were probably right) and the illegal market; this was not enough, so, under resourced, they resorted to human wave attacks reminiscent of World War One. In nearly eight years, the border moved little, at least half a million died on either side and a generation was left brutalised. More died from the gas we supplied to the Iraqis than died from gas in the Great War. The Iranian government claims that there are two million people still suffering from, or who have died from the after effects of the gas. There are a few who still claim that arming Saddam was the right thing to do; it stopped the radical Islamic government from gaining oil that would have given it the world largest reserves. In truth, it prolonged a war between a small well-armed country and a large poorly armed one. It strengthened the Iraqi dictator, giving him an experienced military apparatus he would later use to invade Kuwait and to oppress his own people. It also provided the perfect emergency in which the Radical Islamists could conduct trials in kangaroo courts and hang former officials of the shah’s Iran and crack down on liberals. Iran did not want to fight the war and if Saddam had felt he could no continue, he would have sued for peace. Just as Russian communism was forged in the cruelty of war, leaving it more callous and militaristic than it begun, and Iran’s Islamic republic was born into a world that hated it. The abused child too often becomes the aggressive adult. Is it any wonder that, after all we have done to it, Iran is so troublesome?

If it was the governments of Ronald Reagan and George Bush in the 80s and early 90s that did a lot to create the unpleasant Iran we face today, it was Bill Clinton and George Bush junior who have missed opportunities to retrieve it. In the year after the Iran Iraq war ended, Ayatollah Khomeini died. His president, Ali Khamenei, took his position. The first elections were held in this year also, and the mild reformist, Ali Rafsanjani won. He began half-heartedly trying to reconcile Iran with the west; at first, this went well, and Iran adhered to the sanctions imposed against Iraq after its invasion of Kuwait. It also began a period of privatisation and economic liberalisation with a view to opening up economic ties with foreign powers. He succeeded in building a good relationship with other Middle Eastern powers, Russia and China; the latter of these relationships still lasts (though mainly due to China’s ravenous desire for oil). But when the UN force drove Iraq out, Iran felt threatened and opposed the war. Under Rafsanjani, the relationship did not heal, and the west, especially the US, refused to deal with Iran until they halted their support for Hezbollah and gave up its quest for nuclear power. It was the 1997 election of Mohammad Khatami that represented a greater missed opportunity. He was a real reformer, a man who had been friends with Mahdi Bazargan while he had been a Member of Parliament until his death in 1995. Khatami’s “dialogue among civilisations” ended the sanctions and EU nations began renewing ties. A graduate in western philosophy, he made it his goal to renew Iran’s standing and negotiate with the west; it is even suggested that he was ready to recognise Israel (though he denied this). At home he put the “twin bills” to Parliament; these shored up democratic control of the government and were supposed to be a launching pad for further reforms, and he was constantly dogged by conservative foes and often by the supreme leader who outranked him, controlling the army and police. In 1998, during the World Cup, he and Bill Clinton met to watch the Iran vs. USA match. For a brief moment it looked like with the scent of better relationships with the US and all that would bring in the air, Iran’s conservatives would relent and Khatami would normalise the situation. Then, in the wake of the US embassy bombings in Kenya and Clinton’s loss of political capital during the Lewinski affair, voices hostile to Iran, accusing it of supporting terrorism, won out and Iran was once again rejected. It was in this time, after the first notable wave of Al Qaeda bombings that the fallacy of Iran’s link to Islamic Terrorism was constructed. Terrorism is a word banded about far too easily; we hear Al Qaeda called terrorists and we hear Hezballah and Hamas called terrorists. To the ill informed or to the Zionist, this has the effect of equating the two, one organisation set on destroying the west and creating a pure Islamic Caliphate across the Muslim world, an irreconcilable aim, and two organisations that seek to drive Israelis out of “Arab” land; a focused, negotiable and in part justifiable aim. Iran supports the latter but not the former. Indeed it suffers from an Al Qaeda linked Sunni militant campaign because many Sunnis see the Shiite republic as an apostasy. Iran supports terrorism of a form, but only in the way that many Americans supported the IRA and the US government supported the “Contras” in Nicaragua. This false link found a new wind after September the 11th as it became used by those who wanted to expand the “war on terror” from Afghanistan to Iran and Iraq. They managed to use it against Saddam’s Iraq, a country whose links to Al Qaeda were even less likely than Iran’s; Bin Laden regularly listed their secular Iraqi leadership among his many grievances around the Middle East. Of course, after 9/11, there was no hope of reconciliation. Khatami may have been victorious in the parliamentary elections of 2000, where the liberals he supported gained a majority, and he had also won a second term in 2001, but the conservatives in the regime became fearful and lashed out at the media, closing down several newspapers and threatening liberal groups. They were helped in this first by the Clinton government’s frostiness, then by the reckless posturing of the Bush administration. It showed Iran’s elite that the liberals could not deliver improvements, that it was better to stick with conservative fervour; at least that caused fear in the markets, driving up oil prices, making them richer. Once Iran was part of the “Axis of Evil,” reformers could no longer claim a clear goal internationally. Both the US and Europe were set on ostracising the country until the regime changed, or was changed. It was this imposed isolation, which had far more to do with the United States’ misguided agenda than any change in Iran that led to the election of the rabble rousing nationalist and former Mayor of Tehran, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Both he and the United States wanted a confrontation, they both got it, and they have both lost a lot. The United States lost because it became clear that their democratising adventure in Iraq had failed and could not be repeated in Iran, making them look weak and allowing dictatorial allies like Saudi Arabia to fill the void and try to contain Iran, thus destroying any claim the US might have had to a principled foreign policy in the wake of September 11th. Iran lost because its brazen leader’s brinkmanship has taken it to greater levels of isolation because of its aggressive foreign policy, nuclear program and support for violent proxies in Iraq, Lebanon and Palestine. What we have seen is that oft repeated spiral of belligerence, action and recrimination. Iran continues funding Hezbollah and pursuing nuclear energy, America presses the UN for sanctions, Iran funds Hezbollah more and pushes harder for nuclear energy. And so on, and so on.

It looks unlikely that with its present leaders Iran will take the initiative and break the trend, so we, the west, must try. First we must acknowledge that there is no miracle cure; Iran will not change its government, stop interfering in the region and abandon its nuclear program whatever we offer it. Indeed, there is nothing we can do to stop the nuclear program or support for terrorism short of an invasion. We would be pushed to do that without introducing conscription. We can freeze bank accounts, only to see truckloads of cash transported, we can bomb facilities only to see them move further underground or to secret locations, we can impose sanctions only to see oil revenues go up due to increased worry on the market. If Iran wants to behave badly, it will. We know that trying to freeze them out does not work; it only alienates liberals and strengthens extremists. The truth is that being “tough on Iran” is being soft on the radicals. What we must do is open up dialogue without precondition. We must understand that when we tell Iran to stop meddling in Iraq, it seems hypocritical because we occupy it. When we tell Iran to stop pursuing nuclear weapons, it seems unfair because we have them and keep quiet about Israel having them. When we tell Iran to stop funding foreign proxies, it seems laughable because Israel is viewed as our proxy and we have tried to rule Iran for centuries through proxies. When Mahmoud Amadinejad claims that America is “the centre of world arrogance,” he may have a point. So long as the conservatives are able to use these depressingly justifiable arguments to prove the hostility of the west, we cannot hope for a friendlier Iran. We must prove that we are no longer the enemy, offer help with their Nuclear power program, take a more balanced view on the Israel-Palestine problem, stop military posturing in the gulf and stop making it apparent that we want to overthrow their government. Once these things are done, extremists like Ahmadinejad will be robbed of a platform and the west could no longer be used as a scapegoat. The reformers will suddenly gain a platform with open talks; they can claim that they have much to offer in normalised relations, trade and investment to offer the country. The Supreme Leader would have a hard task blocking the candidacy of liberals if public opinion was against him, which it would become due to Iran’s tenacious journalists and near universal access to the uncontrollable forums of the internet.

All in all, we must move past the old carrot and stick diplomacy that assumes Iran is a single entity like the state in North Korea, which it is not. We cannot simply resolve to reward Iran if it behaves well and punish it if it behaves badly because punishment is a present to the extremist and tends to punish only those who want to take the country closer to the west. The extremist can play the victim, and the liberal is the victim. All this would not be an easy experience, we would have to deal with an unpleasant regime, it may look like we are rewarding bad behaviour, and it may look like appeasement. But we must remember that Iran is no irrational player, bent on world domination; it has proved time and time again a willingness to act rationally in its own interest. It dealt with Israel during the war with Iraq, it tried to improve ties with the west in the 90s and has fostered good relationships (until the latest round of UN condemnations) with Russia and China. It we make it clear that it is in their interest to work with the west, not against it, that we will stop all connivances against it, Iran will, given time, move towards us. There are already signs that Iran is willing to make compromises to enter talks on its nuclear program, perhaps exchanging more comprehensive monitoring for help on civil nuclear power. There is also speculation that, tired of the conflict and isolation he has brought, the elite of Iran are losing faith in Ahmadinejad; there were rumours in the blogosphere that he was only allowed to present the release of the fifteen hostages as a reward for staying quiet for the thirteen day duration of their captivity. There is also increasing opposition from the public, many of whom are upset by the brinkmanship; and with oil prices having fallen in the last year, he no longer has such a strong economic prop to support the fiscal ineptitude of his government. Do not be surprised if Ahmadinejad is persuaded not to stand for the next election in 2009 or runs and loses. This is even more likely to happen if the next president of the US shows a greater willingness to reward Iran and a lesser willingness to condemn it. There is a lot to hope for in the next few years, there is also a lot of danger. It would only take one act; the kidnap of more Iranian diplomats in Iran (justified or not), a bombing of nuclear sites, an increase in Iran’s support of Shia militias in the face of the failing surge in Iraq or an outbreak of hostilities between Israel and Iran, to push the situation to an irretrievable situation. We must not underestimate Iran’s ability to cause trouble; it could easily precipitate the break-up of Iraq, supporting Shia genocide against Sunnis. This break-up would draw Turkey into conflict with the newly independent Kurdistan, Saudi Arabia into conflict with the Shia areas south of Iraq and Iran. We are not that far from a regional war, fought along religious sectarian lines, and we must do all we can to avoid this; being “tough” with Iran is a sure road to failure. Maybe appeasement should be given a second chance.

Francis Hobson

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The soft rasping of the bread; the top-side texture of the roast beef; these rough and real qualities can both be found in the recording process of Devendra Banhart‘s UK-only The Black Babies EP from which my first track, the psychedelic treasure ‘Surgery I Stole’, is taken from. The process being next to nothing; and the texture a constant hiss and crackle of the four-track in his domestic setting when he was just tentatively discovering his own sound – it is personally my favorite album. Following this stripped down acoustic mood is the more serious ‘Christian Brothers’ from Elliot Smith‘s eponymous second album. Elliot is frequently labeled ‘punk-folk’ because of the all-American hardcore scene he was involved in with band Heatmiser prior to his solo career – which makes him the beef of our sandwich. His vocals may have been spidery and fleeting but their is a solid sense of, well, something; sadness definitely – as well as the mythos based around his destructive lifestyle and horrifying suicide of two stabs with a carving knife to the heart, while sober. A previous attempt was a cliff jump, ending up stabbed but ultimately saved by a tree limb. Grim.

The next track I was hesitant about including but eventually has become of the centre piece of this mini-playlist. Slint‘s Spinderland is hailed by most as the beginning stages as what we now know as Post-Rock although this is neither the dense orchastration of GSYBE or the jazz noodlings of Do Make Say Think. A band with harder roots like Smith, ‘Good Morning, Captain’ is the final and hardest track on the album and also the most creepy (or pretentious, depending on your outlook) – regimented simple instrumental riffing accompanying the ghost story of a ship gone down that, relieves its tension with screaming and fiery stabs of guitar. The mustard is the inspiration for both this and the next selection which is perhaps a more familiar bonus for the Friday release of this column. While my heart most often lies with our American brethren in music we are, of course, in turn an inspiration for their sounds. As quintessentially English as his my favorite mustard (no Dijon, thank-you) so is the music of folk and psychedelia – and Pink Floyd. As a last flourish from mercurial genius Syd Barret (who is apparently a major influence for Banhart) in at the end of A Saucerful of Secrets. Although the lyrics are open to interpretation, the beginning lyrics “It’s awfully considerate of you to think of me here/And I’m most obliged to you for m-making it clear/that I’m not here” are oddly prophetic. I particularly the noisy breakdown and slow and despondent strumming at the end. Magical.

Here is this weeks music.

By jr2015.

P.s. Check out the new E.Smith rarity on Imeem’s homepage – from his new rarities album.

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Brazilian band Cansei de Ser Sexy (Portuguese for ‘tired of being sexy’, CSS for short) are something of a one-off. Many of the songs sound like they were made on a Casio keyboard (and probably were) and singer Lovefoxxx doesn’t seem to fully grasp the English she sings in. For these reasons, you could be excused for thinking CSS are a novelty band, but I would prefer to describe them as ‘fun’, something lacking from a lot of today’s music. Whilst the (brilliantly titled) tracks like ‘Music Is My Hot Hot Sex’ and ‘Lets Make Love And Listen To Death From Above’ live up to this, others such as ‘I Want To Be Your J-Lo’ and ‘Meeting Paris Hilton’ are almost vicious in ridiculing their targets. Visit their MySpace to listen.

Muscles hails from Melbourne, Australia and plays upbeat electro-pop. His vocals have been likened to those of Tunde Adebimpe, lead singer in TV on the Radio, who I have previously discussed in this column. The word I come back to again is fun; stand-out track ‘Ice Cream’ features lyrics such as ‘I just wanna dance with my shirt off’ and ‘Ice cream is going to save the day’. Gorilla Vs Bear predict that it will be the ‘2007 summer jam of the year’. I would also recommend the again food-based ‘Chocolate, Raspberry, Lemon & Lime’. You can listen to and download both of these tracks and others at his website and MySpace.

Tom Vek provides something of a contrast to these two bands. Whilst the London based musician’s debut album ‘We Have Sound’ is not strictly electro, it does include electro elements. In particular ‘C-C (You Set The Fire In Me)’ and ‘Nothing But Green Lights’ feature strong synthesised melodies throughout. B-side ‘Things Are Here To Stay’ (mp3) is very much recommended, with a much heavily electronic based sound. As always, you can listen to other tracks at his MySpace.

Finally, I want to mention Death From Above 1979. Songs from their bass and drum-driven album ‘You’re a Woman, I’m a Machine’ just begged to be used in electro remixes, and ‘Romance Bloody Romance’ is the result of that. The Dahlbäck remix of ‘Romantic Rights’ (click) is especially recommended. In addition, DFA1979 have produced electro remixes of other bands’ tracks, such as Le Tigre’s outstanding ‘Deceptacon.’ After the band split, one half of it (Jesse F. Keeler) formed MSTRKRFT (Mastercraft), an electro group based in Toronto, Canada. Whilst not remixing tracks by bands such as The Gossip, Bloc Party, and, indeed, Death From Above, they produce original material such as ‘Easy Love’ and ‘Work On You’ which you can hear on their MySpace.

By Jamie Holgate

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“I want to write this article as a sliver of the fine art exhibition culture in both my home county, Devon, and its more creatively cultured foil, Cornwall.”

We also had a somewhat biased Roaming Football Column, the return of the Baguette, and a new story from the ever-controversial Reverend:

“By the way, I wish to congratulate Mark on consistently provoking lots of comments.” – Frank

We also had a new Sunshine Experience:

“Best Sunshine Experience Ever! – you will have to share this joy with the world somehow jim” – JR

And there was a new film from James Price, who seems to have become something of a Hashmark regular.

To look forward to this week: Trumpeter’s Iranian epic.

Poetry corner (it’s back! wahey!):

According to Wikipedia,

Tokelau doesn’t have a capital.

Never heard of Tokelau?

There’s a facebook group for that you know

Nelly says there’s no equal

Only she says it in Spanish, or Portuguese

I think she’s Portuguese

So she’s probably singing Portuguese

Those flowers are alive

In the awful sense of the word

Don’t look too hard or else they’ll get eyes

But they already have them, didn’t you know?

And we come to the hidden tracks

Hidden in the metaphorical sense

So well hidden you’d need a magnifying glass –

The wrong way around

Don’t find something that isn’t there.

Tokelau doesn’t have a capital by Med II