Speaking truth to power is the way to go. Using a ukulele to do it isn’t
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Version 0 of 1. If you’re old enough – and I rather hope you are because I may well be using some rather immoderate language later in this piece – you will remember the Golden Age of Music Education. It was a time when every six-year-old in the land was issued with a recorder that they could torment their parents with, hit their peers with, lose, break and, very occasionally, play some sort of “tune” on. Those days are gone now, of course, to the dismay of those of us who believe that arts and culture are part of a well-rounded education, and to the unparalleled relief of every parent who has sat through an idiosyncratically rubato rendering of the first few bars of Frère Jacques. But while music education – and by extension the recorder – may be under pressure from politicians who are more interested in balance sheets than manuscript paper, there is one instrument that has surged in popularity over the past few years. Almost to the point of ubiquity. The uku-bloody-lele. Ukuleles are one of the external signifiers of The New Twee, a cosy fashion cult that’s forgotten whether it’s being ironic or not. Ukes are lightweight four-stringed bantam guitars that are easy to play, colourful to look at and small enough to slip into an organic hemp man-bag. And the sound of one being tuned up, or just rubbed gently against an artisan waistcoat, is enough to send any right-thinking person into a foaming rage. We’ll be back to ukuleles in a sec, but bear with me: this is the part where politics comes in. Five years ago, a large number of voters were so disappointed with the financial prudence of Gordon Brown’s Labour government that they’d have happily replaced dear old Gordo with a £1.99 Ye Olde Oak Ham in a suit. And they very nearly did. I have mixed feelings about David Cameron. On the one hand I deplore his policies. But, on the other, his big pink face reminds me of Boxing Day dinners round at my nan’s. I have mixed feelings, too, about Robin Grey – the protest singer who regaled the prime minister this week, and by extension the nation, with a musical invitation for Dave to return to his alma mater, while wielding the offending instrument. An invitation that was couched in the strongest terms, and accompanied by the same three chords (C, F and G, if you’re keeping score at home) that every other Mumford manqué learned from their My First Ukulele app. On the one hand: bravo, sir – one of the key roles of an artist in society is to speak truth to power. And far too few of our young people infuse their music with that hot flush of rebellion that made the years between 1967 and 1987 such a great time to be a politically posturing teen. On the other hand: shut up. If you’re genuinely cross about the current administration, and there are plenty of reasons why a person might be, don’t strum a toy guitar in a shopping precinct. Make a racket. Get angry. Plug the thing in. Ukuleles might be adequate to the task of amusing your pals as you nestle on a rough-hewn bench while you’re waiting for the barista to craft your no-foam soy lattes, but as a vehicle for political protest they are inadequate, silly, borderline risible. A joke protest makes all protest seem like a joke. And a joke instrument makes all music seem fairly comical, too. Good effort, Robin Grey, with your three quaintly strummed chords, but today’s voters need a furiously loud anthem that makes them feel angry in the ballot box, not a throwaway ditty that makes them feel whimsical in a pop-up burrito bar. |