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Yahoo
7 days ago
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Born to Rant: Springsteen's Truth to Power Screed Is the Rallying Cry We Need
Shakespeare knew it centuries ago: 'The lady doth protest too much, methinks.' Trump's response to Bruce Springsteen's warnings given from a stage in Manchester came quick—loud, erratic, and dripping with grievance. Was this the voice of presidential confidence, or was it the howl of a man watching the walls close in? When power is secure, it whispers. When it's scared, it shouts. And Trump's over-the-top denials say the quiet part out loud: he's terrified. — On January 19, 1967, inside the cavernous walls of Studio One at EMI's Abbey Road Studios, John Lennon and Paul McCartney sat side by side, piecing together what would become the final track of 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.' Lennon, hunched over his acoustic guitar, sang the haunting opening lines of 'A Day in the Life,' while McCartney accompanied him on piano. When he reached the line 'I'd love to turn you on,' the two young songwriters shared a knowing glance. They were fully aware that this phrase would raise eyebrows and likely provoke the BBC, who indeed banned the song for its perceived drug references. Yet, for the Beatles, this line was less about promoting drug use and more about signaling a cultural awakening — a call to consciousness that mirrored the societal shifts of the 1960s. This shift helped fuel a movement that forced the United States to abandon the war in Vietnam — unable to sustain a battle both abroad and at home, America gave in, leaving Vietnam to the Vietnamese. This moment in the studio encapsulated the Beatles' evolving role as not just musicians but as commentators on and catalysts for change. Their music was beginning to reflect a deeper engagement with the world around them, challenging norms and encouraging listeners to question not only their parents, but the status quo. This spirit of defiance is also evident in George Harrison's 'Taxman,' a biting critique of the British government's taxation policies. Frustrated by the exorbitant taxes levied on the band's earnings, Harrison channeled his discontent into a song that pulled no punches in excoriating Great Britain under Harold Wilson, laying bare the inequities of the system. 'Taxman' stands as an early example of the Beatles using their platform to address political issues, setting the stage for the more overtly socially conscious music that would follow. Fast forward through the decades, and the echoes of that Abbey Road rebellion grew louder. From the psychedelic haze of the '60s to the hard-edged protest anthems of the '70s, '80s, and beyond, artists have kept their fingers on the pulse of unrest — using music not as a soothing balm but as a blaring siren. Jimi Hendrix's 'Machine Gun' wasn't just a song; it was a searing lament for Vietnam, a raw, electrified howl of anguish that warned of the blood-soaked cost of war. The Clash's 'Guns of Brixton' captured the clenched fists and breaking glass of racial tension and economic despair in Thatcher's Britain, a warning shot fired not from a rifle, but from a Fender Precision Bass landing in a collective of record players and ricochetting in the heart of the streets, lighting torches of awareness held high by both kids and adults. Bruce Springsteen, ever the chronicler of the American condition, has long carried that torch. His 'Death to My Hometown' is a bitter reckoning with the economic devastation wrought by greed and indifference, while 'The Ghost of Tom Joad' resurrects Steinbeck's specter of the dispossessed, a haunting reminder that the struggle for dignity and justice is far from over. These songs don't just warn—they witness. They record the heartbeat of rebellion, the collective refusal to let power go unchallenged. And they remind us that music, when wielded with purpose, can shake the foundations of the 'system'. And that foundation wasn't just shaken — Bruce rocked it. On May 14, 2025, at Manchester's Co-op Live Arena, Springsteen opened his 'Land of Hope and Dreams' tour with a fiery denunciation of Donald Trump's administration, labeling it 'corrupt, incompetent, and treasonous.' He implored the audience to 'raise your voices against authoritarianism and let freedom ring,' warning that America's foundational values were under siege. He accused the administration of rolling back civil rights, stifling free speech, and aligning with dictators over democratic allies. These remarks were not offhanded—they were recorded and released days later as part of his live EP, 'Land of Hope and Dreams,' which also featured a cover of Bob Dylan's 'Chimes of Freedom,' reinforcing his message of resistance. Trump's response was swift and vitriolic. On Truth Social, he lashed out, calling Springsteen 'a pushy, obnoxious JERK' and a 'dried-out 'prune' of a rocker,' even mocking his appearance. He demanded that Springsteen 'KEEP HIS MOUTH SHUT until he gets back into the Country,' and later suggested investigating him and other artists like Beyoncé and Oprah for their support of Kamala Harris's 2024 campaign—alleging, without evidence, that they were illegally paid for endorsements. But Springsteen wasn't alone. Artists like Neil Young and Eddie Vedder rallied to his defense, denouncing Trump's attacks and affirming the importance of free expression. The American Federation of Musicians also stood in solidarity, emphasizing that musicians have the right to speak out against injustice. — In the aftermath of 9/11, musicians came together at the Concert for the Heroes — their voices unified, rallying beneath the flag of freedom. They sang not just for America, but for the shared humanity that terrorism tried to shatter. I often wonder: if Jimi Hendrix were alive, what would he have made of it all? His blistering, feedback-laden 'Star-Spangled Banner' at Woodstock wasn't just a national anthem—it was a battle cry, a raw, unflinching 'f-you' to anyone who threatened our American ideology. Today, we're fighting a different kind terrorism — one that doesn't come from distant shores, but rises from within. It erodes truth, fans the flames of hate, and chips away at the foundation of democracy itself. Who better to sound the alarm than Bruce Springsteen? His voice is the call to arms we need — a reminder that freedom isn't just a flag we wave, but a fight we must wage. The post Born to Rant: Springsteen's Truth to Power Screed Is the Rallying Cry We Need | Guest Column appeared first on TheWrap.
Telegraph
03-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Telegraph
A fatal flaw in the new Beatles films? Casting big stars
Earlier this week, the world's worst secret was finally revealed. Sam Mendes's new quartet of Beatles films will feature Harris Dickinson, Paul Mescal, Joseph Quinn and Barry Keoghan as John, Paul, George and Ringo respectively. All four actors are star names – and thus the buzz has been considerable. This is a canny move on the part of Sony Pictures. It is a tall order to get audiences to go and see four films in quick succession; indeed some people barely go to the cinema that much in a year. Thus, a fan base which isn't just a Beatles fan base is assured. And yet I see problems with casting such established name players, and not simply because of their ages. Mescal, playing Paul, is 29 – McCartney had already written Hey Jude, Blackbird and A Day in the Life by that age. The fact is that it would have been wonderful to have some unknowns in the lead roles: think of the casting of Aaron Taylor Johnson in Nowhere Boy, and the fresh revelatory performance as the young Lennon which set him on the path to superstardom. Indeed cinema history is full of excellent acting debuts, when a director has taken a chance on someone, whom we then see blossom. Alan Rickman, a long-established stage actor, blew all other film baddies out of the water when he took on Bruce Willis in a dirty vest for the first Die Hard film, but it is unlikely that such a high-stakes role would have been given to an estimable thesp unknown to the majority of the public today. The Beatles news raises the question of authenticity casting. On principle, I am against the idea that an actor should be cast because they have some personal connection to a role – that they have the 'lived experience' necessary for a particular performance. Acting is not, I think, about who you are, but about talent, and thus they should have the opportunity to play anyone. And yet I am slightly disappointed that not one of the actors is from Liverpool. I don't feel as if there should have been X Factor-style auditions in the Fab Four's hometown, but I think casting directors should have been scouring local theatres such as the Everyman for rough-hewn talent, finding a fledgling actor who brings the famous Liverpudlian grit and humour to one of the roles. A quartet of complete unknowns would have been a potential headache, of course: four young shavers on a crash course to global fame, having to navigate intense scrutiny from both the media and the public. But a mixture of big names and smaller ones might have gone down rather well with the public. One problem with casting big names in biopics is that they come with baggage and, to complicate things, they are playing megastars for whom the public have very strong pre-conceived notions. How easy will it be to buy into the idea of Barry Keoghan as lovable, easy-going Ringo, when several of his performances are already etched in the imagination; the abused, adorable Dominic in The Banshees of Inisherin or Oliver, the social-climbing psychopath with a taste for nudity in Saltburn. It is true that some very famous actors have overcome this hurdle – and admirably so: Renée Zellweger as Judy Garland; Michael Douglas as Liberace; Jamie Foxx as Ray Charles. Yet such films get an added thrill when you see a new face inhabiting Elvis (Austin Butler) or Amy Winehouse (Marisa Abela) or Edith Piaf (Marion Cotillard); not simply because you somehow become more susceptible to the psychology of the character they are playing, but it feels like a really exciting discovery. I do think there is a particular problem for casting in general at the moment. While stars have always been used as leverage for getting a project off the ground, it feels like things are getting worse. In an age where TV and film are both obsessed with intellectual property (in other words, things which come with a ready-made audience like Tolkien or Jilly Cooper), to the extent that a story by an unknown quantity can't get commissioned, so it is getting increasingly hard for unknown actors to 'sell' a show or a film. Actually some casting directors are still imaginative – Nina Gold has clearly seen a lot of theatre, hence Star Wars spin off Andor boasting the involvement of such theatrical talents as Denise Gough, Kyle Soller and James McArdle. But you wonder how hard she has to fight for these actors, and whether less influential figures than Gold have to cave in to their bosses who are slaves to the algorithm. The picture is complicated by social media. The Telegraph recently reported on the elemental force of Instagram when it comes to making or breaking careers. A healthy amount of followers on the photo and video-sharing app is going to be attractive to an executive team who need to make money: the problem is that often the best actors are shy, socially awkward, using their talent as a refuge to escape into another world. Thus, building a sort of pictorial brand is the last thing they want to do. I will now hold my tongue until the Beatles films are out, and pass judgment on the performances of Mescal et al. At the very least they will be better than hologrammatic versions of the Fab Four – although I am sure that is not so very far away.
The Guardian
29-03-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Maybe I'm Amazed by John Harris review – a father and his autistic son bond through music
One of my favourite books growing up was my dad's copy of The Beatles Illustrated Lyrics. I spent hours flicking through images of an eyeless, trombone-mouthed golden man swallowing naked bodies, and a full-page, black-and-white comic strip by legendary psychedelic artist Rick Griffin. It didn't matter that I hadn't yet listened to most of the songs – the surreal visual riffs felt like dispatches from an undiscovered country. Later, the Beatles became my favourite band. I chain-listened to the albums, read endless books, watched the movies and recited Beatles' lore to anyone within earshot. 'Oh dear,' said my mum one morning, as I reeled off an account of how a 40-piece orchestra improvised the rising crescendo in A Day in the Life, 'you've become a Beatles bore.' Maybe I'm Amazed opens with John Harris's 15-year-old son, James, ecstatically absorbed in a live performance by Paul McCartney, 'so held in the moment that he is almost in an altered state'. Harris then loops back to before James's birth, and tells the story of his son's arrival, his preschool diagnosis of autism, and how his differences manifest as he grows up. James loves music – the Beatles chief among a rich buffet of bands and tracks he listens to, over and over – and so Harris divides the book into 10 chapters named after songs, each with a particular resonance. Harris writes about music with wit, clarity and a welcome lack of pretension. One chapter takes its cue from Funkadelic's 'weird … incongruous' track Fish, Chips and Sweat – about a carnal encounter that takes as its backdrop 'the least sexy meal imaginable'. Another from Nick Drake's Northern Sky, a song whose lyrics evoke 'a sudden euphoria that leaves you silent, and still'. Harris even bravely attempts a rehabilitation of Baker Street, 'a masterclass in the arts of arrangement and production', so hackneyed from familiarity we might miss the complicated stories implied by its 'sparse, carefully chosen words'. Threaded throughout this are he and his wife Ginny's struggles and anxieties around parenthood, and James's emerging strengths and challenges. He demonstrates absolute pitch – the ability to instantly identify individual notes – and can name the keys of random songs played to him on Spotify. 'Imagine having as instinctive and vivid a connection with music as this,' muses Harris. 'From time to time, James speaks to me using songs,' he writes, recounting a moment when, after refusing to go to school, James commands Alexa to play the Smiths' The Headmaster Ritual, with its lyrics 'Give up education as a bad mistake'. As a parent, I recognise the all‑consuming worry described here. Harris and his wife quickly find that support for children with special educational needs is callously absent – they spend their savings paying for early, intensive therapy for James, and preparing the legal case for the support he'll need in school (local authorities routinely force parents to pursue them through the courts for the care they are legally obliged to offer, calculating that most will lack the resources to do so). But, as an autistic person, I sometimes found it hard reading about behaviours and tendencies I've exhibited all my life viewed through the lens of neurotypicality. Harris is left 'flummoxed and sad' when, on a trip to Chester zoo, James ignores the penguins and plays with the wood chips covering the path, picking them up and dropping them. 'I get the sense if he was left to his own devices, he might repeat the cycle indefinitely.' James is absorbed by the wrong thing – wood chips' splendid tactile diversity, and the miracle of gravity. I don't wish to punish Harris's honesty. Like all parents, his journey involves plenty of learning on the job. He writes powerfully about 'almost Victorian levels of cruelty' inflicted on autistic people in care, and how, through his and James's shared love of music, his initial doomy grief gives way to a constellation of admiration, fear, humour, awe and, of course, love. I wept several times, and the book wouldn't have that power without the author's willingness to be real and vulnerable. As he observes, autistic traits appear throughout humankind. You might say we're like everyone else – only more so. Sign up to Inside Saturday The only way to get a look behind the scenes of the Saturday magazine. Sign up to get the inside story from our top writers as well as all the must-read articles and columns, delivered to your inbox every weekend. after newsletter promotion Maybe I'm Amazed: A Story of Love and Connection in Ten Songs by John Harris is published by John Murray (£16.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at Delivery charges may apply.
