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Continental Crucible reviewed in The Progressive Populist

By Seth Sandronsky
The Progressive Populist
March 2016

 

Tri-National Integration

The bid of billionaire GOP presidential aspirant Donald Trump to make Mexico pay for an anti-migrant wall on its US border is theatre. For credible social analysis, read Continental Crucible: Big Business, Workers and Unions in the Transformation of North America by Richard Roman and Edur Velasco Arregui (PM Press, Second Edition, 2015).

Their book, in three parts, provides clarity about social forces across Canada, Mexico and the US during an extreme era. Part one unpacks the corporate offensive against the working class in North America.

The end of the postwar economic model was the spark that lit this fire. The authors summarize without belaboring the point.

Roman and Arregui provide two pages of acronyms and abbreviations, to clarify what at first glance reads a little like alphabet soup in their radical narrative. This is a useful roster of corporate players that consciously downplay their activities, e.g., political lobbying, quite an effective strategy.

In Mexico, the corporate offensive against the general population unfolds under a post-WW2 regime of governance, a legacy of a national revolutionary history. The results, which Arregui and Roman unravel, is very bad news for the poor and workers, and quite nice for the state and capital.

Beginning with President Reagan and wrapping up with President Clinton, Uncle Sam played a big role pushing the passage of the North American Free Trade Agreement. Uncle Sam’s hand belies the pro-business rhetoric about a free market in which government steps aside for buyers and sellers to meet on level playing fields.

The Business Roundtable (BRT), a US-based group, plays an outsize role in the restructuring of the North American working class. Falling profits and rising competitive pressures propelled the BRT and its allies to wage such class war.

The Canadian state in part drives capital’s mission to weaken militant labor unions. This change effectively shifts national economic policy to the priorities of big business, seeking better return on investment capital via the growth imperative to increase market share.

In each of the three nations, corporations aim to harmonize working conditions to the lowest common denominator. Neutering labor rights and standards is the corporate agenda, demanding and receiving the freedom to increase the mobility and velocity of capital.

Part two of this book covers immigrants, unions and workers. An intriguing departure on this subject is the authors’ viewpoint of bi-nationalism, covered powerfully in Chapters 6 and 9.

For instance, Mexican migrants flee northward to escape crisis and poverty resulting from corporate economic integration. They establish roots in the US.

Add links between unions in Canada and the US. The underpinning for “continental” unions emerges, the authors suggest.

With much empathy, they describe the causes and consequences of Mexico’s human rights nightmare, e.g., the drug war and its horrific violence. There, political instability is the rule.

A US “safety valve” for Mexican capitalism affects US society. Trump’s racist rhetoric aside, Mexicans with (out) documents work throughout the US economy.

Strategically, their positions at the point of production, from agribusiness to building trades, is potentially empowering. The power is to join forces with US allies to improve labor rights and standards in both countries.

What Mexico’s working class has a rich and recent revolutionary past, but one with weak resources and organizations now. Canadian and US working classes have different experiences, according to the authors.

This conjuncture of similarities and differences drives a future of peril and promise for working populations across North America. The time is now, Roman and Arregui write, for labor unions in all three countries to transform themselves to fight tri-national economic integration, the focus of their book’s third and final part.

“The challenges for the North American Lefts and the labour movement are enormous,” he authors. ‘Old-school’ principles of solidarity and unity from below that crosses national borders are necessary to improve the lives of people in Canada, Mexico and the US.

Seth Sandronsky is a journalist and member of the Pacific Media Workers Guild. Email sethsandronsky@gmail.com.

 

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Damnificados reviewed in Foreword Reviews

Damnificadosby Pallas Gates McCorquodale
Foreword Reviews
February 29th, 2016

 
Drawing inspiration from the true story of a skyscraper turned safe haven, JJ Amaworo Wilson’s Damnificados is a timeless reminder of the strength and character found in those struggling to eke out an existence at the bottom rungs of society. Here, they are known as the “damnificados,” the “nonpeople,” or even those that simply “don’t exist.” Seeking refuge in the Torres Building, built and abandoned on a foundation of trash, Nacho Morales finds himself the reluctant leader of an ever fluctuating melting pot of exiles.

When floods and plagues of biblical proportion threaten the sanctity of their home, the damnificados look to Nacho for deliverance. So begins a David and Goliath battle rife with fantastical creatures. Brujas, two headed wolves, and übermosquitos are all mixed into what becomes a veritable chronicle of the “trash wars,” fought over generations by a colorful mix of characters including German twins Hans and Dieter, a Japanese warrior known as the Chinaman, a fiery former beauty queen, and Nacho himself. Thoughtful and intense, but with a core of humility and self-awareness, Damnificados is an extraordinary, magical, inspiring tale of community and conscience.


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We lost a friend last week—Remembering Jef Smith

We lost a friend last week.


If you knew Jef Smith, you knew that the man could talk. A lot. To anyone. And if you spoke with Jef Smith, you would quickly learn about his many passions: Speculative Fiction, Radical Politics, Indie Music, the cool things his friends were doing, methods for surviving the zombie apocalypse, and getting through life without wearing proper "pants" - to name a few.

What you might not learn, right away, is that Jef had spent most of his life in and out of hospitals for a wide variety of debilitating maladies. Instead of gathering sympathy for himself, he chose to work on bringing a little bit more joy and justice to the world.

Over the course of his life, he was an active supporter of Anti-Racist Action Chicago, an organizer for the Chicago Anarchist Defense Fund, and a stalwart member of Think Galactic, a reading group that discussed books with a radical left analysis. He was a constant presence at the feminist science fiction convention, Wiscon - where he would be seen on panels, hosting parties, or working in the dealers room. He was also the impetus behind the Think Galactic crew putting together their own bi-annual convention (Think GalactiCon) - which focused on cross-pollinating activism and fandom through mass amounts of discourse.

Jef spent a decade working at IPG, an independent book distributor - which helped to further his connections in the book world. He was an evangelist for many small, smart presses such as Tachyon, No Media Kings, and especially PM Press - who he continued to work with and table for, even after his health issues made his office job impossible. During the same time, he conceived of and brought to existence the feminist SF anthology, Sisters of the Revolution - simply because he thought that such a thing should exist.

Jef Smith died of cancer last week and the world of Anarcho-geekdom lost an emissary. The rest of us, who knew him, lost a deep, supportive, wacky, insightful comrade and friend. He will be sorely missed.


Memoriam by Berianne Bramman (3/2/2016) Help out— Donate at Jef & Kat's Go Fund Me Page

 




Daminificados reviewed on Collected Miscellany


tower-of-david-720

Daminificados by JJ Amaworo Wilson is a novel based on “The Tower of David” in the center of Caracas, Venezuela. The half-completed tower was occupied by thousands of homeless people during the 2007 housing crisis in that city. Wilson uses the occupation as inspiration to write about a group of damnificados (vagabonds and misfits) who take over the tower and fight to keep their hold on the tower.

Wilson masterfully tells of the struggle between the poor and the powerful (Torres brothers) with a little bit of magic.  The damnificados by all rights should have been wiped out by the Torres brothers’ armies – including guns and tanks. But with a combination of ingenuity and help from some wolves and the earth opening to swallow the tanks, the damnificados are able to survive two different assaults.

As part of his tapestry, Wilson discusses the history of the “trash wars” where damnificados fought each other to death and how those wars influenced their situation in the tower. Although it is pure fiction and part fantasy, it is an easy read that you do not want to put down.

Wilson includes a cast of characters that the reader can sympathize with – including Nacho, Chinaman, two German twins, and many more. The main character in the story, Nacho, is an unlikely hero – he is extremely intelligent and well-read with serious physical disabilities. Despite those disabilities, he adroitly leads the damnificados through many trials.

The book is worth the read.


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Iconic Drummer Michelle Gonzales and the Xicana Resistance of Riot Grrrl

By Michelle Threadgould
Remezcla
February 29, 2016

“Kiss the freak, faggot,” spat Travis at my friend David and me. Travis was the ringleader of the jocks at my elementary school. Even in the fifth grade I fucking hated that word: faggot.

I didn’t like being a freak either, but I knew I was one. I was one of two Latinas in my grade. I was curvy and had reached puberty early. It was like my breasts offended everyone; boys and girls in my class would stare, men would catcall me in malls or on the street, and my teachers would pull me aside and tell me to “cover up” because of my cleavage. Who the fuck has cleavage at 11 years old? I was a freak.

But David was not. He was the only person in my class who was nice to me.

“Don’t call him that,” I said.

“Are you gonna have your girlfriend fight for you?” Travis asked.

“I’m not a faggot,” David said, as if to himself. He looked no one in the eye. He just wanted to disappear. So did I.

Travis and the other boys pushed David into me. Again. And again. There was no reason to push back — because there was no escape, it would just start over again the next day. To them, we had chosen to be freaks, and they were enacting our just punishment.

I just wanted to learn to be invisible.


When I found hardcore punk as a teenager in the Bay Area in the early 00s, I loved that I could be one of the guys without being sexualized. My favorite band was Fugazi, and they didn’t believe in merchandise or wearing band T-shirts, because if you were into the music, you bought the record. Being punk to me wasn’t about wearing a leather jacket and Doc Martens, it was about saying “fuck the system” with a group of people who understood what that meant.

I was learning the art of being invisible.

So I wore a different kind of punk uniform: boxy T-shirts, jeans, Converse sneakers, and bandanas. I did everything I could not to look like a girl, not to stand out. I thought I was saying fuck the system while really becoming a part of it. I acted like one of the guys, dressed like one of the guys, and forgot that I wasn’t one of the guys. I didn’t want to be a punk girl, I wanted to be punk.

I was learning the art of being invisible.


“Many of the riot grrrl bands, and not all of them, really used sexuality as a performance, and that made Spitboy [Rule] really uncomfortable. We were fairly asexual on stage, and that was by design, because 3 out of 4 of us had experienced some sort of sexual assault or sexual abuse as children, and we just did not want people looking at us like that. We did not want to be hypersexualized,” says Michelle Gonzales, drummer of 90s female hardcore punk band The Spitboy Rule. “I definitely internalized that many men would fetishize me, because of my dark skin, and because I was Latina, so that was one of the many reasons that I was uncomfortable with that, the use of sexuality as performance.”

Photo by Ace Morgan

Michelle Gonzales (front). Photo by Ace Morgan

“And even though it was the same message [as riot grrrl], you know, we were a hardcore band. So we weren’t doing this cutesy, bouncy, girl thing. Our music was not melodic and it did not have a bunch of harmonies. It was straightforward hardcore. And so, our performance onstage, unfortunately, was straightforward hardcore – you know, the way the guys did it.”

“If you want to prove your womanhood, shut up and spread your legs or play.”

When I met Gonzales in Oakland earlier this month, I saw so many of my own experiences reflected in her words. Though we came up in the Bay Area punk scene 10 years apart, we grew up with the same tension: a constant kind of code-switching between the women we were to our families, our friends, and to the public. So many fractured identities, unable to be whole at the same time. Meeting Gonzales wasn’t just meeting someone who got it, it was like looking into the punk mirror, at someone who knew all of my cultural references.

Spitboy was a force in the Bay Area punk scene, and in the scene at large. They shared a split record with one of the first American punk bands to sing in Spanish, Los Crudos, and toured with members of the Subhumans across Europe and Japan. When sifting through photographs of the band, you’ll come across pillars of the punk scene like Ian MacKaye of Fugazi, Aaron Elliott, the former drummer of Crimpshine, and the creator of the zine Cometbus, the ultimate chronicler of punk rock history.

Even though Spitboy was beloved and known in many punk circles, they were still told that as musicians, they “hit hard, for girls.” At one concert, when the band stopped their set because of violence erupting in the pit, a man called out, “Hey, if you want to prove your womanhood, shut up and spread your legs or play.” At the time, it was not uncommon for men in punk to tell women that they didn’t think of them as peers or even as people. It was not uncommon for women to be treated like they were good for just one thing.

Gonzales’ new music memoir The Spitboy Rule: Tales of a Xicana in a Female Punk Band is as much about identity as it is about what it was like to grow up in a time where the language of intersectionality was absent and inaccessible. She captures what color blindness meant for people of color in the 90s, and how it translated into invisibility. Yet there was a double consciousness – a feeling that we existed in a colorblind society while we were expected to assimilate into mainstream whiteness.

Part of the richness of Gonzales’ book is her depiction of how these identities were prohibited from coexisting. When the band released the Mi Cuerpo Es Mío EP in the early 90s, a member of a riot grrrl group accused them of cultural appropriation.

Photo by Thang Nguyen

Photo by Thang Nguyen

“She objected to our use of Spanish for the title of our record and accused us of stealing from someone else’s culture, in particular the words ‘mi cuerpo es mío,’ which translates to ‘my body is mine.’ Apparently my body was invisible.”

Gonzales feels she didn’t have the vocabulary to communicate why these words felt like such a betrayal. She didn’t discuss why these words hurt her with her band. Instead, she metabolized and internalized them.

“In conforming to the nonconformist punk ways, adhering mostly to the punk uniform, I had lost something along the way, and I began to experience rumblings of discontent that I didn’t quite understand. I secretly listened to Linda Ronstadt’s Canciones de Mi Padre and sang along, holding long sad notes to words like that, like Ronstadt, [words] I only vaguely understood.”


I was 27 when I first heard Violeta Parra’s “Gracias a la Vida.” At the time, I would play it everywhere: at work, in my car, and at home while writing. I had somehow lived most of my adult life without it, though I don’t know how.

Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto
Me ha dado la risa y me ha dado el llanto

Así yo distingo dicha de quebranto
Los dos materiales que forman mi canto
Y el canto de ustedes que es mi mismo canto
Y el canto de todos que es mi propio canto
Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto

To hear Violeta Parra is to accept the beautiful poetry and ugliness of double consciousness. It is to revisit moments when you felt happy, yet very alone. It is both a thank you and a fuck you to the richness of life. “Gracias a la Vida” reflected the complexity I was searching for.

In the songs of Violeta Parra, Facundo Cabral, and Chavela Vargas, I found the same spirit of resistance that attracted me to punk, but this time it was in my language – not just the language of Spanish, but the language of living in-between.

I grew up speaking broken Spanish, but later along in my life, I’d sing these old folk songs to myself and learn new ways to communicate. I’d finally found the words that were inclusive of my identity.


When Martin Sorrondeguy from Los Crudos described Spitboy Rule, he said, “What so many never truly understood was that all four women brought much more than playing instruments to the stage. Each member had stories, struggles, pain, and together they were searching for answers which brought them together as a band, so go ahead, talk your shit. Spitboy just handed you the fucking mic, now what do you have to say?”

“Spitboy just handed you the fucking mic, now what do you have to say?”

Michelle Gonzales and The Spitboy Rule challenged the notion of who gets to speak and whose stories are told. Whether they wrote about misogyny, sexual assault, or violence against women, the band confronted the idea that women in punk needed to shut up and spread their legs or play.

Gonzales’ memoir isn’t just for fans of punk music. It’s for everyone who ever knew they deserved better and fought to reclaim their identity. It’s about the experience of playing your fucking heart out as a woman and finding the language to finally tell your story.

The Spitboy Rule: Tales of a Xicana in a Female Punk Band will be available for purchase this spring.


Buy book now | Buy e-Book now | Back to Michelle Cruz Gonzales’s Author Page 




These Racist Collectibles Will Make Your Skin Crawl

By Dave Gilson
Mother Jones Magazine
March/April 2016

And they’re still being made.


DAVID PILGRIM bought his first piece of racist memorabilia in the early 1970s, when he was a youngster in Mobile, Alabama. It was a set of salt and pepper shakers meant to caricature African Americans. "I purchased it and broke it" on purpose, recalls Pilgrim, who is black. Yet over the next few decades, he amassed a sizable collection of what he calls "contemptible collectibles"—once-common household objects and products that mock and stereotype black people.

David Pilgrim Ferris State University
 
PM Press

In 1996, Pilgrim transformed his 3,200-item collection into the Jim Crow Museum of Racist Memorabilia at Michigan's Ferris State University, where he teaches sociology. He presents a selection of these appalling objects and images in his new book, Understanding Jim Crow: Using Racist Memorabilia to Teach Tolerance and Promote Social Justice. As the title implies, the book isn't merely an exercise in shock value. It lays out the philosophy behind Pilgrim's work as a scholar and an activist: that only by acknowledging these artifacts and their persistence in American culture can we honestly confront our not-so-distant past.

Mother Jones: What made you decide to turn your collection into a museum?

David Pilgrim: When I got to Michigan, someone mentioned that they knew this elderly black woman who was an antiques dealer. After many months, she agreed to let me see her personal collection. It was just objects floor to ceiling in a barnlike structure. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume. It shook me! I thought I'd seen everything. What she had was a testimony to—this is going to sound weird—not just the creativity of racism, but the diversity in it. I remember that day thinking that I wanted to do what she'd done, but in a different way.

"All these millions, and I mean literally millions, of objects—were integral to maintaining Jim Crow."

MJ: How popular were these collectibles?

DP: They were everyday objects in a lot of people's homes, including African Americans'. [The antiques collector] had postcards, posters. She had records, 78s. She had ashtrays. She had a racist bell. I think she had the game called Chopped Up Niggers—it's a puzzle. She told me that she hadn't paid very much for many of those pieces because at the time people were throwing stuff away. Some people were ashamed.

"Nigger Milk," a 1916 magazine advertisement that Pilgrim bought in 1988 Courtesy of David Pilgrim/PM Press

MJ: Why own them in the first place?

DP: These toys, games, sheet music about "coons" and "darkies"—all these millions, and I mean literally millions, of objects—were integral to maintaining Jim Crow. Jim Crow could not work without violence, real violence, but also the threat of violence and the depiction of violence. There are a number of games in the museum where you throw things at black people: "hit the nigger" or "hit the Negro" games. If you had such a game, you were actually creating safe spaces to do that.

An early 1900s game that depicted an African American as a target Courtesy of David Pilgrim/PM Press

MJ: Do you also keep track of racist images and memorabilia online?

DP: Absolutely. With the power of the internet and social media, one person can do the damage that in the old days it took many to do. When you have a race-based incident—and I make it my business to look—within one week there are material objects that reflect that incident in a racist way: lunch boxes, posters, puzzles, T-shirts, pillows. President Obama has been an industry for racist objects. He has been portrayed as a witch doctor, a Rastus character from Cream of Wheat, as a Sambo, as an Uncle Tom—and also as gay, as transgender, as communist, as socialist, as a terrorist, as a Muslim. [Many of the] images that appear online are old. The images from the old "coon" songs from the late 1800s and early 1900s show up in memes, and people don't realize they're older images.

"President Obama has been an industry for racist objects."
A 1940s creamer or pitcher from Pilgrim's collection Courtesy of David Pilgrim/PM Press
 
1950s fishing lure Courtesy of David Pilgrim/PM Press

MJ: What sort of people collect this stuff?

DP: There are some who want to educate. I've met collectors who collect to destroy the pieces. But by far the biggest segment are speculators who know that a McCoy cookie jar was $3 and you can get several hundred dollars for it now.

MJ: Do you see a role for your collection in today's movement for racial equality?

DP: One of the questions I get often is why we're still having these conversations. And my answer is: The objects are still being made, they're still being sold and distributed. There's not an image in the museum that's not being reproduced in some way. Secondly, the reason we still have these discussions is because race still matters. But Americans don't often talk about it in places where their ideas are challenged. We want our museum to be safe but uncomfortable.

MJ: I found myself hiding your book from my kids. At what age do you think it's okay to expose children to this stuff?

DP: I believe that young people—8, 9, 10—should have discussions appropriate to their age about race. But no one under 12 can come into the museum by themselves, and we discourage parents from bringing them. Right in the center of the room is a lynching tree. Even though it's contextualized, it can be a house of horrors.

A ceramic figure from the 1950s Courtesy of David Pilgrim/PM Press
Pilgrim writes that historian Henry Louis Gates Jr. found this the most disturbing image in the Jim Crow Museum of Racist Memorabilia. It is from an unknown book. Courtesy of David Pilgrim/PM Press
Early 1900s postcard Courtesy of David Pilgrim/PM Press
"Be-Bop the Jivin Jigger" toy Courtesy of David Pilgrim/PM Press
1950s bar set Courtesy of David Pilgrim/PM Press

 

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Leon Rosselson’s Where are the Barricades reviewed in The Australian

By Mahir Ali
The Australian
February 6th, 2016

4 stars

It is entirely appropriate that Leon Rosselson’s final album should include several examples of what he does best. The title song, aptly prefaced with a blast from the past called Full Marks for Charlie (as in Marx, rather than Chaplin), is a response to the global financial crisis that was composed before the Occupy movement reared its head. “Robespierre is wagging his finger,” it begins, “Karl Marx is scratching his head / They ought to be shooting the bankers / But they’re giving them money instead.” Looters, meanwhile, relates the London riots of 2011 to the dismal history of the British Empire, concluding: “Looting, a great British pastime / The upper classes loot by stealth / Bankers, tycoons, City gamblers / Siphon off the nation’s wealth / Centuries of high-class looting / Payback time is overdue / Hyde Park, Kensington and Knightsbridge / Watch out! Next time it could be you.”

In his more than 50 years as a singer-songwriter who has impressed critics more than the record-buying public, provocation has been Rosselson’s forte, albeit not exclusively in the sphere of politics. One of his greatest accomplishments lies in giving voice to the hopes and dreams of the voiceless, often eccentrics and outcasts who prosper or wither at a tangent from society.

The song Benefits portrays someone who “cheats” what’s left of the welfare state by using his vegetable patch to grow flowers instead. I’m Going Where the Suits Will Shine My Shoes, delivered in three different voices, with long-time collaborators Janet Russell and Roy Bailey pitching in, encapsulates the wishful thinking of the dispossessed. Dispossession also surfaces as a regular theme in Rosselson’s reflections on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. As someone who once saw himself as a socialist Zionist but eventually found himself philosophically estranged from the Israeli state, he has frequently focused on parallels between the persecution of European Jews in the 1930s and that of the Palestinians since 1948, and The Ballad of Rivka and Mohammed poignantly pinpoints his concerns. Over the decades, Rosselson has regularly been referred to by critics as an outstanding songwriter, and he has long been esteemed within the folk fraternity, with the likes of Martin Carthy and Frankie Armstrong serving as regular collaborators. The fact that fame and fortune have passed him by arguably testifies to his authenticity as an artist who took his cues from Georges Brassens and Jacques Brel rather than Ewan MacColl. It is not particularly surprising that someone with Rosselson’s wit, erudition and sense of history has troubled the charts only once, with Ballad of a Spycatcher, recorded with Billy Bragg and the Oyster Band, back in 1987, or that his The World Turned Upside Down is often misconstrued as a 17th-century folk song. At 81, Rosselson has every right to call it a day. But his singing and songwriting has always been a calling rather than a career, which would suggest this album may not be quite the end of the story.

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West of Eden reviewed in Slingshot Magazine

By A. Iwasa
Slingshot Magazine
January 2016

Coming out of what started as the Communes Project, a collaborative effort between the Institute of International Studies at the University of California, Berkeley and the Mendocino Institute in 2003, this book is a striking example of the radical potential to utilize the resources of academia when people make a point of making them accessible to the general public.

Communes are placed historically both in the broader sense of general Utopian history, and the more particular focus of the book revolving around the 1968 social upheavals.

Fantastic chapters on the Native American occupation of Alcatraz and communalism in the black Panther Party work to dispel the myth of communal living as a white people thing.

Prominent also are back to the land projects such as the Morning Star and Black Bear Ranches. First hand accounts abound, and sources are extremely well cited for those interested in following up. The ongoing legacies of the communes and the people involved are also addressed from the pot economy to high tech industry.

This book is a must read for anyone interested in communal living, especially those now who think our much smaller and tamer communal living movement, or lack there of, is The Revolution. We’ve got a long way to go to rebuild what was, and the lessons we can learn from past efforts should be studied in works like this.

I think virtually every commune dweller past and present could fill a book this size alone with great stories fun and sad, economic and historical.  All these sorts of details are very important, and the editors were great about never getting stuck on any of the specifics.

On a personal level, I was able to make it in the Bay Area from Slingshot 119 to 120′s editing largely because of a communal living situation I was able to get into on my credentials as a member of the Slingshot Collective doing research on the topic.  Almost every place I’ve lived since I moved out of my mother’s house For The Last Time back in 2003 has been some sort of collective, so the topic is very dear to my heart.

I made a specific point of getting our review copy at the Howard Zinn Book Fair from PM Press because of this, and even though it’s a little old, Ramsey didn’t hesitate to donate it to us.  It would be great to see more work like this, both about the 1960s and ’70s, and the time since then which has been fascinating in its own ways.


Buy this book now | Download e-Book now | Back to Cal Winslow's Page | Back to Iain Boal's Page




No Gods, No Masters, No Peripheries in Antipode

by Adam J. Barker
Antipode: A Radical Journal of Geography
February 2016

It is not an easy thing to make an old refrain ring anew–to take a well-worn and understood phrase, loaded with specific histories, tied up with particular traditions, and to add to it, straining to make a connection to new and more diverse discourses. That is precisely the task that Barry Maxwell and Raymond Craib, the editors of No Gods, No Masters, No Peripheries, undertake when they assert that the imperialist core-periphery divide that continues to haunt much anarchist theory and study must be deconstructed and deposed as firmly as anarchists have rejected gods and masters. Arranged around five thematic sections, and spanning from traditional archival histories of labour and anti-statist movements, through literary “interventions” into the connections between capitalism, genocide, and some particularly scary stories about vampires, to surrealist grappling with Nietzsche’s “mercenary” words, this is a wild, fun, and varied collection. How much it contributes to a breaking down of core-periphery tensions and inequalities is debatable, but it is certain to show new perspectives on anarchism to even the most radical reader.

The five thematic sections of the book divide up the chapters into different clusters based on interesting and important–if occasionally vague–criteria. Titled, respectively, “Learning From Indigenous Experience: Anarchism and Indigeneity”, “A Thousand Links: Transnational Lines in an Anarchist Age”, “The Horizon at the Centre: No Peripheries”, “The Black Mirror: Anarchism, Surrealism, and the Situationists” and “Black, Red, and Grey: Anarchism, Communism, and Political Theory”, these sections have in common only their commitment to conjoin anarchist discourses with those potentially parallel or intersecting strands of libertarian thought beyond the recognized anarchist milieu. Many of the chapters are standard scholarly essays, including some very rich archival explorations related to labour movements or thinkers and leaders important to particular causes, but not all. First, the book is shot through with illustrations and photos, some related directly to chapters in the book and others to larger discursive frameworks. Further, two “interventions” push the collection beyond the expected: the first, a reflection on May Day by historian Peter Linebaugh that winds through terrifying tales of vampires, through critiques of austerity and the ties between capital and colonization, to argue for a need to slay the “monsters” of the global economic crisis (p.80-113); the second, a photo essay by Egypt-based artist Bahia Shehab of her sustained activist campaign that involved spray-painting an evolving series of protest slogans and symbols such as “No to military rule” and “No to stealing the revolution” in a public space in Cairo (p.233-241).

In addition to these methodological departures, the sheer diversity of topics and research makes this collection a veritable carnival of interesting and surprising ideas, though like any carnival some of the prizes are easier to win than others: in some of the dense archival histories and the highly-conceptual engagements with surrealism or political theory, the level of detail and specific knowledge required to see exactly what the chapter is trying to do can be daunting to those (like myself) who do not regularly work in those registers.

Across the five thematic sections, there are several apparent cross-cutting subject matters. First, there are those historical works that seek to excavate or expand our understanding of the way that anarchism has been particularised in specific place-based struggles or cultural-national-ethnic contexts. The majority of these studies are rooted broadly in Latin America, which is unsurprising given the strong history of Leftist organising throughout that region. There is: an investigation into the importance of the mestizo identity of “libertarian ideologue” Luis Cusicanqui in Boliva (p.12-21); an examination of the relationship between Indigenous and socialist thought in the practices of the Zapatistas (p.22-43); a critical refutation of the myth of the “itinerant, stateless radical” exemplified through In some editions of the book (including mine), the pictures associated with the “Spraying No” intervention are misplaced, appearing in the middle of the previous chapter.


the persecution of Spanish-born Chilean organiser Casimiro Barrios Fernandez (p.158-179); an unearthing of the vibrant and powerful anarchist-syndicalist alliances among marine and river-front workers in Brazil during the early 20th century (p.180-214); an exploration of urban-rural solidarity behind anarchist movements at the same time in Peru (p.215-232); and a complex mapping of the “articulation” of anarchist praxis in Mexican political discourses (p.336-348). That accounts for nearly half of the 14 “academic essay” chapters in the book, establishing that, for lived examples of anarchist practices, scholars should not only look to the common examples of the Spanish Revolution and the Paris Commune, but at the century and a half of Leftist struggle throughout Latin America. These chapters, while not methodologically homogeneous, often rely on reading against the archival grain and paying close attention to the lives and words of activists and organisers to show how theories that are articulated in simple terms in the abstract can become both more powerful and also far more complex upon application.

Another cluster of works pursues an interrogation of anarchism itself, in an attempt to figure out how it can be used to find “meaning” across seemingly disparate struggles in the
global present. Many of these chapters are more theoretical or conceptual in nature, while still speaking to the quotidian, material realities of people and communities in struggle against the
state and capital. These include: an intense and necessarily partial recounting of the interactions between the IWW-inspired Chicago Surrealist group and French surrealists spanning about four decades (p.244-262); a re-reading of Bakunin through the works of
surrealist poet Will Alexander in the hope of receiving “signals from places of life that we can hardly imagine” (p.282); a challenging meeting-of-the-minds between one-time situationist Raoul Vaneigem and anarchist bugbear (or bad boy?) Friedrich Nietzsche (p.283-313); and Silvia Federici’s closing chapter that meditates on the importance of seeing global anarchism as both always already present and also dynamically shifting, as anarchism, Marxism, and feminism are articulated in increasingly complex relational formations (p.349-357). Perhaps also in this section we could place Adrienne Hurley’s chapter, which draws out transnational links between student-driven protests in Quebec, Canada, and Japan, through the lens of educational institutions as part of new regimes of securitisation and the policing of dissent (p.116-130). While not as specifically probing of “anarchism” as the other chapters discussed here, Hurley’s chapter is a challenge to many anarchists who fall into one of two broad camps–those who have been radicalised through student politics and exposure to radical scholarship who often overlook their own role in reproducing social hierarchies, and those grassroots activists who dismiss universities as inherently oppressive and in so doing may miss the vibrancy and potential of university-incubated student and youth activism.

The remaining chapters, while not unified by approach or content, mark some of the most intriguing contributions of the volume, thinking through anarchism not as a primary current or referent, but as something that can be appended to or provide fresh critical perspectives on existing struggles. As Craib makes clear in the Foreword to the book, these chapters are not “looking for anarchism” in existing struggles–a worthwhile pursuit, and a vibrant one within geography thanks to the popularity of works like Weapons of the Weak by James Scott (1985), and recent provocations by Simon Springer and colleagues (2012) in this journal and elsewhere, but also a pursuit that reveals only a limited part of the wider spectrum of libertarian and autonomous action. So it is that the 2004 insurrection in Kabylia, Algeria, is examined not to find anarchist tendencies within it, but rather to reveal horizontalist practices, successes, and failures that many anarchists will not be aware of, and will undoubtedly find useful in their organising and critique (p.131-155). Likewise, two concepts–“revolution”, a term close to many anarchist hearts, and “enlightenment”, a term usually rejected as associated with liberalism–are brought into conversation through the framework of the Arab Spring (p.316-335). Rather than recuperating an anarchistic version of liberal enlightenment, this chapter demonstrates how the dialectics of “revolution”–the interplay between social and scientific paradigm shifts–require us to think through liberal and totalitarian interpretations of “enlightenment thinking” which inform the imaginations even of people seeking radical breaks with (some) social and political traditions. Finally, in what is for me the stand-out chapter of the book, Maia Ramnath deftly weaves together anarchist and anticapitalist theory, with social and cultural histories of India and Brahmanism, frameworks of indigeneity and belonging, and a strong dose of critical analyses of race and colonialism, into an open-ended discussion of these intersecting, conflicting, complicating trajectories (p.44-79). This chapter, more than any other in the volume, challenges the “stale formalism” of many anarchist inquiries, raising questions of how religion, culture, caste, race, indigeneity, and capitalist development all complicate and shift the frame of liberatory and autonomous thought. After underlining nearly every sentence in the chapter, I am convinced–not of any particular argument, as the chapter makes few set claims, but of the need for the conversation to progress.

The book overall is not without flaws. While the Foreword and framing of the first thematic section make clear that addressing the existence, persistence, and revolutionary aspirations of Indigenous peoples in the Americas is both a priority for this book and should be for anarchism more generally, there seems to be an obvious gap or hole in the text around this issue. While the first thematic section opens with a quote from Mohawk scholar Taiaiake Alfred, whose 2005 book Wasasé sought to begin sketching a political philosophy of “anarchoindigenism”, and the acknowledgements note that Yellowknives Dene political theorist Glen Coulthard–whose 2014 book brings Marx and Fanon into sustained dialogue–participated in the original conference, the absence of articles or interventions from them or their contemporaries is noted. The tradition of “indigenous resurgence” that they, along with Audra Simpson (Mohawk), Leanne Simpson (Anishinaabe), and similar scholars, are articulating is to me one of the most important developments for anarchist thought generally.

In a different vein, while the volume is explicitly set as an exploration of the messy, mutable entanglements between anarchism and other forms of thought and modes of social mobilisation, it does occasionally stray towards the “looking for anarchism” tendency that the editors obviously hope to avoid. Especially in some of the detailed histories, and perhaps out
of necessity given that these often excavate little-understood moments of resistance and rebellion, anarchism and anarchists seem constantly thrust to centre stage. This is not always
a failing: for example, in Geoffroy de Laforcade’s engagement with anarchist and syndicalist organising among marine workers in Brazil, the sustained focus on anarchism allows for a clarification of the dynamic relationship between anarchism and other forces at work in the Brazilian labour movement, both those hostile to and supportive of labour autonomy. de Laforcade’s chapter brilliantly shows how many anarchist victories came through cooperation
with trade unions of various kinds and relied on tactics that many “purist” anarchists might reject out of hand (voting, negotiating with government officials, and so on). Perhaps, though,
what this demonstrates is that there still is a need to “look for” anarchism in diverse social movements, but that–as de Laforcade demonstrates–this should be because partnerships with other social movements often hold the key to making anarchist ambitions into realistic activist goals.

In sum, this is book that anyone interested in radical politics should read. Not all of the contributions will inspire the same levels of excitement–or outrage–but they are likely to provoke some manner of response. And that, I think, is the point of an edited volume such as this one: by adding the demand to reject peripheries along with gods and masters, Craib, Maxwell, and their contributors are saying that even the radical vision of the world presented
by “classical” anarchism may still need further radicalisation. The book does not collapse the core-periphery dialectic any more than it eliminates divine beings with the force of its logic–
but it does demand that we consider looking for the locus of radical struggles in new and very different places, and in fact, almost everywhere.


References
Alfred T (2005) Wasáse: Indigenous Pathways of Action and Freedom. Toronto: University of Toronto Press

Coulthard G (2014) Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial Politics of Recognition. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press

Scott J C (1985) Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance. New Haven: Yale University Press

Springer S, Ince A, Pickerill J, Brown G and Barker A J (2012) Reanimating anarchist geographies: A new burst of colour.

Antipode 44(5):1591-1604

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One Chord Wonders in Scanner Zine

Scanner Zine
January 31st, 2016

Over the years there have been a number of tomes that have attempted to analyze, quantify, understand, justify, decry and simply observe the phenomena that was Punk Rock. Recent years have seen these books branch out into Hardcore and other sub-genres, but still the resounding bulk are those about the UK 1977 explosion (and implosion come to that!). So, does the world really need another succession of prose that over-analyze something that was as organic, uncontrived (in the most part), vitriolic and physical as Punk Rock - something which was born of its time - as a reaction against the depression and mediocrity of late 70s England?

In this case, the answer is a resounding YES! Y’see Scannerites, this book is a reprint of what was the first of its kind. Originally printed in 1985, this has been out of print for many years and represents the very first in-depth critique of the thing we call... The Punk Rock.

Taking up six chapters, Laing analyses Punk from its Formation and continues through Naming, Listening, Looking, Framing and the Aftermath before a Conclusion rounds the main book out. He uses what are considered to be the first of the UK Punk albums as templates (‘The Clash’, ‘Never Mind The Bollocks’, ‘Damned Damned Damned’, ‘Rattus Norvegicus IV’ and ‘Pure Mania’) along with a smattering of the early UK Punk singles and places them against what was happening in the charts of the era. All aspects of Punk are analysed in those chapters, from the bands that acted as precursors, through to the names of bands and individuals, the acts of Pogoing and gobbing, fashion, politics and lyrical origins, mainstream music press and fanzines, major labels and the advent of independents and the removal of the breakdown between band and audience. There is also a look at what was coming in the wake of ‘77 Punk with mentions of CRASS, PUBLIC IMAGE LTD, EXPLOITED, SOUTHERN DEATH CULT and AU PAIRS. It’s a well researched narrative and, while definitely written from a deeply analytical perspective, it rarely becomes ponderous, pretentious or overtly highbrow.

The books is filled out with a Foreword by TV SMITH, an Introduction from the original book and an updated Preface for this print. There is also a reprint of the original picture section and a bounty of Appendixes including a 1976-1980 Chronology, select discographies and a look at the 1976 charts and chart positions of the original brace of Punk releases.

It’s interesting to juxtapose this, the first of its kind, with the plethora of similar books that have been printed since. I’ve read a few lately that come on like some fucking University exercise written by ‘graduates’ who wanna get a high grade but retain a ‘cutting edge’ for a job - no doubt as some overly-educated, under-experienced music ‘journalist’. One Chord Wonders, and Laing’s narrative has no suggestion of that. This reads as a genuine study of what Punk was in the late 70s and born from a desire to discover what created the monster and not shy away from the monster’s failings and hypocrisies.

Let’s face it, 1976 was 40 years ago; a lot has changed. A lot has become eulogized, aggrandized, bastardized and mythologized. Given this was written in the early 1980s, it should be viewed as a first-hand account of one of the most inspiring times in UK culture and, if not a defining text on 70s Punk, then certainly one of the most unbiased and articulate of its kind.

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