It could’ve been so different. Fifteen years ago, [a]Billy Bragg[/a] was a galvanised carbuncle on Tory Britain’s backside. He was a threat – a rabble-rousing protest singer with the acumen and passion to invoke genuine reform. But times, they have a’changed.
Where once agit-pop united and inspired the country’s disillusioned youth, today’s apathy-crippled pop mites seem almost terrified to follow Bragg‘s path: as if expressing an interest in political – or cultural concerns might – invite – gasp! – suspicion or – – ye gods! – ridicule.
But all is not lost. For, despite the current climate of indifference, Bragg – bless ‘im – still cares. And though the Doc Martens and dole queues of yore have been replaced by fancy trainers and New Deal, Bragg‘s ire is as focused – and persuasive – as ever.
Between the hobnailed, Hammond-kissed twang of ‘Sulk’ and ‘Shirley’, we get rants about how Marks & Sparks are evil, globalising bastards and the Manic Street Preachers are entirely bereft of rock’n’roll spirit. Sure, his image may have softened from impassioned revolutionary to that of a socially concerned dad, but his quietly, heartbreakingly profound music is worth a thousand Stereophonics chest-thumpers. Bragg may well be an anachronism in today’s self-obsessed pop world, but his warmth and sheer – humanity suggest we need him more than ever.