Sunday, 5 September 2010

LIVE 8

(from 'Year In Review', Disorder Magazine, Dec 2005)

Twenty years ago Sir Bob Geldof urged the world to respond to the plight of starving Africans. A sea of mullets duly obliged, eager to get their purses out and cleanse their consciences in return for fleeting glimpses of the mega-rich and multi-talented (oh, and Nik Kershaw) before smugly sitting back, knowing that they’d ‘done their bit’ for another few years.



“This is not Live Aid 2,” announced Geldof this summer. “It is your voice we are after, not your money. Live 8 preceded the march on Edinburgh, just prior to the g8 summit at Gleneagles in Scotland, where Make Poverty History protesters would demand that world leaders drop the debt of Africa’s most poverty-stricken nations, double aid and negotiate fairer trade laws. So, was it worth it?






Quite how standing in a park watching UB40 would contribute to the filling of stomachs in Africa and the bringing down of evil regimes wasn’t immediately obvious, although to be fair, Geldof did attempt to silence the sceptical rather cleverly. Following the festival season’s umpteenth appearance by Johnny Borrell’s nipples, which had of course dived bono-like into the press-pit below (“All You Need Is Love. John Lennon said that… Sign the fucking petition. I said that!” Quite the philosopher, isn’t he?), those same macabre scenes from the 1985 famine bore down on the crowd, to the tune of ‘Drive’ by The Cars. Once the ravaged image of a dying child in that footage, Geldof introduced Birhan Woldu, now a healthy student with a bright future ahead of her. “Don’t let them tell us it doesn’t work,” Sir Bob implored.


But then, her senses finely tuned to sniff out any opportunity for some shameless publicity binging, none other than Madonna raced from the wings, exerted a vice-like grip upon the bewildered young woman, and proceeded to launch herself into ‘Like A Prayer’. Oh, smart move Madge. The blinding flash of cameras and a teatime-unfriendly assault of expletives ensured pole position in the Sunday papers, before the woman was virtually shoved offstage, leaving the audience to bask in their own definition of moral superiority and free to tuck back into their Harrods food hall purchases. It was a full-on diva-like moment that was possibly only eclipsed later on by a similarly egregious performance by Mariah Carey looking utterly ridiculous as ever, in a tight mini and high heels. If her horrific vocal acrobatics and constant demands for water and a mic stand weren’t enough, she brought with her a throng of genuine African kids to kiss and patronise. Interesting tactic, actually. You could almost hear the G8 leaders telephoning in their pleas: “Alright! We’ll sign up to anything! Just make her fucking stop!”






The truth is that there has always been something nauseous about the self-congratulatory rock aristocracy urging us to give more to the poor. After all, in the concert’s aftermath, it became painfully clear that the immediate beneficiaries were not the starving in Africa. On the Monday following Live 8, Disorder spent much of its lunch hour, as usual, making somewhat frivolous purchases in HMV where the in-store radio station continually played key songs from the concert. HMV later reported that most of the artists on the bill had enjoyed a sales increase of over 100% on the Sunday, and, in the case of Pink Floyd, a whopping 1300% more sales. One week later, around half of the Top 20 albums were by artists who had appeared at Live 8. Obviously, pictures of starving children still sell records. And how are we supposed to react when Bill Gates – BILL GATES!!! – was wheeled on, other than, “Fuck me! Someone could mug this man and single-handedly alleviate most Third World debt in seconds!”






Of course, you’d need the heart of Ann Widdecombe to not be moved by the video sequence detailing the unimaginable suffering of AIDS-stricken youngsters which was played out during Annie Lennox’s set, but don’t images like these merely reinforce a stereotypically negative image of a continent with a begging bowl, as well as conveniently distract the viewer from the uncomfortable truth that it is largely the policies of western banks which ensure Africa’s continuing underdevelopment. Would it not, for instance, have been more effective to celebrate Africa’s musical vitality by, say, including some black music on the bill?


“So why is the bill so damn Anglo-Saxon?” argued Damon Albarn. OK, they didn’t hang a ‘No Blacks Allowed’ sign on the gate but, Snoop Dogg and Ms Dynamite aside, the Hyde Park line-up was ethnically homogenous. Even the appearance of a real-life African, Youssou N’Dour, had to be diluted with the whiter-than-white Dido. Would you rather have seen exhilarating acts like Angelique Kidjo or Kanda Bongo Man than be forced to sit through another tediously dull Velvet Revolver set? I know I would. Instead, African artists were marginalised to the Eden Project in Cornwall, a tokenistic sideshow that was largely ignored on the telly. Instead, we were confronted with a sterile parade of vacuous celebrities with no clear message beyond acknowledging the poor and urging politicians to act, and the day was dominated by insipid MOR acts of the lighters-aloft variety. Yes, we’re talking a so white that they’re almost translucent line-up of Snow Patrol, Travis, Joss Stone and, of course, Keane, a band devoid of anything so identifiable as talent. Unless breathing counts.



The highlights? Oh, so many to choose from. Elton John bashed his way through ‘The Bitch Is Back’ before visibly suffering a mild anxiety attack. But then again, so would you if Pete Doherty, clad in purple eyeliner, was stumbling towards you with a mic in one hand and a cigarette lighter in the other. The distressing sight of David Beckham introducing Robbie Williams with all the delivery of an incapacitated best man at a wedding was equally painful to watch. It was only seconds before the task was evidently proving impossible and Becks was rendered uncomfortably dumb. Ricky Gervais fell flat on his fat arse, and The Killers desperately struggled to remember how old we are supposed to believe they are when asked by Fearne Cotton what ages they were at the first Live Aid event. Sting made much of the fact that he was to perform the same two songs he had played at the original event twenty years previously (yes, The Killers – you weren’t really in diapers were you?), which were, by some remarkable coincidence, his two biggest hits. His sole contribution was to change a couple of lines from his tiresome standard ‘Every Breath You Take’ as the faces of the G8 leaders were projected onto screens behind him. Unbelievably, so in awe of this performance was he, that none other than the editor of a certain rock ‘n’ roll weekly was moved to award Sting with a five out of five in The Independent, writing that it was “… the most politically charged performance of the day.” Words fail us too, readers.



So did Live 8 make a difference? Was a set by the Stereophonics enough to stop people from checking out the Wimbledon women’s final on the other channel, let alone worry about whether Africa has the means to develop a self-sustaining economy? In the end, the G8 leaders didn’t appear to act any differently than they had intended to before the concert. Geldof and Bono wanted to play politics and cosied up to Bush and Blair, yet instead of expressing their indignation at the pitiful gestures of aid on offer, they appeared to applaud an agreement that was, at best, lacklustre. Live 8 was guilty of trivialising the serious issues for the sake of bland entertainment and ignoring the conflicts, brutal dictatorships, genocide and corruption that remain the root causes of Africa’s problems. Little was mentioned of the abolishing of trade barriers that remain exploitive in our favour and will continue to keep Africans poor, even with shameful spectacles like this.



As the chorus of ‘Hey Jude’ subsided, the multimillionaires could return home to further inflate their egos with their lavish lifestyles of country estates, limousines and private jets, and sleep that little more softly at night. The largely white, middle-class audience could file out into the streets, deluded in the belief that by wearing a single white band and doing the three-second finger-click, they had somehow become empowered to save millions of lives, and oblivious to the fact their own grotesque consumerism has probably contributed to Africa’s destitution. Still, now that now poverty is history, they can direct their attentions to finally getting that badly-needed conservatory sorted.

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