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33 Revolutions per minute: A History of Protest Songs by Dorian Lynskey

A review of the book from the NY Times


Sing It Loud: Changing the World With a Stirring Cri de Coeur


A History of Protest Songs, From Billie Holiday to Green Day

By Dorian Lynskey

Illustrated. 660 pages. Ecco. $19.99.

“It is a short walk,” Vladimir Nabokov said, speaking of writers and critics, “from the hallelujah to the hoot.” It’s an especially short walk if you’re a pop singer who’s written a less-than-electric protest song. Think of Michael Jackson and “Earth Song,” or 4 Non Blondes and “What’s Up,” or Sting and “Russians.” Each of them, along with “We Are the World,” will be in heavy rotation on the Pandora channel in hell.

The lively British rock critic Dorian Lynskey — he writes for The Guardian, among other publications — spends some time in his new book, “33 Revolutions Per Minute,” chewing over why most protest songs are heaped with scorn. They can be “didactic, crass or plain boring,” he writes. Those who warble them onstage can seem “shrill or annoying or egotistical.”

Lester Bangs didn’t single out James Taylor’s politics in his hilarious 1971 essay “James Taylor Marked for Death.” (That essay is barely about Mr. Taylor.) But bad protest songs really do make you want to throttle someone.

One good thing about “33 Revolutions Per Minute,” which is subtitled “A History of Protest Songs, From Billie Holiday to Green Day,” is that Mr. Lynskey doesn’t waste much time shooting bad political songs like fish in a barrel. He’s more interested in protest songs — Holiday’s “Strange Fruit,” Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s “Ohio,” Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come” — that make the hair on your neck stand up, even decades later.

In songs like these, he writes, “the political content is not an obstacle to greatness, but the source of it.” He adds, “They open a door and the world outside rushes in.” The song’s message, smuggled into the commercial strictures of mass entertainment, is “the grit that makes the pearl.”

Mr. Lynskey casts a wide net in “33 Revolutions Per Minute,” moving from Woody Guthrie (“This Land Is Your Land”), Nina Simone (“Mississippi Goddam”) and Gil Scott-Heron (“The Revolution Will Not Be Televised”) to the Clash (“White Riot”), Public Enemy (“Fight the Power”) and Steve Earle (“John Walker’s Blues”), along with many other songs he’ll convince you to download in between.

There’s a strong Anglo-American bias to Mr. Lynskey’s canon, he admits, but there are also chapters about the song “Manifesto,” by the Chilean singer Victor Jara, “Zombie” by Fela Kuti and Afrika 70 of Nigeria, and “War Ina Babylon” by Max Romeo of Jamaica.

Mr. Lynskey’s decision to begin his book with “Strange Fruit,” first sung by Holiday in 1939 at age 23 (and written by Abel Meeropol, a Communist), will be controversial among some American songbook geeks. So much came before. But Mr. Lynskey makes a convincing case that prior to “Strange Fruit” protest songs “had nothing to do with mainstream popular music.” Rather “they were designed for specific audiences — picket lines, folk schools, party meetings.”

“Strange Fruit,” as sung by Holiday, “did not stir the blood; it chilled it,” Mr. Lynskey writes. “Up to this point, protest songs functioned as propaganda, but ‘Strange Fruit’ proved they could be art.”

The cruel truth about “33 Revolutions Per Minute” — despite Mr. Lynskey’s lovely writing — is that it is not quite art. It is mostly torpid and colorless, a copiously annotated list rather than a cohesive narrative or an extended argument.

He tends to dump his glittery insights at the beginnings and endings of chapters, and stuff the blah centers with potted historical background. This is a common enough problem in nonfiction books that seek to blend criticism with history, but that doesn’t mean it’s forgivable. Plenty of writers get it right.

Life (like this review) is too short to print boring sentences to prove they are boring. Let’s move on to praise the agile, many-tentacled writer Mr. Lynskey can often be, because I loved bits of this book; you can pluck out the many tasty things like seeds from a pomegranate.

About Cooke and “A Change Is Gonna Come” he observes, wonderfully: “He sings the title four times during the song, his conviction increasing each time, like someone testing a rope to see how much weight it can bear.” He describes Bob Dylan’s “Masters of War” as “ancient and malign,” “the most evil-sounding protest song Dylan ever recorded,” a song with “the baleful power of a witch’s curse.”

John Lennon and the Plastic Ono Band’s “Give Peace a Chance,” on the other hand, may be “the most ramshackle single ever released by a global superstar.” He refuses, he says, to “smirk at the knuckleheads” who misread a song like Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA,” believing it a right-wing anthem.

That song, he says, “was misunderstood so widely that Springsteen has to take some of the blame.” The contemplative lyrics of “Born in the USA” get lost, Mr. Lynskey argues, because Mr. Springsteen seemed to be “hollering it at you while riding in a tank.”

Mr. Lynskey pays attention to the ways singers suffered for their politics. “Maybe it helped black people, but it hurt me,” Simone said about songs like “Mississippi Goddam.” James Brown lost bookings after recording “Say It Loud – I’m Black and I’m Proud.”

Mr. Lynskey has an eye for fetching detail. He quotes Lillian Hellman griping to Pete Seeger about “We Shall Overcome”: “What kind of namby-pamby, wishy-washy song is that?” He provides the startling information that Marvin Gaye “masturbated at length” before performing the vocal takes on his “What’s Going On” album. Gaye wanted to “drain himself of carnal distraction.”

Mr. Lynskey delivers chapters on U2’s “Pride (In the Name of Love)” and R.E.M’s “Exhuming McCarthy” and writes well about “how hard it is to project a nuanced message to people sitting in row ZZ of a Brobdingnagian sports venue.”

In end, Mr. Lynskey can’t help noting, the protest song is nearly an extinct art form; few mean nearly as much as they once did. “I began this book intending to write a history of a still vital form of music,” he says. “I finished by wondering if I had instead composed a eulogy.” If the Bush years didn’t provoke scorching and popular protest songs, he asks, what could?

There are many reasons political songs no longer resonate. The Vietnam War bound people together as few issues have since. We no longer expect music to change the world, and we’re more atomized in our tastes. In the Stewart-Colbert-Gawker era we’re couch potatoes, and our default mode is sophisticated, needling humor. We’re lazier than ever too. “Placards and sit-ins,” he says, “have given way to charity wristbands and Facebook groups.”

The dry British folk singer Billy Bragg, as if pulling out a battered hammer and a penny nail, has this to say: “Only the audience can change the world — not performers.”

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from 1950,  Old Man Atom
 Old Man Atom: The Sons Of The Pioneers [1950]

Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Alamogordo, Bikini...

I'm gonna preach you-all a sermon 'bout Old Man Atom, that's me
I don't mean the Adam in the Bible datum.
I don't mean the Adam that Mother Eve elated
I mean that thing that science liberated.
The thing that Einstein says he's scared of,
And when Einstein's scared, brother, you'd better be scared.

If you're scared of the atom here's what’s you gotta do
You gotta gather all the people in the world with you
‘Cause if you don't get together and do it
Well, first thing you know I'm gonna blow this world plum two

Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Alamogordo, Bikini

Now life used to be such a simple joy
My cyclotron was just a super toy
And folks got born, they'd work and marry
And "atom" was a word in the dictionary
And then it happened!
The science boys, from every clime
They all pitched in with overtime
And before they knew it, the thing was done
And they'd hitched up the power of the gol-dern sun
And put a harness on Old Sol
Splittin' atoms, while the diplomats was splittin' hairs

Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Alamogordo, Bikini...

But the atom's here, in spite of hysteria,
Flourishes in Utah, as well as Siberia.
And whether you're a black, white, red or brown,
The question is this, when you boil it down:
To be or not to be! That's the question!

The answer to it all ain't military datum,
Like who gets there firstest with the mostest atoms,"
No, the people of the world must decide their fate,
They gotta get together or disintegrate.
I hold this truth to be self-evident
That all men may be cremated equal!

Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Alamogordo, Bikini...

Yes, it's up to the people, ‘cause the atoms don't care,
You can't fence me in, I'm just like air.
I don't give a hoot about any politics
Or who got what into whichever fix
All I want to do is sit around and have my nucleus bombarded by neutrons.

Now the moral is this, just as plain as day,
That Old Man Atom is here to stay.
I'm gonna stick around, and that's for true
But, ah, my dearly beloved, are you?

So listen, folks, here is my thesis:
"Peace in the world, or the world in pieces!"

Excellent post. Good review, though there are obviously some notable omissions.


One of the sweetest little protest songs.

3 more classics

 'Government Money' (1937) By John Adam Estes

Now on the farm : they all have joined the government loan
Now the government give you three years chance : and you could have something of your own
Now the government furnish you a milkcow : a rooster and some portion of hen

You know long through the spring : then you can have some money to spend
Now the women used to [count, holler] on the bonus : but they are [hollering, counting] on the *rent* check now

You know I didn't go to the army : but I am using this government money anyhow
Now the governor he fought : for the plant of plenty corn and wheat You know long through the winter : you can have something to eat

'Hard Times Ain't Gone No Where' (1937) BY Alonzo "Lonnie" Johnson


People is [raving, hollering] about hard times : tell me what it's all about
Hard times don't worry me : I was broke when it first started out

Friends it could be worser : you don't seem to understand
Some is crying with a sack of gold under each arm : and a loaf of bread in each hand

When I had plenty o’ money, I spent it on my so-called friends.
When I had plenty of money, I bought ‘em the best whiskeys, wine, and gin.
Now the sole of my shoes is thin and I’ll soon be back on my feet again.

If you're a single man : you better drink and have your fun
Because when that lovebug bites you : then your worries ain't never done

People raving about hard times : I don't know why they should
If some people was like me : they didn't have no money when times was good

Wow. Never even heard of Sleepy John. Good ones. Thanks, Scone. Here's Citizen Cope's "hard times" song:



when you're so long gone
you can't help yourself
when you're so dead wrong
let alone no one else
when the children still dyin' in the street
and babies still livin' with disease
and the cops got guns
and the po' folk go sons who work for Mr. Franklin every week

and if you come lookin' for a hard time
hard times ain't hard to find
because we're given that lifeline
only once in a lifetime

baby we was born
maybe we were born
to be sure
to endure when the storm comes

got dem sad eyes
got cat eyes
got the angels tired of saving his life
and you i can bet to contain yourself
before you end up killed

yeah his bare feet
touching her bare feet
the air breaths sweet
and yeah mountains peak 
and I forgot what the wiseman said
about that ancient thread

and if you come lookin' for a hard time
hard times ain't hard to find
because we're given that lifeline
only once in a lifetime

baby we was born
maybe we were born
to be sure
to endure when the storm comes

baby we was born
maybe we were born
to rejoice
rejoice when the sun comes


Thing is, with some writers/performers, you're not sure where the blues ends and the protest begins.


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