Thursday, 7 July 2011
The Police and the Tabloids
From Alan Bennett’s diary for last year:
I give my details, and my address and phone number, to a constable who, when I get back home, duly rings with the incident number. Ten minutes later, less than an hour after it has occurred, the doorbell rings and on the doorstep is a rather demure girl: ‘My name is Amy. I’m from the Daily Mail. We’ve just heard about your unfortunate experience.’@'LRB'
I close the door in Amy’s caring face, tell a photographer who’s hanging about to bugger off (‘That’s not very nice’) and come in and reflect that though the theft is bad enough more depressing is that someone in the police must immediately have got on to the Mail, neither the bank nor M&S having either my private number or the address. I just wonder how much the paper paid him or her and what the tariff is – pretty low in my case, I would have thought…
Years ago when Russell Harty had been exposed in the tabloids he was being rung in Yorkshire every five minutes. His solicitor then agreed with the local police that he should have a new number, known only to the police. Ten minutes later a newspaper rang him on it.
Syd Barrett on Pink Floyd's first recording session: 'The tracks sound terrific so far, especially King Bee'
(Click to enlarge)
Transcript
Dear Jen, you are a little dish. I'll tell you everything that happened at the recording. We took all the gear into the studio which was lit by horrid white lights, and covered with wires and microphones. Rog had his amp behind a screen and Nicki was also screened off, and after a little bit of chat we tested everything for balance, and then recorded five numbers more or less straight off; but only the guitars and drums. We'r going to add all the singing and piano etc. next Wednesday. The tracks sound terrific so far, especially King Bee. [Illustration]
When I sing I have to stand in the middle of the studio with ear phones on, and everyone else watches from the other room, and I can't see them at all but they can all see me. Also I can only just hear what I'm singing.
[Illustration]
I hope you got home alright Jen, and that you had a good time. You wouldn't have been able to come in to the recording and anyway it went on till after midnight, and would have been a whopping drag for you.
It was a nice thing to be which was tra tra la. (do not bother to interupt)
Do what you want Jen. I love you very much and want to hear from you and you are very pretty.
I am a bit fed up with everything today and I want to be in Cambridge or Greece but not in London where all I do is spend money and travel. The sun is shining though.
Love, Roger.
@'Letters of Note'
Bonus Audio
Rebekah Brooks admits to paying police (2003)
Rebekah Brooks (neé Wade) admitting to paying police for information, before Andy Coulson silences her. This was in front of a select committee in March, 2003.
'We have paid the police for information in the past.'
http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2003/mar/12/sun.pressandpublishing
'We have paid the police for information in the past.'
http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2003/mar/12/sun.pressandpublishing
AuAnon Anonymous Australia
20 yrs ago, Julian Assange was a hacker in trouble w the law & Rupert Murdoch was a world leading publisher. Oh, how the tables have turned.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
The late, great Dennis Potter on the Dirty Digger
When groundbreaking television writer Dennis Potter learned he was dying of cancer, he sat down with Melvyn Bragg for a final interview. The subject of media mogul Rupert Murdoch came up.
Why I set about hitting the News of the World where it hurts – its advertising
Like many people, I've learned to live with a generalised, low-level irritation about the content of some of the tabloids. The sexism, the xenophobia, the hypocrisy: you wish you could change these things but, for the most part, you accept them as the price you pay for a free press.
But on Monday night, years of irritation were transformed into rage for me by the suggestion that one tabloid, the News of the World, had paid a private investigator who hacked into the mobile phone of a missing 13-year-old girl, Milly Dowler. Worse, it is alleged that he deleted messages from her voicemail, giving her parents false hope that she might be alive – with the tabloid all the while running interviews with those parents in which they spoke about their hope.
There is only one sane reaction to this: utter revulsion. I knew that hundreds – maybe thousands – of people would be feeling the same way, and I also knew that this time it wouldn't only be the lefties, the liberals and the hand-wringers who would want something to change, who would be looking for something they could do. It would be all of us.
That evening I began tweeting (@the_z_factor), knocking around a few ideas with friends: egging NewsCorp's offices? Going to the shops on Sunday and turning over all the copies of the paper? It didn't seem enough. The only way to show the company how people really felt was by hitting them where it hurts: their wallets. And while I didn't think I could reach their regular readers to ask them not to buy the paper, I realised who I could influence, with a following wind and enough people behind me: their advertisers.
I went on to the News of the World's website. There were a couple of advertisers there, but most were behind the paywall. I tweeted them anyway. Immediately, my tweets were retweeted. And again. I roped in Andy Dawson (@profanityswan) – he was angry too, I knew, and more importantly he has a big following on Twitter. He researched more advertisers for me, and we began sending out tweets, telling people to send their own messages rather than retweeting ours for maximum effect. I made a Word document, stored it online and started sending out links to it. The activity was building; I was transfixed by my computer screen, and the dog didn't get an evening walk.
Tony Kennick (@thegreatgonzo) got involved. He had an idea: we could build a web page with "tweet me" buttons, to make things even easier for people. By Tuesday morning it was up and running, and by 11am Roy Greenslade had linked to it on his blog.
That's when things really started to take off. Messages of support began flooding in, as well as offers of help; @EroticPuffin looked up email addresses for executives at the companies and supplied an Excel file ready for mail merge, and various people sent new advertisers for us to add to the list and new ways for people to make a difference.
It's times like this when Twitter really comes into its own. As a truly democratic forum, everyone can get involved and have their say, and it's easy to share information and ideas. And because it's all so public, it's very hard for companies to ignore public pressure or hide behind rhetoric. For every 5,000 tweets with a funny cat photo there's a moment like this, when Twitter remembers what it can really do.
It was truly astonishing to see how angry all sorts of people were with the behaviour of the News of the World, and how eager they were to do something about it. To the Republic of Twitter, now finding its voice on this subject, it clearly wasn't an ethical minefield, or a thorny legal issue, but a simple case of right and wrong. Morals, as they used to be called. The depths Rupert Murdoch's paper has sunk to – and questions are now being asked about other police investigations, including that into the murder of Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman – is extraordinary.
Democracy, if it is to function properly, requires a free press. A free press holds the government, the judiciary and other public figures to account. The "tax", if you like, for having a free press is the tabloids. And as a concept, they're fine; they're not for me, but then neither is quiche, and I don't need to ban it. But is what's going on here an expression of democracy in action? No, it isn't. Sections of the press now have a far greater influence on government policy than we voters do, and if the hacking revelations are anything to go by they may well have enjoyed a great deal of influence over the police, too. Is that OK by you? What I discovered on Monday night is that it really, really isn't OK by me.
There's a facile argument that says: "The tabloids only behave as they do because people want to read the stuff they print" – as if, in a way, it's our fault. But every business in the land responds to demand from its market; every business in the land needs to make a profit. Most of them, though, manage to stay within the law.
Melissa Harrison @'The Guardian'
dalekcat dalekcat
RT @PCHell147 When lining your litter tray with newspaper be careful or you might accidentally get some 'news of the world' on the cat shit.
Robert Smith - Small Hours (BBC 6 Music)
Robert Smith's cover of John Martyn's 'Small Hours', from the 'Johnny Boy Would Love This' tribute album which is out Aug. 15th in the UK and much of Europe and Aug. 16th in the US. If you like this track, please buy it, or the full album, when it's released.
Thanks to Lauren Laverne for playing this on her BBC 6 Music show on July 5th, 2011 and to Aaron Law for recording it and sending the file in.
Via
The News of the World news that Murdoch’s OZ papers forgot
New P.I.L. album soon...
Then and Now
Word reaches the Quietus this Friday afternoon (from an official source) that John Lydon and PiL are currently working on new songs together. We've seen some terrific gigs from the reunited Public Image Limited over the past year or so, most recently at Primavera. But we are anti-nostalgists, and generally hope that returning groups either vanish again, or knuckle down to writing new material. Glad tidings, then, that PiL's John Lydon, Lu Edmonds (guitarist), Bruce Smith (drummer), and Scott Firth (bass) are in a studio in a location that Lydon describes as being "in the outskirts of knowhere". Lydon has previously written with Edmonds and Smith for later PiL albums Happy and 9' so both have played and worked John throughout the late 80s.Lydon has long insisted that the PiL reunion was not solely about nostalgia, saying that the gigs were being done in part to fund studio time: "We've got no backing - no record company, no sponsors, nothing like that. The only way we can make money is the touring, and then we can make a new album," he told Billboard in 2010. "It's sort of like the old days of PiL, when the Pistols went kaput; I had to scrimp and scrape out of my own pocket. Not much has changed."
Asked back then if he had songs ready, Lydon said, "Yeah, I've got piles. I never stop writing. Most of my influences have never really come from a musical act. It tends to be things like the poetic beat of a newscast. There's a rhythm to the way it's laid out. Movies can do that. Shakespeare and good poetry does that, and a bloody good book does that, or just a long walk." More on new material from PiL on The Quietus later this summer.
Via
Wu Ming - Manituana
The novels of Wu Ming (Chinese for "anonymous" or "five people") might be the best ever written by a gang. Most efforts of this sort have been intent on producing bad novels – Naked Came the Stranger? The horror, the horror! Wu Ming, on the other hand, squeeze every potential for incisive, rabid adventure they can out of the popular novel. Their books sizzle with a kind of lefty jazz: they're linguistically and culturally hip, historically astute, with a heart worn challengingly on the sleeve.
54, set in postwar Italy, was filled with rollicking, stupefying conflations of fact and fiction. Manituana, on the surface, is a straighter story: that of educated, enigmatic Joseph Brant, leader of the Mohawks during the American revolution; of his sister Molly, who "dreams with great strength"; and crucially, the loss, for humanity, of the confederation of the Six Nations. After the French and Indian wars, there was a time of cooperation between native Americans and the English – William Johnson, head of the Indian Department, hoped there was "room for everybody" in the beautiful Mohawk Valley. Wu think of this time and place as "Iroquireland" – an all too brief shading of tribes from the old and new worlds. They tell this sad, salient story as that of the violent dismemberment of one polyglot society by another.
"Manituana" means the Thousand Islands of the St Lawrence river, in legend a paradise, the birthplace of the Mohawk tongue. Wu's narrative is particularly concerned with language: Mohawk, the Dutch and German of old New York, the talk of Cockneys and of the Court of St James. Shaun Whiteside's brilliant translation of the many voices and ventriloquisms of this novel is slick and savvy (despite one's doubt that a woodpecker, though an omniscient Mohawk spirit, knows the word fo'c'sle). Wu deftly explore the collision of Indian and European languages: "In the language of the Empire, every cause was followed by a consequence . . . on the contrary, the language of the Mohawk was full of details, run through with doubts refined by constant adjustments. Each word stretched and expanded to capture every possible meaning." These are arresting pictures of how Joseph and Molly Brant's minds must have worked – rich in Mohawk images and energy, shrewd with western ideas. Along with languages, superstitions collide: what, after all, is "civilisation" but the superstitions that make you comfortable?
Manituana unspools mesmerisingly like an old Hollywood movie, ducking the common mishaps of the historical novel – there is not a single longueur. The descriptions of American abundance are worthy of Washington Irving, with a fall chill punchy as a stanza of Longfellow or a Remington painting of woods. The story is governed by the Indian sense of time, always returning to the reckoning of autumn. But events develop and are communicated at surprising speed: messengers are hunted bloodthirstily through forests, and in Molly Brant's powerful, ornate telepathies Brant and his comrade Lacroix learn the fate of their people before it occurs, although Brant refuses to accept it.
As in 54, violence (and it's appalling) is a natural but also a supernatural force. Lacroix's prowess with a tomahawk is described with the flavour of an antique children's book, but to this Wu add the unthinkable mayhem of a computer game: "The shot cleanly detached his head and sent it flying . . . panic stopped him shooting straight and he found his guts between his feet, his hands groping to try and keep them in . . . When the tomahawk broke his arm with a dry sound he froze, staring at the limb that dangled from his shoulder . . ."
Brant was complicated, a Freemason and a slave-owner (facts soft-pedalled by Wu for their own purposes, but then who remains a hero until his dying day?). By the time the war turned in favour of the colonists, he'd become "ubiquitous", in Wu's word, intent on fulfilling, against his will, a hero's destiny. On the warpath against Europeans he'd previously counted as neighbours, he'd become "the most hated Indian since the days of Pontiac". General Washington ordered that the people of the Six Nations be captured, their villages and crops destroyed.
But in 1775, Brant still believed the English would save the Indians. He travelled to London for an audience with George III. This part of the novel heaves with historical observation and play: like a crazy scene in a Gillray, theatregoers at Drury Lane are astonished to hear Lacroix supply a missing line in Romeo and Juliet. The backstabbing of the court is brutally anatomised; Wu's favourite evil businessmen are described in the most hackle-raising way. Their lickspittle tabloid journo is also nauseatingly up-to-date. An enterprising band of thuggish East End "Mohocks" send a letter to Brant movingly describing the anguish and oppression of the London poor in terms similar to his own, and ask to be recognised as the Seventh Nation of the Iroquois. And at a lavish party in Brant's honour, some waggish Italian pyrotechnicians grab a chance to make fun of the English: a Georgian "mansion" bursts into flames, and from it emerges a stark, Masonic pyramid, chilling sign of the whispery capitalists and their plan for America – the plan that won, of course.
Wandering around London, which disgusts him now he has seen the whole of it, Brant comes upon a poor family so weak with hunger that they cannot bury their little dead son. The Mohawk chieftain lends his strong back to dig the grave, only to be roundly abused by this bunch of ingrates for being a Catholic. Wu have now out-Dickensed Dickens, and when you read this novel, you will become aware of a faint buzzing noise. That will be James Fenimore Cooper, spinning in his grave.
Todd McEwen @'The Guardian' 
MOBI, 5.9 mb
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