The intriguing portrayal of Oasis’ Noel Gallagher and Blur’s Damon Albarn from a long-ago Britpop documentary has forever captured my imagination. Albarn, the middle-class offspring of a distinguished English artist, was depicted in an eatery akin to a pie-and-eel shop, while Gallagher, from a blue-collar Irish background in Manchester, was situated in an environment suggesting regality. We never saw a castle, but the implication was clear.
Regardless of whether the documentary makers selected the scenery, the underlying message is unmissable: the British (or more accurately, the English) are invariably ensnared by class implications. This was a point made through the subtle artistry of contrasting imagery. The inescapable dichotomy is that you’re either too high-brow or too blue-collar.
The recent developments surrounding The Last Dinner Party, the year’s most talked-about band, offer a sobering reminder that this train of thought is far from outdated. Will Hodgkinson, a contributor to The Times of London, questioned if issues like streaming practices and high startup costs could herald the end of rock bands. Hodgkinson’s economic rationale is incontrovertible. “Unless you’re born to wealthy parents, breaking through will be challenging,” as commented by leading booking agent, Tim Perry. This is no less difficult for budding actors in London – those that possess the ‘Withnail’ factor tend to fare well, while those without, don’t.
Hodgkinson stirred up a controversy when he quoted Abigail Morris, frontwoman of The Dinner Party, stating: “Audiences have lost interest in postpunk tunes bemoaning cost-of-living woes.” Given her education at Bedales, a high-density private school with annual fees reaching £43,000, it’s likely she wouldn’t see the crisis as a significant concern. However, the quote was actually from the band’s bassist, Georgia Davis, who argued (quite reasonably) the statement had been “stripped of its context, tone, and purpose”. Offering an unequivocal apology, Hodgkinson noted, “they’re being unjustly criticised over it. They don’t deserve it and I’m deeply sorry.”
The review of Ichigo Ichie brings a laid-back transformation to a Michelin-star restaurant serving an abundance of lavish dishes.
Indeed, he was spot-on. The initial tale reignited a lingering bitterness that had been simmering since the time when The Last Dinner Party started gaining traction. Thereafter, the posh-index of the United Kingdom expanded into the red zone. There were plenty of jokes on their upscale preferences, from food to clothing. The posh nature of their names, such as Abigail, Lizzie, Georgia, Aurora, and the unthinkable, Emily, was also subjected to mockery. The same old argument arose – could they also be an industry plant, a term as elusive as it is controversial.
This term harks back to the popular music scene’s infatuation with the elusive holy grail of ‘authenticity’. It holds no significance that Brian Epstein transformed The Beatles with tidy suits and neat haircuts. They hailed from humble locales in Liverpool, and so they were authentic. Compare this perception with supposed industry plants such as Billie Eilish, Clairo, Phoebe Bridgers, and the rock band Wet Leg from the Isle of Wight. Notice any pattern?
“All-male bands signed under the same label as ours have never been criticised,” Davies revealed to Ed Power in The Irish Times. “It’s clear cut in that regard – it’s sheer misogyny.”
[The Last Dinner Party: ‘All-male bands on our label have never been subject to criticism’]
This misogyny is not exclusive to the UK but exists in the US and Ireland as well. However, the preoccupation with social class within the pop music sphere is notably more transparent in the UK. (Or should I say specifically England?) Taking into account where The Last Dinner Party members received their education or their dinner preferences doesn’t bring any value to the argument. The crux of the matter is that they are interpreted as belonging to the higher strata of the middle class, just as, for instance, the Sleaford Mods are seen as representatives of the working class. American musicians might glorify the common people and voice their social issues. Observers might point out the benefits The Strokes had in their early career. But the inherent class discrimination – revealed by clothing, accent, and behaviour, offering clues about the socio-economic backgrounds – does not pervade every discussion in the international music industry the way it does in the UK.
The English upper-middle class was so influential that a whole music genre was created to cater to them. Beat musicians in the 1960s, for instance, often pretended to be working-class, even if they were not – here’s looking at you, John Lennon! However, this charade was too laborious for those who, in reality, belonged to the public-school-educated elite and had mastered the cor anglais up to grade 5. Case in point: Genesis, the band schooled at Charterhouse, which contributed to shaping the behemoth known as progressive rock. By the punk era, this genre had matured into a fine claret, ousted by punk’s earthy brown ale. The drummer of Yes and King Crimson, Bill Bruford, noted during the new wave movement that rock signified protest, joblessness, and welfare. “If that’s the definition,” he claimed, “I’m a polite middle-class lad and I don’t fit the rock drummer bill.”
Two decades later, bands like Blur and Oasis found themselves wrestling with the same issues. Fast forward thirty years, and The Last Dinner Party are still grappling with this distinctly English obsession.