20 Protest Songs for Today’s Occupy Everything
[2 November 2011]
By PopMatters Staff
Check out the full series, “PopMatters Picks: Say It Loud! 65 Great Protest Songs”.
Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, 4th Movement (1824)
Whether Beethoven’s adaptation of Friedrich Schiller’s poem “Ode to Joy” was actually intended as any sort of protest remains open to debate—the origins of the theory seem to center on an editor’s footnote in a novel called Das Musikfest by Robert Griepenkerl. Still, that Schiller wrote his ode to freedom and subsequently switched it to joy for fear of retribution from a Prussian government that was hardly welcoming to revolutionary thinkers, remains an attractive theory. That Beethoven would choose to incorporate such a text at the same time Metternich’s Carlsbad Decrees were suppressing artists in the German Confederacy certainly seems a bold statement addressing such oppression. The European Union’s 1971 adoption of the work as the European Anthem would seem to take the wind out of the sails of any revolutionary power it once had, but the late ‘80s would resurrect its power as a protest song. “Ode to Joy” was broadcast in Tiananmen Square during the famous protests of 1989 and its performance conducted by Leonard Bernstein at the fall of the Berlin Wall later that year (with “joy” changed to “freedom”— freude to freiheit) reaffirmed the revolutionary power of Beethoven’s masterpiece. Even if Beethoven’s intent was simply to express the wonder of living, the joy he felt at being able to continue composing even though by then he was completely deaf, he would likely be pleased at the powerful meaning ascribed to his magnum opus.—Mike Schiller
“Strange Fruit” (1939)
After a photograph of a lynching in the American South outraged him, Jewish Bronx schoolteacher Abel Meeropol, using the pseudonym Lewis Allan, wrote “Strange Fruit” as a poem. The song was later performed at a New York City teacher’s union meeting, where a Greenwich Village nightclub owner heard it and later introduced it to legendary singer Billie Holiday. (Meeropol and his wife later revealed their social consciousness again by adopting the orphaned children of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg.) According to the American Anti-Slavery and Civil Rights Timeline, “Between 1882 and 1968, mobs lynched 4,743 persons in the United States, over 70 percent of them African Americans.” Holiday’s dramatic, haunting rendition of the chilling words—” Southern trees bear strange fruit / Blood on the leaves and blood at the root / Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze”—raised much needed awareness of the inherent evil of lynching at a time when much of the public was relatively indifferent. Holiday reportedly expected retaliation for the song, but plowed ahead anyway, partly because she said the poem’s imagery reminder her of her father’s death. Columbia wouldn’t touch it, so she recorded it with Commodore, an alternative jazz label. Holiday’s song would inspire civil rights activists to realize the power of conveying their message through popular culture.—Chris Justice
“This Land Is Your Land” (1940)
With “This Machine Kills Fascists” scrawled across his acoustic guitar in big black letters, Woody Guthrie brilliantly captured the experience of 20th century America in his songs. Whether he sang about union organizers, migrant workers, or war, Guthrie was inspired by the plight of the people around him, and his example paved the way for the likes of Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen. Guthrie was inspired to write “This Land Is Your Land” while hitch-hiking his way cross-country to New York City in the winter of 1940. The song was his response to Irving Berlin’s patriotic “God Bless America” and Katie Smith’s popular version of the song that monopolized the radio at the time. Sick of the gross disparity between the message of that song and the reality of the poverty and depression he witnessed on his travels, Guthrie penned this original anti-anthem to directly comment on the hypocrisy of class inequality and private property laws of the time.—Dara Kartz
“We Shall Overcome” (1949)
The origin of “We Shall Overcome” is rooted in African-American hymns of the late 19th / early 20th century, beginning as a work refrain that men and women in slavery would sing: “I’ll be alright”. It spread and changed with the generations as slaves were sold from one place to another throughout the South, and was first used as a protest song in 1946 when striking tobacco workers in Charleston, South Carolina, sang it in their picket line. One of the women striking that day, Lucille Simmons, began slowly singing, “Deep in my heart I do believe we’ll overcome some day.” Pete Seeger’s version, recorded version in 1949, is the best known today, having been quickly picked up by the young activists of the civil rights movement as their anthem. When the long years of that struggle were reaching their conclusion, and President Lyndon Johnson vowed to fight for voting rights for all Americans, he included a final promise in his speech to the American people: “We shall overcome.” Since then, the song has reached the status of an international anthem for civil rights: Appalachian miners at the Pittston Coal Company strike of 1989 used it as their rallying cry, Chinese students at Tiananmen Square wore T-shirts emblazoned with the words, and the thousands who gathered at Yankee Stadium on September 23, 2001, to pay tribute to the victims of the September 11 terrorist attacks joined hands as the Harlem Boys’ and Girls’ Choir performed a stirring rendition of the song. The short, simple lyrics of “We Shall Overcome” might be some of the most influential words in the English language, providing a blueprint for decades of protest music that followed.—Dara Kartz
“A Change Is Gonna Come” (1964)
It starts with the descending flourish of heavenly strings like the clouds opening in a Biblical epic, and it’s soon graced by the most heavenly voice recorded: that of Sam Cooke, the inspiration for Al Green, Rod Stewart, and seemingly every great singer since. What makes the song even more powerful is its inherent contradictions and ironies. Cooke’s spiritually uplifting vocals underscore every word and, indeed, make one believe that a change is gonna come. But what does that really mean? The lugubrious horn-and-string arrangement plays like a eulogy. Simply going to the movies or downtown is met by the ominous warning of “don’t hang around”. And when he reaches out to his brother for support, his brother “winds up knocking me back down on my knees”. Therein lies the greatest irony. Simultaneously inspired by “Blowin’ in the Wind”, North Carolina sit-in protests, and Cooke’s arrest for trying to check into a segregated Shreveport hotel, “A Change Is Gonna Come” foreshadowed the Civil Rights Act of 1964 (enacted after its recording but before its release), not to mention desegregation, equal voting rights, and a growing assimilation of African-Americans in popular culture. But there were also assassinations (Malcolm X, Martin Luther King), race riots (Watts, Detroit, etc.), reactionary white supremacists, and of course, Cooke’s very tragic death on December 11, 1964. And the greatest irony of all? What Cooke said to Bobby Womack about the song: “It feels like death, don’t it?”—Doug Sheppard
James Brown and more...
“Eve of Destruction” (1965)
In the early ‘60s, protest music was the child of folk music and the blues. It was not prevalent in rock music—even the Beatles were still singing silly love songs. But Barry McGuire changed that with his recording of P.F. Sloan’s “Eve of Destruction”. Sloan’s apocalyptic vision of chaos didn’t shy away from laying blame for a world reeling out of control, all to a catchy pop beat. Suddenly, after “Eve of Destruction” hit number one, protest music was mainstream and big business. Others were quick to join the cause, and the era of pop-rock protest music for which the late-‘60s became known began. Moreover, “Eve” distinguished itself from traditional protest music (i.e., folk music) in another way. Instead of focusing on a single issue, “Eve” addressed a myriad of problems: war in the Middle East, civil rights protests, nuclear proliferation, do-nothing legislators, and religious hypocrisy. Considering the current political landscape, it’s as relevant today as it was 40 years ago.—Michael Abernethy
“Revolution” (1968)
The Beatles knew a thing or two about the mob mentality. The Fab Four came face-to-face with it more than once during their careers—and were frightened nearly as much by the crowds cheering for them as those railing against them. So it’s not surprising that while they became high-profile protesters themselves, they also had some serious concerns about populist movements. And that inner conflict makes “Revolution”—their protest song about the dangers of protest—one of the most politically nuanced songs on this list. Lennon and the lads were openly questioning the Left they knew so well: “We all want to change the world / But when you talk about destruction / Don’t you know that you can count me out.” And when Lennon added the word “in” on the album version of the song, he took it a step further, openly admitting his own uncertainties. Whenever it seems like we’re looking for easy answers, “Revolution” is a welcome reminder that the most important thing is to think for yourself. It’s not enough to protest; you need to be fully aware of what you’re protesting for.—Adam Bunch
“Kick Out the Jams” (1969)
Long before it was corrupted into a marketing catchphrase, “Kick Out the Jams” was the title track of MC5’s explosive first album. Adopted as the rallying cry of the Motor City’s rock ‘n’ roll revolutionaries, those four simple words came to imbue the band’s approach to music—and life. Kicking out the jams was analogous to talking the talk and walking the walk, and served as a profound declaration against apathy and the status quo. At their best, the Five had no peer on stage, and their signature song resonated amongst fans and followers as a call to arms. And with the addition of an incendiary fifth word, the song’s opening charge expanded the scope of the band’s attention. “Kick out the jams, motherfuckers!” was a shot directed at the oppressive establishment, and a retaliatory strike against those parties thought to quell artistic, social, and intellectual freedoms. Some protested with signs and sit-ins, others with boycotts and rallies, but the MC5 used words and notes to fight their battles. And now, after nearly four decades, the song still retains its sense of euphoric rebellion when vocalist Rob Tyner demands, “Let me be who I am / And let me kick out the jams / Yes! Kick out the jams / I done kicked ‘em out.”—Adam Williams
“I Don’t Want Nobody to Give Me Nothing (Open Up the Door, I’ll Get It Myself)” (1969)
There are perhaps more obvious James Brown songs to choose from when talking protest: “Say It Loud (I’m Black and I’m Proud), Pts. 1 & 2”, for example, was a defining mantra of the Civil Rights and Black Power movements; “Get Up, Get into It, Get Involved” is social activism at its grooviest; and “Funky President (People It’s Bad)” fights hard times with funky truth. “I Don’t Want Nobody to Give Me Nothing (Open Up the Door, I’ll Get It Myself)”, on the other hand, may stand proudly defiant in the face of racism (“Don’t give me denigration / Give me true communication / Don’t give me sorrow / I want equal opportunity / To live tomorrow”), but above all else it’s a statement of autonomy for any human being, black or white, male or female. For close to 10 minutes, Brown holds court atop a filthy, hiccupping rhythm, demanding equality and acceptance while rejecting pity and compromise—exactly the sort of respect any man (or woman) with even a shred of dignity would expect from his fellow man.—Zeth Lundy
“The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” (1971)
Along with the Last Poets, Gil Scott-Heron played a key role in bridging the gap between the Beat poets of the ‘50s and ‘60s and the nascent hip-hop music of the ‘70s. His landmark single “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” remains not only his most famous piece, but is also one of the most quoted and referenced protest songs of the last 40 years. Sparsely accompanied by conga and bongo on 1970’s Small Talk at 125th and Lenox, the spoken word piece was re-recorded a year later for the Pieces of a Man LP with a trio of trap kit, electric bass, and flute, and while the minimal groove arrangement can be heard now as a precursor to modern hip-hop, it’s what the articulate, confrontational New York artist has to say that leaves such an indelible impression. Following the example set by the jazz poetry of Langston Hughes and especially the politically charged, syncopated style of Amiri Baraka, Scott-Heron launches into a three-minute polemic, lambasting the culture of television, as well as the masses in white America that sat hypnotized by the blue glow in their living rooms, yet turned a blind eye to what was going on in their own neighborhoods. His popular culture references may be obscure to younger listeners these days, but his message, with that key phrase repeated with the stern patience of a parent trying to hold the attention of a TV-obsessed child, is still as powerful as it was 37 years ago.—Adrien Begrand
Bob Marley and more...
“Get Up, Stand Up” (1973)
A devout follower of Rastafarian culture, Bob Marley’s own experience growing up in the ghettos of Kingston made him a credible leader of the downtrodden, who embraced his message of peace and justice. Jamaicans saw his music as the embodiment of the revolutionary spirit of human freedom, opposing violence and celebrating life. Transcending race and class distinctions, the liberating effect of Marley’s music on the island extended worldwide to become a global phenomenon and continued even stronger after his untimely death in 1981. “Get Up, Stand Up” is a reggae anthem written by Marley and fellow Wailer Peter Tosh, and served as a simple and powerful call against oppression, offering a hopeful reminder of the power they possessed over their own lives: “Life is your right.” While the song has officially been adopted as the anthem of Amnesty International, the idea of personal liberation in addition to social and political freedoms is a universal theme that keeps the song at the core of the reggae catalog.—Dara Kartz
“Anarchy in the UK” (1977)
By the time 1976 rolled around, the spirit of the ‘60s was long dead. The better world promised by a thousand pop songs had never come; now the radio waves were dominated by the hedonism of disco and the bloated pretensions of prog-rock. And then, the day after the Band threw in the towel at their last waltz, the Sex Pistols released their first single. “Anarchy in the UK” announced punk to the world—and with it, a new style of protest. It was everything the political music of the ‘60s generally wasn’t; it was aggressive, it was bitter, and it had given up hope. Johnny Rotten’s derisive snarl said it all: Everything’s fucked—the government, commercialism, the music industry—and if it’s all going to hell, anyway, you might as well get shitfaced and break something. At a time when Britain and the rest of the world were quietly submitting to a suffocating death of shopping malls and platform shoes, the Pistols offered another option: cynical rage. Millions of kids worldwide decided to shred their clothes, steal their mom’s safety pins, and take them up on it.—Adam Bunch
”(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thang” (1981)
After the break-up of the original Human League lineup (with lead singer Phil Oakey taking the name to new commercial heights), former members Martyn Ware and Ian Marsh created the British Electric Foundation. Their hope was to use their synth-pop conglomerate (they’d produce, various guests artists would lend a hand) to expand the influence of keyboard-based music. But when their instrumental efforts (Music for Stowaways and Music for Listening To) failed to chart, they grabbed fellow Sheffielder Glen Gregory, re-recorded one of the tracks with more aggressive vocals, and christened their new enterprise Heaven 17. This song, given the spunky funk title “(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thang”, expertly captured the climate of a Britain torn apart by unhappiness at home and fears from across the pond. Over a rhythmically dense beat and the sparsest of musical accompaniment, Gregory scolds Europe for still supporting racism as well as the Thatcher regime’s caustic conservatism. But the grandest slam is aimed at recently elected Ronald Reagan, lyrics labeling him a “fascist god in motion” who lets “generals tell him what to do”. Naturally, the BBC banned the single, and it became an immediate hit and remains a powerful statement some 26 years on.—Bill Gibron
“Ghost Town” (1981)
“Ghost Town” was the most unlikely chart-topper the UK has ever seen. Substituting eerie atmospherics and a spooky dub bass for the sing-along chorus typical of the genre, it was a broodingly sullen protest against inner-city decay, devastating unemployment, rising racial tensions, and all the other good stuff that Margaret Thatcher had to offer Britain. Further, “Ghost Town” pretty much predicted the large-scale Brixton, London, and Toxteth riots of that same summer and actually hit the UK number one spot the day after “disturbances” broke out all across the country. Seldom, if ever, had a pop record caught the mood of a nation so spectacularly well. Sadly, it wasn’t enough to keep the multiracial Specials together. Following an appearance on the BBC’s Top of the Pops that should have been a celebration of their outstanding success, the band’s three frontmen, Terry Hall (vocals, white), Lynval Golding (vocals, rhythm guitar, black), and Neville Staples (vocals, percussion, also black) returned to the Specials’ dressing room just long enough to announce that they were quitting. With hindsight, “Ghost Town” and the summer of rioting that will be forever associated with it seemed to mark something of a change in British music and its politics. Previously, we’d enjoyed the directionless rabble-rousing of bands like the Pistols and the Clash—punk, lest we forget, was forged in the torpor of a country ruled by the Wilson and Callaghan Labour governments. But now we had a hate figure worthy of the name. As unemployment grew and industrial strife seemed to bring us close to all out civil war, performers such as the Redskins, Easterhouse, Billy Bragg, Paul Weller, Elvis Costello, and others all began to pour on the bile. But the Specials did it better, more effectively, and with a much better sense of timing.—Roger Holland
“We Care a Lot” (1985)
Before Mike Patton hijacked these art-metal jesters, Faith No More were a funk-punk outfit akin to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. And while they epitomized the narcissistic excess of the ‘80s, they also packed some barbed wit. Disguised behind Billy Gould’s thumping bass line, “We Care a Lot” is Faith No More’s antiprotest, a smirking account of everything that pop and political culture shoved down our throats at the height of the Reagan revolution: AIDS, crack babies, Soviet subs, and shuttle disasters. It was a thinly veiled dig at misty-eyed celebrity-charity efforts like “We Are the World”, which did little to disguise the tightly-wound national psyche on the brink of collapse. Like school kids squealing in a fire drill, Faith No More’s pleas exude sarcasm. Just listen to vocalist Chuck Mosely pipe gleefully about the mess they’re in: “We care a lot about you people / We care a lot about your guns / We care a lot about the wars you’re fighting / Gee that looks like fun!” Sneering satire never sounded so good. With crunching riffs and an impossibly catchy chorus, the band leads us on a delirious sing-along, which feels harmless now that the world’s safe again—right?—Jarrett Berman
Joni Mitchell and more...
“Dog Eat Dog” (1985)
Apathy was popular in 1985, Joni Mitchell was not. On Dog Eat Dog, her second album for Geffen Records, Mitchell explored the very unromantic themes of tax cuts, rampant consumerism, starvation, corporate greed, and media manipulation. Among this bleak menagerie stood the title track, which brilliantly unveiled the hypocrisy endemic to religious and governmental institutions. Mitchell cited “Dog Eat Dog” as her political awakening after being robbed by “thieves and sycophants” in the state of California: “It’s dog eat dog / I’m just waking up / The dove is in the dungeon / And the whitewashed hawks / Peddle hate and call it love”, she sings ominously. Her protest was observational. She was witnessing a “culture in decline”, expedited by the public’s obliviousness to the insidious ripple effect of Reaganomics and a strengthening Christian right. The economic divide widened under false promises of trickle-down economics, which appeared to benefit only the small percentage of Americans who lived in diamond-studded tax brackets. Listeners, perhaps still under the spell of a charismatic commander-in-chief, were not ready in 1985 to heed Mitchell’s chilling observation—“Holy Hope in the hands of snakebite evangelists and racketeers and bigwig financiers.” How prophetic “Dog Eat Dog” rings today.—Christian Wikane
“Fight the Power” (1989)
In the summer of 1989, I was 13 years old, still living in the blissful naiveté of youth. Although Public Enemy had already been around for a couple of years, nothing could’ve prepared me for the sonic onslaught that was “Fight the Power”. This was righteous black rage at its finest, music to stimulate the brain and the ass muscles. Even without Chuck D’s booming, authoritative voice, the backing track sounded like a riot in progress—James Brown guitars here, a squealing solo from Branford Marsalis there, even a couple of quotes thrown in from new-jack trio Guy. The lyrics were merely the icing on the Molotov cocktail. “Cause I’m black and I’m proud! I’m ready / I’m hyped cause I’m amped!” D. declares. “Fight the Power” was not only the musical spark that lit my consciousness, it was also the prophetic soundtrack for a sweltering, uncomfortable summer in which Spike Lee’s Do The Right Thing (which used this song as its theme) packed theaters and a young black kid named Yusuf Hawkins was killed by a mob of Italian teens in Brooklyn’s Bensonhurst neighborhood. The incident intensified racial tension, and provoked a protest march led by Al Sharpton, which nearly incited a riot akin to that depicted in Lee’s film.—Mike Heyliger
“Keep Ya Head Up” (1993)
The musical landscape of 1993 was diverse. Not only had Seattle-tinged apathy arrived and pop-metal’s death knell sounded, but gangsta rap appeared in its earliest incarnation, ushering in the beginnings of the materialistic Culture of Bling that would become a hip-hop staple. Amid the melting pot of commingled materialism and apathy, Tupac Shakur released a song that brought a hard dose of ghetto reality from the streets to the mainstream with “Keep Ya Head Up”. While hip-hop as a genre was maligned as being misogynistic, “Keep Ya Head Up” was positive and uplifting. Simultaneously addressing issues of race, poverty, and sexism, Tupac cautioned listeners not to treat women with disrespect, linking that behavior to the underprivileged condition of blacks in America as a whole. Part of the song’s beauty lies in its stark realism. Much of “Keep Ya Head Up” offers a contemplative Shakur wondering why “We got money for wars / But can’t feed the poor” and “Why we take from our women / Why we rape our women / Do we hate our women?” In spite of the bleak situation, the song offers hope in the face of adversity to get past life’s obstacles. The song’s chorus, centered around a sample of the Five Stairsteps’ “Ooh, Child”, says it all: “Things are gonna get easier… / Things’ll get brighter.”—Lana Cooper
“The Man Don’t Give a Fuck” (1996)
This limited-edition single from Wales’ greatest living rock band didn’t get much radio play (“Warning!” reads its advisory sticker, “This track contains the word ****! 50 times!”), but it still managed to climb to number 22 on the UK charts. The offending word comes from the song’s main hook, a sample of Steely Dan’s “Showbiz Kids”—“You know they don’t give a fuck about anybody else”—and is repeated, ad infinitum, throughout the slam-dunk glaze of the mesmerizing chorus. It’s a brainwashing and desensitizing refrain, but then, that’s the point. The song’s cloudy verses find modern-day listlessness the byproduct of manipulative governments: “Now there’s nothing much to do / But sit and rot in front of televisions” because “Out of focus ideology / Keep the masses from majority.” The consequence is a cycle of human ruin: the common man don’t give a fuck, because the Man don’t give a fuck about the common man, and so on. In concert, the band ups the political ante, incorporating a loop of comedian Bill Hicks (“All governments are liars and murderers”) with footage of Lenin, Bush, and Blair. Eccentric footballer Robin Friday, who ended his career with Cardiff City, graced the original single’s cover, flicking a derisive bird at an opposing keeper; inside the single, the band hailed a man who refused to let the bastards get him down: “This record is dedicated to the memory of Robin Friday… and his stand against the ‘Man’.—Zeth Lundy
“Amerika V. 6.0 (The Best We Can Do)” (2002)
The fighting spirit of the ‘60s and ‘70s of his youth has gone flat like a can of beer left in the sun; one swig of that and all he tastes is bitter. Now, Steve Earle is the demographic of Michael Moore’s Sicko, but Earle beat Moore by a few years with this song: “Yeah, I know, that sucks - that your HMO ain’t doin’ what you thought it would do / But everybody’s gotta die sometime and we can’t save everybody that’s the best that we can do.” This song is for the hanging by their calloused fingers working class, and the clinging precariously to their status quo middle-class. They’ve filed their complaints and they’re getting fed up with being told to put up and shut up. Sung with a rocky voice pounded by a torrent of booze, corroded by smoke, and choked raw from the sight of seeing a man die, few can sing anger and disappointment as well as Earle. He’s a good, hard spirit worn by troubles but worn rough, not smooth. This song is coarse, bittersweet poetry, made of barbed words that pierce and anchor to those getting’ older bones that are only warming up—with the help of a Tennessee whiskey, or a California Cabernet—for another fight.—Karen Zarker
Published at: http://www.popmatters.com/pm/post/150799-20-protest-songs-for-todays-occupy-everything/
