The Fire Last Time

I recently watched Across the Universe for the first time. Initially, I was lukewarm about seeing it. The attempted reboot of the musical movie format over the past few years has had some disastrous results, and I thought that such a film using the Beatles had great potential to fall embarrassingly on its face. However, hearing the film was directed by the visual master Julie Taymor, my interest was peaked.

Across the Universe takes place during the 60s, using the music of the Beatles to track America's evolution from post-McCarthy conservatism into a nation swept up by social and cultural upheaval. It's an appropriate move, given that the Beatles' own evolution of course ran parallel to the rapid changes taking place in that era, from the pop of Help to the trippy experimentation of Sgt. Pepper to the grassroots outlaw grooviness of Let It Be. The movie itself is the story of a group of young American kids (and one Liverpudlian emigre) as they break out of their isolated middle-American existence into one of war, repression, rebellion and protest. And of course, it was that kind of experience that thousands of young people (including the Beatles) went through, that made the songs symbolic of that era.

Taymor's portrayal of the 60s is a lot better than what passes in Hollywood nowadays too. Most directors get away with slapdash footage of hippies and a few protests and leave it at that. Taymor, however, integrates often overlooked and yet key aspects of the 1960s landscape into the picture: the bohemia of Greenwich Village (which was the hub of artists and radicals long before the rest of the country caught up), the Detroit riots, even the increasing radicalization of the anti-war movement is part of it all.

Of course, using such iconic songs written well before the making of the musical has its pitfalls. Some of the song placements seem stretched, and the need to get from song to song can make the plot seem a bit rushed. And I have decided that the version of "I am the Walrus" during an acid trip featuring a disguised Bono as the character of "Doctor Robert" was just annoying. But those isolated spots don't take away from some absolutely mind-blowing sequences and overall a very enjoyable movie.

Taymor brings her own rich creativity to this film, and not just in her amazing visual sense (those who have seen "Frida" will know what I'm talking about). Apart from few aforementioned awkward stumbles, Taymor's imaginative interpretations of the songs actually work. And when they work really well they are not only a visual feast, but incredibly poignant. Such is the case with the heart-stopping gospel version of "Let It Be" during parallel funerals of a young soldier killed in Vietnam and a black boy killed in the Detroit uprising. The sequence when a supporting character is drafted is jaw-droppingly menacing. Here is where Taymor's creativity is at its best: posters of Uncle Sam coming to life to sing "I Want You," with the heavy, driving, swirling guitar part playing as the draftees trample over the Vietnamese jungles while carrying a massive Statue of Liberty!

It's debatable whether the ending is sufficient in relation to the rest of the movie or if it comes up short. Somehow singing "All You Need is Love" while the war continues seems to be somewhat of a cop-out. However, it's hard to argue with that sentiment. What are people today fighting for if not for a world of more love? At the same time, for all the effort that Taymor puts into being true to the protest movements of the 60s, one would think it might be in her interest to show that said movement actually succeeded in stopping the war.

Then again, the war didn't end until 1975, five years after the Beatles had broken up. It would be close to impossible to stretch the parallel that far.

First of May... Take a Holiday!

That International Workers' Day was started in the United States and yet is widely recognized in every country in the world except the United States is one of history's cruellest ironies.

Not that things are hopeless this year. On top of the tens of thousands who will be taking to the streets for immigrant rights today for the third year in a row, the west coast members of the International Longshore and Warehouse Union are going on strike today in protest of the occupation of Iraq. Immigrant rights marches in the Bay Area are coordinating with these strikes, and actions in solidarity with them are being held by postal workers and the Vermont AFL-CIO.

It feels good to know you're doing something that's making Joe McCarthy roll in his grave.

So, why is this being mentioned on a music blog (albeit one that is avowedly socialist in outlook)? Because music has historically been a big part of not only May Day, but the workers tradition in general. It runs through the Internationale, the songs of Joe Hill and the Wobblies, Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger. It was severely interrupted in the 50s when the workers movement was destroyed by the anti-communist witch hunts, which is tragic considering that rock 'n' roll lends itself perfectly to rebellion and workers' culture.

In other countries, however, where workers' traditions aren't nearly as atrophied at they are in the States, one sees the intersection between music and radical politics alive and well, as I discovered while living abroad. For instance, The (International) Noise Conspiracy are celebrating today at the Festival Proti Rasismu in Prague, a high profile festival consciously organized around far-left politics.

There is plenty of reason to believe workers can accomplish that kind of hearing for socialist ideas and other radical politics. It's not like we don't have plenty of homegrown musicians and artists without radical beliefs, from Steve Earle to Ani DiFranco to the Coup.

This is only one facet of what we are trying to rebuild when we march today. Nobody can make politics truly relevant to working people except working people themselves. When politics becomes more relevant, it's amazing what else does too!

May Day Playlist

The (International) Noise Conspiracy - "Communist Moon"

Son of Nun - "One Solution"

Violeta Parra - "El Pueblo Unido"

John Lennon - "Power to the People"

Tom Robinson Band - "Don't Take No for an Answer"

Victor Jara - "Vientos del Pueblo"

Ani DiFranco - "Cradle Will Rock"

The Coup - "Ride the Fence"

Rebel Music: Thirty Years of Rock Against Racism

By Alexander Billet

"Art and politics don't mix." So we are told time and again whenever an artist or musician dares to speak out and be heard. Politicking, it seems, is best left to the politicians, and musicians are better off leaving it that way.

The Carnival Against the Nazis, staged by Rock Against Racism in Britain 30 years ago today, was one of the many moments in history that prove what utter bollocks that is. While racism trolled the streets of Britain, this festival united black and white, immigrant and native born, punk rock and reggae in opposition. It was one of those iconic moments when the interplay between popular struggle and popular culture stepped forth for all to see. Yet again, it was proof positive that in the fight against oppression and inequality, music can indeed play a crucial role.

British journalist Sarfraz Manzoor summed up the influence Rock Against Racism had at its high-point on April 30th, 1978: "[F]or those who attended the original concert in 1978 it was a show that changed their lives and helped change Britain. Rock Against Racism radicalised a generation, it showed that music could do more than just entertain: it could make a difference."

The Ugly Spectre

Looking at Britain in the late 1970s, it's hard to argue that something different wasn't definitely needed. The UK was in the grip of an economic crisis. Unemployment and inflation were rife. Earlier in the decade, the British government, broke, had gone to the International Monetary Fund looking for a bail-out. The IMF agreed, but with the stipulation that social services were slashed throughout the Kingdom. By the mid-70s, welfare had been gutted, and the financial security of the working class wasn't any more secure.

It was only a matter of time until the crisis in the broad country reached the world of music. On August 5th, 1976, the legendary Eric Clapton took the stage in Birmingham's Odeon Theatre and delivered a drunken racist tirade. He said Britain was on the verge of becoming a "black colony," and that "we should send them all back." He urged a vote for racist Conservative politician Enoch Powell in order to "keep Britain white." Powell had become infamous in British politics eight years earlier when he delivered his infamous "Rivers of Blood" speech (as in "if Britain doesn't stem the tide of immigration, rivers of blood will flow through our streets").

There was, of course, a great irony to Clapton's comments. Most of his music wouldn't have existed if not for African American blues. And, of course, his career had been floudering until his smash-hit cover of Bob Marley's "I Shot the Sheriff" a few months prior. For him to be promoting the complete separation of black and white was laughable.

Irony aside, there was a much more sinister context for Clapton's diatribe: the rise of the National Front. The National Front was a political party founded in the late 60s by far-right former members of the Conservative Party and hardcore racists. They preyed on the fear of ordinary people by pointing the blame at Britain's sizable immigrant community of Asians and black Caribbeans. The NF toed the line heard from the Minutemen in the US today: that thieving and depraved brown-skinned invaders were stealing the jobs of respectable, hard-working white people. Though the NF tried to couch their platform in legitimacy and distance themselves from the "racist" label, they allowed white supremacists and neo-Nazis to join their ranks from the beginning. Even more horrifying was their increasing profile in the mid 70s. By the spring of '76 the NF had polled 40 percent in the northern city of Blackburn. "Paki-bashings" were becoming more frequent; in July Asian immigrant Gurdip Singh had been beaten to death by a gang of white youth. The public response of the NF's John Kingsley Read was "one down - a million to go."

Thankfully, the kind of ideas being spread by Clapton and the Front wouldn't go unopposed. The initiative was taken by Red Saunders and Roger Huddle, two artists who had been radicalized by the global uprisings of 1968. Both had been fans of Clapton and most of the artists that had revolutionized music in the 1960s. As anti-racists, they were disgusted by Clapton's comments. Upon hearing of them, they phoned up several friends and acquaintances, fellow artists and activists, and wrote an anti-racist manifesto that appeared in Sounds, Melody Maker and the New Musical Express, Britain's three largest music rags, along with the Trotskyist newspaper Socialist Worker. To say the letter's language took Clapton to task is an understatement: "Come on, Eric... Own up. Half your music is black. You're rock music's biggest colonist... P.S. Who shot the Sheriff, Eric? It sure as hell wasn't you!"

More than just a letter, though, Saunders, Huddle, and their co-signatories called for the formation of a organise "a rank and file movement against the racist poison music" to challenge the message of the National Front head-on. The name of this organization would be Rock Against Racism. Almost immediately, hundreds of letters began pouring in from people expressing enthusiastic agreement and wanting to know how they could get involved.

Battle Lines Drawn

As it would turn out, Huddle and Saunders had impeccable timing. "The founders of RAR were all soul fans," said Huddle, "but what really propelled it into what became a mass movement was the explosion of punk." White youth in Britain had tired of the pre-packaged version of rock 'n' roll being fed to them by major labels. Punk, with its visceral, back-to-basics approach, and uncomprosmising willingness to tell it how it is had found an incredibly enthusiastic audience. To many in the punk movement, Clapton's comments were yet more evidence that he was about as relevant to the times as woolly mammoth dung.

It seems that punk was something of a kindred spirit with RAR. Billy Bragg, a well-known politically active musician in his own right, made the connection right away: "I had seen the Clash on the first night of the White Riot tour and I remember thinking that the fascists were against anybody who wanted to be different - once they had dealt with the immigrants then they would move onto the gays and then the punks. Before I knew it the music I loved would be repatriated."

In the black community, the urgency of the real world was also finding an expression in music. Jamaican reggae had taken an increasingly militant turn in the 70s thanks in large part to the low-level civil war in that country. That militancy clearly resonated with a Caribbean immigrant community targeted not just by the NF, but by the police supposedly keeping them safe. Three weeks after the Clapton incident, London police incited a riot during a Caribbean carnival in Notting Hill, in what would become a well-remembered uprising against police racism. Around the same time punk was forcing its way onto the charts, London based Caribbeans would start making their own version of the heavy roots sound emanating from the islands in groups like Steel Pulse and Aswad.

The fields were clearly fertile for something potent to grow. Three months after the initial call to form went out, Rock Against Racism held its first show in East London featuring Carol Grimes. RAR started popping up all over the UK. Kids would call up from smaller cities asking what they could do to set up a local chapter. They attracted immigrant and British-born youth, punks, rastas, artists, dock workers would show up to shows and work security. Groups of musicians were signing up left and right to play RAR benefits. Roots reggae stalwarts like Steel Pulse, Aswad, and Misty in Roots often headlined. The vanguard of the punk movement, including the Clash, Buzzcocks and Sham 69, were frequent endorsers.

The organization also reaped the benefits of, and in some ways helped foment, the burgeoning Two Tone movement. Two Tone was the logical result of the collision between reggae and punk: multiracial bands that played Jamaican ska with a decidedly punk attitude. Groups like the Specials and the Selecter had a look, sound and message that proudly touted racial solidarity and most were regulars at RAR gigs.

Before long, the organization was publishing a magazine, Temporary Hoarding, which, in Huddle's words, was "the only really revolutionary cultural paper in Britain then or at any time." It's first issue summed up their political and musical mission in a page one editorial: "We want rebel music, street music, music that breaks down people's fear of one another. Crisis music. Now music."

While the starting point for RAR was fighting racism, they made clear from the start their opposition to all oppression. Some of RAR's earliest supporters were the Tom Robinson Band, a group of agit-rockers whose front-man, Robinson, had long been outspoken about his own sexuality. Organizers were keen on including women artists, and Temporary Hoarding frequently drew the connections between fighting racism and sexism, and commented frequently on the crisis in Northern Ireland.

After all, the National Front were also virulently homophobic; they were on record as saying rape wasn't really a crime; and they were staunch believers that Northern Ireland belonged to the British Empire. The NF had made their cause out to be one side of a cultural war between what was "English" and what wasn't. RAR also saw it as a clash of cultures, but reshaped the parameters. As the name of the magazine suggested, RAR were drawing battle lines. A early slogan was "Reggae, Soul, Rock 'n' Roll, Jazz, Funk, Punk - Our Music." Another read "NF = No Fun." This was clearly a fight between a culture of repression and one of freedom. Like Billy Bragg, RAR saw a direct link between fighting oppression and a vibrant and fluorishing youth culture.

We Are Black, We Are White, We Are Dynamite!

That cultural war was only going to get more heated. In 1977, the National Front announced plans to march through the majority black neighborhood of Lewisham in London. Their move was made even more inflammatory by their slogan claiming that 70 percent of muggers were black. The NF's momentum, however, was about to hit the mother of all brick walls. The call for their march simply angered way too many people. On August 13th, 1977, the NF attempted to march through Lewisham, and were faced with thousands of counter-demonstrators; community members, union workers, socialists and other militant anti-fascists confronted the racists as they attempted to march. It didn't take long for the police line to crumble and demonstrators clashed. In the end, the National Front was prevented from reaching their final rallying point. What would come to be known as the Battle of Lewisham was a historic victory against the British fascists, and would inspire the foundation of the Anti-Nazi League.

The Anti-Nazi League and Rock Against Racism were natural allies. Both were uncompromising in their anti-racism and their belief that the Front should be opposed head on, leaving no platform for the Front to spew their hate. RAR and the ANL's membership overlapped from the beginning. Bands associated with RAR would frequently attend ANL demonstrations. And so when the ANL planned a large march through the National Front strongholds in East London, it made sense for Rock Against Racism to provide the entertainment afterwards.

It's somewhat funny that the Carnival is what's remembered today given that the march was originally intended to be the main event. The Anti-Nazi League worked hand in hand with Rock Against Racism. While the march would send a political message, the music festival would be a celebration, a glimpse of the freedom and dynamism that a world without oppression might have to offer.

The day of the event exceeded all possible expectations. Richard Buckwell, a member of the organizing team describes it: "we expected 10 or 20,000 people, which would have been excellent, a big rise in the numbers who came on the marches and the demos. But on the day there were tens of thousands of people there." The march started in Trafalgar Square with about 10,000. When it ended in Victoria Park, the ranks had swollen by thousands. People had come from all over the country: punks, hippies, trade unionists, immigrant shopkeepers, bohemians, women's rights groups, gay activists; all had come to watch the carnival. By the time the headlining acts took the stage, the crowd was estimated at 80,000.

This naturally blew the organizers away. At most, they had expected 20,000. The PA system they had procured for the event couldn't blast much louder to accomodate more than that. The Carnival Against the Nazis had no corporate backing, and was run on a shoestring budget, heavily dependent on donations and volunteer labor. Tom Robinson, whose band headlined, describes what it was like: "At the park the gig was a ramshackle affair. Nowadays outdoor pop concerts make us think of corporate sponsorship, backstage catering, TV crews, guest lists, security guards, hospitality and VIP areas. But the Carnival Against the Nazis had none of that - RAR operated completely outside the showbiz establishment."

Perhaps that's why so many in attendance found the show so electrifying. All the artificial filters imposed by the music industry (ultimately composed of the same people who argue against confronting the Nazis) were completely absent. Very little came between the message of the performers and the audience.

That message was carried throughout the day by the brilliant acts. More than that, RAR's mission of fighting oppression with music seemed to actually work, if for no other reason than the sheer diversity and passion of the bands. The carnival was kicked off by X-Ray Spex, not only a Two Tone band, but one fronted by Poly Styrene, one of the most underrated front-women of the 1970s. Accounts of Steel Pulse's performance seem to always include their performance of their single "Ku Klux Klan" with them wearing white hoods in a salty and provocative act of satire. The Tom Robinson Band's performance of "Glad to Be Gay" was an explicit demand for solidarity between oppressed groups. And the Clash's set has become the stuff of legend, with Sham 69's Jimmy Pursey joining them onstage for their encore of "White Riot" (which had ironically been misconstrued as a white supremacist song upon its release; not that anyone could make that mistake now!).

And what of the audience? Did they just come for the music? Not likely. It seems that there were a good number in the crowd who had come to be inspired, who, through music, had been introduced to the idea that a world without racism may be more than just a pipe dream. Among the crowd was Gurinder Chadha, today a filmmaker, but in the 70s the teenage daughter of immigrants. She had to lie to her parents to come to the carnival, but it was something she wouldn't forget: "The whole of the park was jumping up and down to the Clash," Chadha says. "It was an incredibly emotional moment because for the first time I felt that I was surrounded by people who were on my side. That was the first time I thought that something had changed in Britain forever."

It was the first of many anti-Nazi carnivals held throughout Britain. The next few years would see festivals in Leeds, Brixton and Manchester, turning out tens of thousands. Countless other small shows were held, and an unknown number of people were inspired and moblized by Rock Against Racism. When the organization folded in 1981 at a carnival in Leeds featuring the Specials, the National Front was in shambles. Indeed, the Front's former deputy would later state years later that both the ANL and Rock Against Racism were key in the organization's collapse.

We Still Want Rebel Music

Today the National Front is a shadow of its former self. However, the threat of racist scapegoating at the ballot box is far from over. The economic ineptitude and soft Islamophobia of the Blair and Brown Labour governments has opened the door for the British National Party, whose origins lie in the NF, to use the same anti-immigrant racism as their predecessors to make gains in local councils. With the London Assembly elections taking place on May 1st, the BNP is within reach of getting a seat. Luckily, the fighting spirit of Rock Against Racism is also still alive, and the Carnival Against the Nazis is revered by anti-racists of all stripes.

Rock Against Racism was relaunched in 2004 as Love Music Hate Racism. It has been active over the past four years combatting the BNP's influence with the help of Unite Against Fascism, heir apparent to the ANL. This past Sunday, the 27th, LMHR held a 30th anniversary festival commemorating the Carnival Against the Nazis in Victoria Park. Tom Robinson performed, along with some of today's most dynamic acts such as Roll Deep, The Good the Bad and the Queen (featuring Paul Simonon of the Clash) and members of Babyshambles. The carnival was more than a celebration, though. Throughout the day, performers and speakers spoke of the need to openly oppose the BNP on the streets, campuses and in the workplaces. And, if only because it seems hard to top the original carnival, it's amazing to know that over 100,000 turned out this time around!

There is a lesson for artists and activists on this side of the Atlantic, too. The notion of using popular music to organize political protest may seem a foreign one when surveying the pop-addled airwaves. There are plenty of signs for hope, though. The resurgence of garage rock in the mainstream has signalled a return to the gritty confrontation of punk rock. Hip-hop holds countless talented, politically active MCs in its ranks. And if anyone believes that the youth in this country aren't angry, then they simply haven't been paying attention. From a meaningless war to a hopeless economy, to our own homegrown versions of racism and scapegoating, it seems clear that youth are getting dealt a bad hand. What would happen if the same music kids listen to in order to escape and make sense was actually pointing the way to something better?

Rock Against Racism and the Carnival Against the Nazis answer that question brilliantly. Both are undeniable proof that music isn't something merely to be bought and consumed. Music, ultimately, belongs to us. It reflects our experiences, our worries, our hopes and dreams, and if we fight hard enough, it can bust the walls down and give us a taste of what's on the other side.

Lars Ulrich... Still a Tool

It's been the better part of a decade since Metallica's Lars Ulrich lead the charge against digital downloading. Since then, the battle has both been won and lost. Yes, the record companies have sunk their claws into the format via iTunes and others, but they've been completely unable to wipe out the "illegal" downloading of mp3's. They never will be able to either.

This interview in Rolling Stone makes it seem he has softened up in recent years. Metallica now has their music available online. But it's worth thinking of the folks who are now having to incur massive debt because they were taken to court by the RIAA for downloading seven songs. Lars Ulrich's presence in the anti-downloading campaign from the very beginning provided legitimacy, a fig leaf if you will, to the big labels' attempt to crack down on listeners.

Ulrich also touches on what the next Metallica album will sound like. Many purists will point out that the group's sound hasn't been the same since the Black Album. They are right. Around the early nineties the standard-bearers of metal cut off all their hair and tried to cash in on grunge and alternative by softening their sound. The visceral intensity was completely absent from Load--which was, well... a load--and every album since.

Isn't it interesting that their sound became pabulum around the same time Ulrich threw the group's hat into the same ring as the record labels?

Rebel Music is more than Good Music

The 30th anniversary of the legendary Carnival Against the Nazis is coming up. Love Music Hate Racism, the modern continuation of Rock Against Racism is holding a carnival in Tragalgar Square in London to celebrate.

This show will not just be a commemoration, though. Racism is alive in well all over the world. In London, the British National Party (BNP) don a veneer of respectability to get themselves a platform to spew anti-immigrant racism. They are much more than just a thorn in people's sides.

The BNP has won local council seats, and are polling higher than normal in the upcoming London Assembly elections. This recent statement from Babyshambles bassist Drew McConnell lays out the threat that the BNP presents to multicultural London.

"[L]ast time the BNP were just 5,000 votes off getting a seat. That might sound like a lot, but 5,000 votes is actually just 0.1 per cent!" That is truly scary.

Here in the US, where we see similar scapegoating of immigrants, this kind of action is needed too. The example of LMHR is one that musicians and activists can learn from in the US. LMHR has brought in some very high profile acts in recent years, not just Babyshambles (as well as the Libertines), but Roll Deep, Dizzee Rascal, David Gray, Mick Jones and Carbon/Silicon, and many more. That these artists aren't afraid to speak out shows that something similar is possible in this country.

Wait until you hear her version of "Fight the Power"...

On some level, this was a humorous read. The NME's website reports that Alicia Keys is demanding an apology from Blender magazine regarding comments she made taken out of context that apparently made her out to be a racist and conspiracy theorist.

The humor comes not when you hear about the tiff itself, but when you think about what the music press is willing to sensationalize. The comments in question were her insistence that "gansta rap was a ploy to get black people to kill each other." Keys is going after the mag for making her sound like she thought the government was responsible for gangsta rap.

She is also upset over a sequence where she reveals the meaning behind an AK-47 pendant she wears around her neck: as a symbol of "strength, power, and killing 'em dead."

At first, I thought what most other readers are probably thinking right now: "Alicia Keys?!?! A militant!?!?! Really?!?!"

Keys' comments, as her public statement reveals, were in fact taken out of context. However, the real issue at play regarding her first comment seems that she actually didn't say anything that was untrue! Elected leaders, along with the music industry, have indeed played a role in portraying hip-hop as uniquely violent and depraved. Ever since the biz wrapped their tentacles around the genre, there hasn't been a single gangsta rap album that really takes up the issues that groups like N.W.A and others took up in the early 90s. It's gone from "in the streets" to "In Da Club."

As far as the second comment: "Regarding the AK-47 reference, AK-47 is a nickname given to me by some of my friends in jest, as an acronym for Alicia Keys and a metaphor for wowing people with my music and performances, 'killing 'em dead' on stage. The reference was in no way meant to have a literal, political or negative connotation."

It's probably just as well. I doubt anyone can picture Keys standing on stage singing "The revolution has come, time to pick up the gun."

The Disney-fication of CBGB

There is something obscenely wrong with what sits in the former location of CBGB. Some of what defined the legendary rock club remains; a few walls are still covered with fliers and graffiti. But the stage has been replaced with a tailoring shop: the kind you see at Brooks Brothers. And the floor where kids once danced to Television and Bad Brains is now filled with clothing racks adorned with $1600 leather jackets.

That's because the place that was ground zero for the New York punk, hardcore and No Wave scenes, is now home to a boutique for high-end fashion designer John Varvatos.
Varvatos, who has designed for Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein, seems at least somewhat aware of the hallowed ground on which he now stands. He has attempted to integrate the look and feel of CBs into his new store. He promises to hold a fundraiser for young musicians in May. Varvatos told the New York Post: "I wanted to combine music, fashion, memorabilia, and really make it a cultural space."

The question is, whose culture is he talking about?

There's always been an attraction among the affluent toward the culture of the "underclass." The austere, bohemian ethos of living outside the accepted parameters of society is enticingly romantic and edgy. And yet, anyone living in an urban area today can rattle off the laughable ways in which yuppie-dom has tried to appropriate this lifestyle: "loft" style apartments, complete with exposed concrete and piping sold for 400 grand; pseudo-hipsters who spend $75 to make their hair look like they just rolled out of bed. And from Williamsburg in Brooklyn to the Mission District in San Francisco, the once safe-havens of Bohemia are being encroached upon by developers and spineless city councils. Their promises to retain the "flavor" of the neighborhoods ring hollow.

Enter Varvatos. In trying to pay tribute to the iconic CBGB, he has made it impossible for any of the former regulars to return, even if they wanted to. His idea of a nod to the Ramones is selling special edition Chuck Taylor All Star tennis shoes... for $110!

Robert Hollander, a resident and community activist in Manhattan's East Village, hit the nail right on the head: "It's kind of ironic because they've made this gesture to preserve a little bit of history, but the reason CBGBs is gone is because places like this have opened up in the neighborhood."

Indeed, CBs has been one of countless casualties of the new urban policy. When owner Hilly Kristal closed the club in October 2006, it was against a backdrop of skyrocketing rents, forced evictions and police crackdowns. The city's willful neglect in the 70s and 80s had allowed the Lower East Side to become an incubator of punk rebellion and artistic experimentation. "The sense of self and new energy was instantaneous," says Patti Smith, "the confidence it inspired was strong, and the sense of community was immediate. William S. Burroughs lived down the street. He came all the time. We gave him a little table and a chair, and he'd sit there. All of our friends came -- Robert Mapplethorpe, Jim Carroll. CBGB was the neighborhood -- the artists and poets and musicians -- and we all inspired each other."

The gears shifted in the 90s. As more developers made their way downtown, squats were cleared out to make way for condos, apartments that had gone for a few hundred were suddenly worth thousands. True to form, CB's landlord started demanding tens of thousands in fabricated back-rent from Kristal. Callous seems to be an understatement when talking about shutting down this kind of cultural hub, but this is the NYC of Giuliani and Bloomberg. And policies designed to mow over working people's very right to exist certainly don't give two thoughts to the culture trampled in the wake.

Herein lies the sick irony Hollander talked about. The very same exorbitant rent that forced Kristal to shut it down is mere pocket change to Varvatos. Alice Cooper, whose gold records now adorn the walls of the new Varvatos boutique, thinks it's a chance for the rabble that frequented the club to move up the world: "now all the old CBGB punks will become the best dressed CBGB punks in the world." As most of these same punks were pushed out of the neighborhood long ago, it's hard to believe they'd come back to pay $130 for a t-shirt.

It's only one of the myriad cultural tragedies in the age of the Shock Doctrine. CBGB, an artistic community that altered the course of history is brushed aside and replaced with its feeble, Disneyland equivalent. It's happening in every city, to every artist that lives on the fringe. No matter what Varvatos says about paying homage, his store's mere presence can only be a reminder of the creativity and enthusiasm crushed under the iron heel of the free market.