Music and Politics

Everything in this blog is just my opinion, not fact. The views here are mine and not those of any organization, person, or sentient cat. If you take this seriously, that’s on you—proceed with caution and maybe a sense of humor.

You know, maybe I’m just lucky. My parents raised me in a house where the 1960s were practically a religion. Every conversation seemed to involve either Woodstock, Vietnam, or how they both had to walk uphill in the snow, barefoot, to buy their Sgt. Pepper’s vinyl. The ‘60s were like the time of peak everything—peak rebellion, peak music, peak denim. Their memories weren’t just tied to the decade—they were soundtracked by it. And if you were a kid growing up in Chicagoland, you got two things drilled into your brain by every adult: (1) how awesome Riverview amusement park was before it closed, and (2) that the ‘60s were the greatest time to ever be alive. We’re not talking about Riverview today, though, because I have issues.

Back to my point: I connected with music at an early age. Music was everywhere in our house, like the family dog, except it didn’t chew the furniture or destroy my Star Wars toys. And I didn’t just like music; I needed it. Somehow—and by “somehow,” I mean very obviously because of my parents’ records—I associated music with politics. I mean, ‘60s music practically invented the protest song. It wasn’t just rock; it was “Rock... but also don’t bomb....”

By the time I was a kid, music still had politics, but it had gotten a little... muddier. In the ‘80s and ‘90s, it wasn’t just about fighting corporate greed or ending wars; it was also about whether you were Team Michael Jackson or Team Prince (spoiler: you’re wrong if you don’t pick Prince). And Prince, oh gosh. That guy taught me the power of diversity before anyone called it that. He also made Controversy, an album so unapologetically bold that Tipper Gore got the vapors and slapped Parental Advisory stickers on every record she could find. (Fun fact: the stickers just helped us kids find the best albums. Thanks, Tipper.)

The first album that really grabbed me, though, was John Mellencamp’s Scarecrow. It was like someone handed me a roadmap to the Midwest—and not the cheery, touristy kind. This was the one that said, “Hey, kid, corporate factory farms are crushing family farmers, and by the way, good luck finding justice or independence.” Mellencamp sang about small-town life with such nostalgia that you’d swear he invented playing horseshoes at a pig roast. But then he hit you with songs like Justice and Independence ‘85 and The Face of the Nation, and suddenly you’re thinking, “Wait, why hasn’t anything changed since 1985?” Turns out, America still hasn’t figured out that whole “justice and fairness” thing. Cool, cool, no big deal. Just gonna lie awake every night thinking about it until I solve it.

After Mellencamp, I took a detour to Athens, Georgia, where R.E.M. and The B-52s were doing their weird, magical thing (technically this started before Scarecrow). R.E.M. taught me to be skeptical of the government (which, let’s be honest, wasn’t that hard), while The B-52s taught me that even the most miserable day can end in a dance party if you just let it. Both bands gave me some serious life lessons, though, and Athens should probably just make a statue for them already. Seriously, both bands taught me the environment is totally worth saving vs. getting on some weirdo dude's rocket to Mars. Although, will help him pack for Mars ASAFP.

But then, things got darker. Prince was sometimes too funky for my brooding moods (not really true he is at his best in that space IMO). Mellencamp couldn’t keep being the patron saint of small-town angst forever. R.E.M. traded their indie coolness for massive success because we all actually love payday. And The B-52s? They reminded me to have fun—but some days, fun wasn’t cutting it. That’s when Vernon Reid came crashing into my life like a guitar-wielding meteor.

Living Colour’s Cult of Personality wasn’t just a song; it was yet another wake-up call. Vernon Reid’s guitar wasn’t just incendiary—it was pyrotechnic. That riff? It wasn’t just a riff; it was a sonic middle finger to complacency and unlike anything sonically before. And let’s not forget the lyrics—they made you question every politician, every system, and maybe even what good you were putting out into the world. Reid wasn’t just blending a dozen+ genres; he was rewiring brains. I signed up without reading whatever it was I signed.

And if Vernon Reid rewired me, Tom Morello lit the fuse. Rage Against the Machine’s debut album was like someone poured gasoline on my political awareness and then handed Morello the match. People think it’s a “hard rock” album, but they’re wrong. It’s a weapon. Morello’s guitar doesn’t need distortion or overdrive—it needs a license to operate as an ancharist's instrument of defiance. Every track on that album is a manifesto wrapped in the fury of a thousand protests, of other manifestos. And here’s the bummer: that album feels more relevant now than in 1992, which should terrify all of us.

So, here I am, still obsessed with the intersection of music and politics, wondering why 2024 didn’t give us the next “Rock the Vote” or “We Are the World” moment. Where’s the protest music now? Sure, Bruce Springsteen and Taylor Swift stepped up, but it feels like we’re missing that big, unified call to arms. Maybe it’s on me. Maybe I need to write the songs I think we’re missing. Because if music taught me one thing, it’s this: you can fight injustice with a killer riff, a sharp lyric, and a whole lot of volume. So, yeah—sorry for the ramble, but I’ve got work to do. Let’s all crank it up.

I owe thanks to bands and musicians like R.E.M., Rage Against the Machine, Bad Religion, Public Enemy, Ani DiFranco, The Fugees, Indigo Girls, John Mellencamp, 10,000 Maniacs, Living Colour, and 1,000+ more for supplementing my education and giving me important tools that I hope I can help to carry forward for my daughter's future.