AMERICANS DO THEIR DUTY.

29 NOVEMBER 2002: AMERICANS
DO THEIR DUTY.

ABOVE: Shoppers at a Bakersfield
Wal-Mart grab televisions after the store opened at 6 a.m

The Washington-based National
Retail Federation predicts total holiday retail sales, which exclude restaurant
and auto sales, will increase by 4 percent to roughly $209.25 billion.

from The New York Times
for April 24, 2001:

Labor Standards Clash With Global Reality

by LESLIE KAUFMAN and DAVID
GONZALEZ

SAN SALVADOR ˜ Six years
ago, Abigail Martínez earned 55 cents an


hour sewing cotton tops
and khaki pants. Back then, she says, workers were made


to spend 18-hour days in
an unventilated factory with undrinkable water.


Employees who displeased
the bosses were denied bathroom breaks or occasionally made


to sweep outside all morning
in the broiling sun.


    Today,
she and other workers have coffee breaks and lunch on an outdoor

terrace cafeteria. Bathrooms
are unlocked, the factory is breezy and clean, and


employees can complain to
a board of independent monitors if they feel abused.


    The changes
are the result of efforts by Gap, the big clothing chain, to


improve working conditions
at this independent factory, one of many that supply


its clothes.

    Yet Ms.
Martínez today earns 60 cents an hour, only 5 cents more an hour


than six years ago.

    In some
ways, the factory, called Charter, shows what Western companies


can do to discourage abuse
by suppliers. But Gap’s experience also demonstrates


the limits to good intentions
when first-world appetites collide with third-world


realities.

    Ms. Martínez’s
hours are still long, production quotas are high, and her


earnings are still not enough
to live on. She shares a two- room concrete home with a


sister, two brothers, her
parents and a grandmother.

    Yet the
real alternative in this impoverished nation is no work. And


government officials won’t
raise the minimum wage or even enforce labor laws too rigorously


for fear that employers
would simply move many jobs to another poor country.


    The lesson
from Gap’s experience in El Salvador is that competing


interests among factory
owners, government officials, American managers and middle-class


consumers ˜ all with their
eyes on the lowest possible cost ˜ make it difficult to


achieve even basic standards,
and even harder to maintain them.


    “Some
have suggested that there are simple or magic solutions to ensure

that labor standards are
applied globally,” said Aron Cramer, director of human


rights at Business for Social
Responsibility, a nonprofit advocacy group that receives


support from business. “In
fact, it takes a great deal of work.”


    Fed up
with abusive conditions, Ms. Martínez and a small group of other


workers organized and began
to hold strikes at the factory, then called Mandarin


International, in 1995.
As tension rose, workers took over the factory and shut down


power to the plant. Security
guards forcibly ejected strikers; union members said the


guards dragged women out
by their hair and clubbed them with guns. The

factory’s owners fired hundreds,
including Ms. Martínez.


    It might
have ended that way, except that it occurred just as concern


about sweatshops was rising
in the United States. Groups like the National


Labor Committee, a union-backed,
workers advocacy group based in New York, had formed to


oppose sweatshops. Mandarin
offered a media- ready case of abuse, and the


revolt was widely publicized.

    Still,
two of the four retailers using Mandarin left after the protests

˜ J. C. Penney and Dayton
Hudson (now Target). Eddie Bauer, a unit of Spiegel Inc.,


suspended its contract.
Gap Inc., which is based in San Francisco, intended to quit,


too, but a group of Mandarin
workers pleaded with the company to save their jobs. Some


blamed union organizers
for the trouble. “Problems were made to look worse by the


union,” said one employee,
Lucía Alvarado, who has worked at the factory for eight years.


    Gap executives
chose to stay after deciding that all the groups involved


˜ workers, labor activists
and factory owners ˜ were willing to make changes. The


workers were expected to
stop disrupting the plant, and managers had to agree to more

humane practices and to
accept outside monitors.


    To make
sure the changes stuck and to arbitrate disputes, Gap decided to


try the then innovative
idea of hiring local union, religious and academic leaders as


independent monitors who
would meet regularly with workers to hear complaints,


investigate problems and
look over the books.


    “It’s
not a paradise,” said Carolina Quinteros, co-director of the


Independent Monitoring Group
of El Salvador, as the monitors call themselves. “But


at least it works better
than others down here. They don’t have labor or human rights

violations.”

    The push
for change ranges far beyond the Charter factory, or El


Salvador. Today, activists
on college campuses are calling for an end to sweatshops


everywhere. [As recently
as this past weekend in Quebec, world trade officials debated


how to clean up those operations,
and the United States has pushed developing countries


to raise pay and working
conditions in thousands of plants from Bangladesh to


Brazil.]

    Results,
however, have been negligible. The basic problem is that jobs

and capital can move fast
these days, as the president of El Salvador, Francisco Flores,


is keenly aware. “The difficulty
in this region is that there is labor that is


more competitively priced
than El Salvador,” he said.


    Here,
as in many other countries, labor advocates say the problem is


made worse by the government’s
cozy ties with factory owners. When a Labor Ministry


committee issued a report
critical of forced overtime, poor safety and threats


against labor organizers,
factory owners complained. The government swiftly withdrew


and disowned it.

    Salvadoran
officials and business leaders have also objected to monitors


Gap has hired to police
working conditions. They contend that the group is a tool of


unions that want to keep
jobs from leaving the United States ˜ or a leftist


anti-government front, a
suspicion left over from El Salvador’s long civil war, which ended in


1992.

    Then
there is practicality. Gap spends $10,000 a year for the


independent monitors at
Charter, which is owned by Taiwanese investors, and thousands more for


management time to arbitrate
disputes and for its own company monitors to recheck

the facts on the ground.
For the company to duplicate these intensive efforts at each


of the 4,000 independent
factories it contracts with would have taken about 4.5


percent of its annual profit
of $877 million last year.


    In a
world where costs are measured in pennies, that percentage would be


a significant burden. Wal-Mart
and Kmart are praised by investors for relentlessly


driving down costs, but
they have much less comprehensive monitoring programs.


    Gap says
that expense and staff time are not even its main concerns. The


experiment in El Salvador
has only reinforced the company’s conviction that

companies cannot substitute
for governments indifferent to enforcing laws. Also, it said,


retailers have limited power
over their independent contractors. Either they pull out,


which would punish innocent
workers, or they must accede to a slow process where


they must cajole and bully
for every bit of progress.


    “We are
not the all-powerful Oz that rules over what happens in every


factory,” said Elliot Schrage,
Gap’s senior vice president for global affairs. “Do we


have leverage? Yes. Is it
as great as our critics believe? Not by a long shot.”

Sitting Down: Monitoring
Effort Enlists Outsiders

Still, monitoring is the
sweatshop opponents’ great hope. Watchdog


groups say that only people
outside of the company can win the trust of workers and


evaluate complaints. “That
is where you get problems that won’t show up in paper


records and interviews with
management,” said Sam Brown, executive director of the


Fair Labor Association,
a labor advocacy group in Washington.


    At the
time, however, no one had ever done it, said Mr. Brown, who is a


former Ambassador to the
Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe


and past director of Action,
federal domestic volunteer agency.

    Gap’s
efforts are still in many ways a blueprint for the international


labor advocacy movement
˜ since 1995 other companies like Liz Claiborne and Reebok have


attempted to start similar
programs. But what has actually happened in


El Salvador is a process
that lasted longer, cost more and achieved less than what many


people had hoped for. “We
knew it would be hard,” Mr. Schrage said. “But it’s been


harder than we ever imagined.”

    The company
has found that no aspect of its efforts escapes local


politics. On the recommendation
of Charles Kernaghan, the director of the National Labor

Council, Gap turned to the
legal aid office of the Archdiocese of San Salvador and to


the Jesuit University here.
Earlier, both institutions had helped uncover abuses in


the plant, which to Gap
demonstrated their experience and independence from management.


But both also had a history
of sympathy for the Farabundo Martí National


Liberation Front, a coalition
of rebel groups and political parties during the civil war.


The coalition is known as
the F.M.L.N., its initials in Spanish.


    “When
companies see me, they see someone to the left of the F.M.L.N.,”

said Benjamín Cuéllar,
the director of the Institute for Human Rights at the


University of Central America
here who is also on the board of independent monitors. That view


manifests itself in mistrust
and resistance by managers, he said.


    Beyond
politics, Gap says it is not easy to impose its will on


contractors simply because
it is a major customer. Pedro Mancía, the factory’s manager,


indicated that he looks
on the monitors as an annoyance, not a threat. In his view, the


only meaningful role they
played was in easing tensions among the workers themselves

after the 1995 strike.

    That
event “was not between management and workers,” Mr. Mancía argued.


“We had two warring factions
of unions and they could not sit down together.”


    Factory
managers agreed to accept monitors mostly to avoid losing Gap


and going out of business.
Still, trust is tenuous and the managers have found ways ˜


subtle and not so subtle
˜ to resist, monitors say.


    It took
about a year to rehire all of the workers fired during the 1995

strike, for example. And
30 of those rehired in 1997 were fired again recently, not


because they were strikers
but because the company said they were not productive


enough. “They are playing
by the rules of the game,” said one member of the monitoring


group. “But I’m not much
in agreement with the rules of the game.”


    Gap says
that this project has taught it the limit of its own influence.


“We can’t be the whole solution,”
Mr. Schrage said. “The solution has to be labor laws


that are adequate, respected
and enforced. One of the problems in El Salvador is


that that was not happening
and is not happening.”

Moving On: Economic Obstacles
Impede Reforms


Before dawn each day, Flor
de María Hernández leaves her three children


in the tent where they have
lived since an earthquake leveled her home earlier this


year and begins her two-hour
commute to the Charter clothing factory.


    She and
the others, like Ms. Martínez, must be at work before 7 a.m.


Managers close the gate
precisely on the hour and dock the pay of anyone who is late.


    Inside,
rows of sewing machines face blackboards on which supervisors

have written the daily quotas
for shirts and trousers, roughly 2,000 a day for each


line of 36 machines. The
pace is relentless, but by local standards it is a


pleasant place to work.
There are lockers, tiled bathrooms, a medical clinic and an outdoor


cafeteria. Large fans and
high ceilings keep temperatures down.


    But Ms.
Martínez remembers just what it took to get this far. She was


among the workers who protested
the abusive conditions in 1995. “Workers would


bring in permission slips
from their doctors to go to the hospital,” she


recalled, “and supervisors
would rip it up in their faces.”

    Of the
70,000 garment workers in El Salvador, 80 percent are women. Few


earn enough to take care
of their families. Ms. Hernández, for example, earns


about $30 a week inspecting
clothes. It is not enough to feed her children; to make


ends meet, she relies on
help from her ex-husband.


    She keeps
her job because the most common alternative is to work as a


live-in maid or a street
vendor. Jobs cutting sugar cane in the searing sun, once


plentiful, are difficult
to find now, and wages have fallen in recent years along with commodity

prices.

    El Salvador,
never a wealthy country, is struggling every bit as hard as


its people. Roughly 75,000
people were killed and thousands wounded in the civil


war. The war also drove
away foreign investment, shuttered relatively high-paying


electronics factories and
left roads, power lines and other basic services in


tatters.

    Earlier
this year, two powerful earthquakes compounded the difficulties


by wrecking hundreds of
thousands of buildings. Economists estimate that 180,000

Salvadorans are jobless.
Almost half of the population lives in poverty.


    The government
has gone out of its way to attract investment and jobs.


Government leaders pin the
country’s future on the optimistic hope of doubling the


number of factories making
clothes for the United States, to more than 400, in


three years.

    “Maquilas
have been a source of significant economic growth in recent


years,” President Flores
said using the Spanish term for the plants that enjoy tax and


trade benefits. “They are
the most dynamic economic sector in the country.”

    That
growth, however, has not been matched by the budget of the Labor


Ministry, which is among
the worst-financed agencies. It employs only 37 labor


inspectors to enforce regulations
˜ 1 for every 10 factories, not including coffee


plantations, construction
sites or other places of business in this country, which


has 6.1 million people.

    The limits
of the government’s willingness to be an advocate for labor


was illustrated last summer
when it suppressed the report critical of factory working


conditions. The labor minister,
Jorge Nieto, said that the report was technically

flawed, and insists that
the government intends to modernize his agency and improve inspector


training. “We want investment,
but only with respect and fairness,” he said. “Only


when workers’ rights are
respected can we generate more contracts with American


companies.”

    But to
get those contracts, El Salvador must compete with neighbors like


Honduras and Nicaragua,
where wages are lower and the population even poorer and


more eager for work. Government
officials and factory managers concede that El


Salvador’s current minimum
wage is not enough to live on ˜ by some estimates it covers less

than half of the basic needs
of a family of four ˜ but they are wary of increasing it.


    “We cannot
be satisfied with the wage, but we have to acknowledge the


economic realities,” Mr.
Nieto said.


    Since
Gap pioneered the independent monitoring effort, few other


American companies have
followed. They cite costs, politics and questionable effectiveness.


Gap executives echo those
worries when they assess the experience at Charter.


    “We are
in a very competitive marketplace,” said Mr. Schrage of Gap.

“Consumers make decisions
on lots of factors, including price. There is no clear benefit


in having invested in independent
monitoring to a consumer and it is not clear if we were


to make it more broad policy
that consumers would get a benefit or care at all.”


    As she
shopped at the Gap flagship store at Herald Square in Manhattan,


Claire Cosslett fingered
an aqua cotton T-shirt made in El Salvador to check


for quality. Ms. Cosslett,
a legal recruiter, said she reads labels and sometimes worries


that her garments are “made
by some child chained to a sewing machine.”


    American
companies dread comments like that. Yet for all their fears,

they ultimately have to
balance their concern over image, and any feelings they have


about third-world workers,
with customers’ attitudes. Then there are the competitive


pressures to keep costs
low. Would the cost of raising working standards in El Salvador


raise the price of a
T-shirt enough to drive off customers?


    Among
several shoppers who were interviewed at the Manhattan store, Ms.


Cosslett was the only
one to say that reports of sweatshop conditions had stopped


her from buying a particular
brand. She said she would be willing to pay more for

a garment made under
better working conditions.


    But
then she paused and hedged. “It would depend how much,” she said.

MORE DRUGS ON THE WAY FOR DECADENT AMERICANS.

28 NOVEMBER 2002: MORE
DRUGS ON THE WAY FOR DECADENT AMERICANS.

Why
eating less may extend your life


Thursday, November 28, 2002
Posted: 2:09 PM EST (1909 GMT)

WASHINGTON (Reuters) — As
Americans feasted on plates of Thanksgiving turkey Thursday, U.S. scientists
reported they have made progress in understanding how eating less leads
to longer life.


    Studies
in yeast, rodents and other organisms have found that drastically cutting
calories extends life span, and researchers are striving to find out how
that happens. The hope is that human drugs may be developed to mimic
that effect, without having to eat less.

    In a
report in Friday’s edition of the journal Science, researchers said studies
with fruit flies, which have many genes similar to mammals, showed that
an enzyme called Rpd3 histone deacetylase likely is a key to longevity.


    “If you
decrease the level of enzyme without eating less, you still get life span
extension,” said Stewart Frankel, a Yale research scientist and the study’s
senior author.


    In the
study, flies with genetic mutations that resulted in lower levels of the
enzyme lived about 33 percent or 50 percent longer than normal. With a
low-calorie diet, life span was extended by about 41 percent.


    The enzyme
may be an attractive drug target, said Frankel.


    Frankel
cautioned that much more research, which probably will take several years,
is needed before scientists find a drug that can safely provide the same
effect in people. The drug would have to be convenient and safe to take
for many years, he said.


    One drug,
called phenylbutyrate, is thought to target the Rpd3 enzyme, Frankel said.
A study published earlier this year showed that feeding that drug to fruit
flies extended their lives.

    Low-calorie
diets produce other benefits aside from longer lives, according to past
studies in rodents that evaluated the effect of decreasing caloric intake
by 20 to 40 percent.


    “Their
memory is better, their muscle tone is better, they get fewer cancers,
fewer heart problems,” Frankel said. Even gray hair is delayed.


    The study
was co-authored by Blanka Rogina and Stephen Helfand of the University
of Connecticut Health Center.

na

27 NOVEMBER 2002

Missing Pieces [IMPORT]

Talk Talk

(February 16, 2001)

Number of Discs: 1

Label: Blueprint

1. After the Flood (Outtake)
[Alternate Take]


2. Myrrhman

3. New Grass [Edit]

4. Stump

 5. Ascension Day

6. 5:09

7. Piano – Mark Hollis

‘Missing Pieces’ picks up
where EMI’s ‘A’s & B Sides’ left off. After leaving EMI the band signed
to Polydor to produce their final album ‘Laughing Stock’. This CD is a
collection of the A and B-sides of the singles issued during the Polydor
era. Also includes the very rare piece called ‘Piano’, recorded in 1998.
1999 release. Standard jewel case.

HOW U.S. COFFEE CAPILTALISTS (Nestle, Kraft, Procter & Gamble, and Sara Lee) ARE KILLING QUALITY COFFEE

26 NOVEMBER 2002: HOW
U.S. COFFEE CAPILTALISTS (Nestle, Kraft, Procter & Gamble, and Sara
Lee) ARE KILLING QUALITY COFFEE

http://www.fortune.com/indexw.jhtml?channel=artcol.jhtml&doc_id=210409

 

Crisis in a Coffee Cup

The price of beans has crashed.
Growers around the world are starving. And the quality of your morning
cup is getting worse. So why is everyone blaming Vietnam?

Fortune: Monday, December
9, 2002


By Nicholas Stein

Nestled among the rugged
hills of Vietnam’s Central Highlands, 200 miles north of Ho Chi Minh City,
Buon Ma Thuot is a remote and isolated village in a remote and isolated
land. The only road in and out of town is a narrow, winding, muddy track
interrupted by gaping potholes and meandering yaks. Until the mid-1990s
the region was notable only for a key battle in the final days of what
Vietnam calls its American war. A replica of the first North Vietnamese
tank to roll into Buon Ma Thuot sits in the center of town as a monument
to South Vietnam’s “liberation.” But in the past decade almost everything
else here has changed. The rain forest that once blanketed the region is
gone–pulled up and burned down to get at the fertile soil beneath. The
population has exploded. And the streets now reverberate with the buzz
of motorcycle traffic and the hum of commerce. The development is exemplified
by Phuc Ban Me, a gaudy resort complete with a hotel, a sprawling water
park, and a karaoke bar built in the shape of a cave.


    The catalyst
for Buon Ma Thuot’s growth was a plant associated more often with the lush
climes of Latin America than the jungles of Southeast Asia: coffee. Between
1990 and 2000, Vietnamese farmers planted more than a million acres of
the crop. Annual production swelled from 84,000 tons to 950,000, enabling
Vietnam to surpass Colombia as the world’s second-largest producer (Brazil
is the first). Vietnam may not have Juan Valdez, but its coffee is probably
in the can in your kitchen pantry.


    In 1997,
after a frost in Brazil sent the price of green (unroasted) coffee on New
York’s Commodities Exchange soaring above $3 a pound, Buon Ma Thuot’s coffee
sector suddenly had more money than it could spend. But the coffee renaissance
in Vietnam proved short-lived. In 1999 prices began to fall, sinking last
December to 42 cents a pound, their lowest level in a century. For three
consecutive years prices have not even covered the cost of production.
Many of the region’s farmers are heavily in debt. Some have replaced their
coffee plants with corn or pineapples. Others have simply abandoned their
farms. Phuc Ban Me gets few visitors these days, and its water park stands
vacant, a reminder of the excesses of the boom.

    Vietnam’s
coffee industry is not the only one suffering. The prolonged price slump
has ravaged many of the world’s 25 million coffee growers. In Central America,
where the costs of production are triple those of Vietnam, the repercussions
have been particularly severe. The U.S. Agency for International Development
estimates that at least 600,000 coffee workers have lost their jobs. Conditions
are equally dire in Africa, where impoverished nations such as Uganda,
Burundi, and Ethiopia rely on coffee for the majority of their export revenues.
Nestor Osorio, executive director of the International Coffee Organization,
calls this “the worst crisis ever” for coffee, the second-largest globally
traded commodity, after oil.


    Vietnam
is not just a victim of the crisis. For many, it is also the chief culprit,
responsible for flooding the market over the past five years with millions
of bags of unwanted coffee, upsetting the fine balance between global supply
and demand for its own short-term gain.


    But the
depressed prices plaguing coffee growers are not simply the result of a
cyclical glut. They are also caused by two systemic changes within the
global coffee world: the collapse of the cartel that kept prices at sustainable
levels for nearly three decades, and the development of new coffee-processing
technology, which prompted a shift away from high-quality arabica beans
to cheaper, lower-quality robusta.
The former was brought on by complex
geopolitical developments. The latter can be traced to the coffee divisions
of four multinational conglomerates–Nestle, Kraft, Procter & Gamble,
and Sara Lee–which buy nearly half of the world’s coffee and own some
of the best-known brands, including Nescafe, Maxwell House, Folgers, and
Chock Full o’ Nuts. In the past, these Big Four coffee roasters blended
small amounts of robusta with arabica to pare their purchasing costs. But
technological advances have allowed roasters to neutralize robusta’s harsh,
unpleasant taste. To reduce costs further, the Big Four have significantly
upped the percentage of robusta in their blends, substituting it for arabica
they once purchased from small farmers in Latin America and Africa.


    Most
of the robusta comes from Brazil and Vietnam, which together have seized
a greater share of global exports, up from 29% in 1997 to 41% last year.
“Brazil and Vietnam offer excellent coffee at very reasonable prices,”
says Frank Meysman, head of Sara Lee’s worldwide coffee business. “It will
be difficult for other countries, particularly in Central America, to compete.”


    The
switch to cheaper beans in the past five years has provided a windfall
for the Big Four. Though none of the companies releases financial results
for its coffee divisions, all acknowledge they have enjoyed record coffee
profits.

UK PIRATE RADIO UPDATE

25 NOVEMBER 2002: UK
PIRATE RADIO UPDATE

Hold tight the massive

Ever since Simon Dee’s first
broadcast from the MV Caroline in 1964, pirate radio has played a crucial
role in forming Britain’s musical taste. Now the phenomenon is bigger than
ever, the airwaves in the cities so crowded that the pirates are being
pushed into the suburbs and the countryside. Alexis Petridis picks up the
story in an Essex garage with a young man named Stealth . . .

Friday November 22, 2002

The
Guardian


 

It has been described as
a new studio, a nerve centre, and the headquarters of Essex’s top pirate
radio station, and admittance has been granted only after a rigorous vetting
procedure. I have been quizzed at length. ID has been demanded. The Guardian’s
photographer has been accused of spying for the government: “I’m sorry
about that, mate,” says our guide, a 19-year-old who bears the fitting
pseudonym of Stealth. “But he looks exactly like an inspector from the
DTI – he’s even driving a Ford Mondeo.” Finally, though, Stealth has agreed
to drive us to the secret location. On the way, the car stereo blares out
Soundz FM. It plays chirpy UK garage topped not with patois-heavy rhymes
about guns, “haters” and inner-city violence, but rap of a distinctly Essex
strain. “Big shaaht aaht to the XR3i crew,” says the MC. “Buzzing abaaht
in the rain on a Sunday afternoon.”


    The screening
procedures are so exacting, it’s difficult not to be slightly disappointed
when you arrive. You can call this place a studio until you are blue in
the face, but there is no getting around the fact that we are standing
in the middle of someone’s garage. The turntables nestle on a workbench
amid cans of de-icer and Hammerite. The DJs and their friends sit on piles
of stacked-up garden chairs, their baseball-capped heads nodding in time
to the beats.

    A DJ
called Mr Y2K is hunched over the turntables, while his fellow DJ Softmix
chatters into a microphone, taking requests and demands for “shout outs”,
and reading text messages. The mobile phone rings. He hands it to Mr Y2K,
and a brief, animated conversation takes place, just audible over the beats.
A listener is criticising Y2K’s choice of records. “Yeah, I know, mum,”
he mutters. “I didn’t really want to play it myself.” He pauses and looks
momentarily pained. “Will you stop interfering?” he asks, plaintively.
“Big up Mr Y2K’s mummy!” cries Softmix. Stealth rolls his eyes. “Sometimes
his nan rings up as well,” he says.


    Soundz
FM is far removed from the popular image of a pirate radio station. For
a start, we are not in a crumbling Hackney tower block, nor is the atmosphere
fugged with marijuana smoke. Judging by the litter on the floor, Soundz
runs on nothing stronger than junk food and cigarettes. The atmosphere
is cheery with the added frisson of illicit behaviour. It is somewhere
between a youth club and a house party being held while parents are away.
Everyone is friendly, if startled by the arrival of a national newspaper
in their midst. “Shout going out to the Guardian posse,” cries Softmix,
by way of introduction. “Checking out the studio, writing an article on
Soundz FM!” He then decides to conduct an interview of his own. “What do
you make of it?” he asks, thrusting the microphone into my hands. But I
have neither the voice nor the vocabulary for pirate radio. “So far it
seems very impressive,” I say, sounding like the winner of a competition
to find Britain’s most middle-class person. Aware that Soundz FM’s street
credibility is threatened, Softmix takes the microphone back. “Wicked,”
he says.


    From
Radio London in the 60s to So Solid Crew’s Battersea-based Delight FM,
pirate radio has traditionally been a London phenomenon. Two years old,
Soundz is one of a new breed of suburban pirates, uncomfortable with the
gangster posturing and occasional bursts of violence that have become associated
with illegal radio in the capital. Although Soundz reaches London, the
majority of its audience comes from the suburbs: Essex, Surrey, Kent and
Hertfordshire. The “staff” of Soundz FM are curiously prudish. Swearing
is banned on air. “Some stations use filthy language, you know,” bridles
one DJ indignantly. “They’re asking to be taken off the air, no question.”


    “In London
they want that rude boy attitude,” says Stealth. “In certain parts of north-west
London… well, there’s a pirate station there that’s actually based in
a crack den, so that gives you an idea of some of them. But we’re not all
like that. We’re referred to as polite people from Bexley. We’re a friendly,
community station. We’re from the suburbs, we don’t bother trying to get
non-suburb listeners.”


    There’s
a musical distinction as well, albeit one of those infinitesimal sub-generic
shifts that anyone not completely immersed in the dance music world has
no hope of understanding. DJ L-Dubs attempts to explain it to me. “Shady
garage”, he says, is to be avoided at all costs, whereas “happy garage”
attracts “uplifting people who want to be uplifted”. The latter, he informs
me, is what Soundz FM is all about. I nod knowledgeably, but have no idea
what he is talking about.


    Equally
bewildering is the station’s co-founder, Master Control. Portly and middle-aged,
he cuts an incongruous figure amid the sportswear-clad teens. He was a
teenager himself when he first got involved with pirate radio. Now it has
completely taken over his life. During the week he makes “rigs” – radio
transmitters – that he sells to other stations. At the weekends he careers
around the Essex countryside, checking Soundz’s aerial, ensuring that the
signal is not causing interference to television or the emergency services.
Ask him what the appeal of pirate radio is and he looks completely mystified.
“I don’t know. I find it… I don’t know. I can’t really do anything else.
It’s the only thing in my life that I can do. I make rigs that work, I
do it properly. You get a sense of achievement, I suppose.”

    He’s
not alone in his inability to explain the compulsion to break the law on
a weekly basis, endure the endless hassle and expense of having your transmitter
impounded by the Radiocommunications Agency (or stolen by a rival station)
and risk unlimited fines and two years in prison. There’s certainly no
financial reward – the DJs pay a £10 weekly subscription to play
on the station, which goes towards running costs – and little chance of
celebrity. While some of the Soundz staff clearly see the station as a
means of breaking through, circumventing the politburo of ageing celebrity
DJs who control the dance scene, it is statistically unlikely that they
will. For every So Solid Crew, who have converted their pirate notoriety
into a more tangible form of celebrity, there are scores of DJs beavering
away in semi-obscurity: Dom Da Bom, Miss Giggles, Lukozade, DJ Bangers,
the hopefully named Aylesbury Allstars.


    It’s
peculiar, but then pirate radio has always been a bit peculiar. By definition
it exists outside the mainstream, attracting strange characters who don’t
really fit in anywhere else. As befits a criminal enterprise, it regularly
changes its identity. It began in 1964, the brainchild of Irish businessman
Ronan O’Rahilly, who noted that, in the heyday of Beatlemania, the BBC
Light Programme was broadcasting only two hours of pop music a week. Rahilly’s
Radio Caroline and its competitor Radio London invented pop radio as we
know it today. By 1967, however, the Marine Broadcasting Offences Act had
made the seafaring stations illegal, and Radio 1 had swiped both the pirates’
all-pop     format and their biggest DJs: Tony Blackburn,
Dave Lee Travis, Kenny Everett and John Peel.


    Deprived
of both legality and raison d’etre, pirate radio went into decline. By
the 70s, it was the domain of crackpots: Radio Nordsee featured a DJ called
Spangles Muldoon and broadcast virulent Tory propaganda during the 1970
general election. Radio Enoch, meanwhile, offered military music and plummy
voices denouncing immigration.


    It took
the rise of dance music to revive the pirates’ fortunes. Britain’s underground
soul and reggae scenes grew throughout the 70s, but were largely ignored
by Radio 1 or the new commercial stations. Pirates stepped in to fill the
void. Invicta, Radio Free London, Solar, Horizon and LWR eschewed fishing
trawlers and set up in the centre of London, broadcasting urban music in
an urban setting. When acid house was effectively banned from Radio 1 after
1988′s tabloid drug exposés, a host of new pirates sprung up: Centreforce,
Sunrise and Fantasy among them. It set a pattern that has repeated ever
since, in which the pirate stations are the scourge of the authorities
and a vital source of new music for the record industry.


    When
a new dance genre emerges – hardcore, drum’n’bass, and most recently UK
garage – a new wave of pirates appear, devoted to the new sound. Virtually
every garage or drum’n’bass tune that makes the national chart will have
been played on a pirate station first. Occasionally, a pirate DJ finds
himself at the helm of a hit. Flex FM’s DJ Dee Kline went to number 11
in 2000 with I Don’t Smoke, a garage record that sampled Jim Davidson doing
his comedy West Indian voice.

    Radio
1 repeated the trick it pulled off in 1967, luring DJs Pete Tong and Tim
Westwood from LWR, Gilles Peterson from Horizon and the Dreem Teem from
Blackbeard Radio. But this time the pirates, attracted by the relatively
low cost of setting up a station (estimated by Stealth at around £2,500),
won’t die away. In 1991, the RA carried out 475 operations against pirate
stations. Last year, it carried out 1,438. London’s airwaves are currently
jammed with a startling array of illicit stations. At the weekend, you
can hear anything from the pre-pubescent children of So Solid’s Dan Da
Man spinning garage on Delight to Ghanian gospel music courtesy of WBLS’s
improbably named DJ Rabbi.


    Stations
rise and fall with dizzying frequency – the victims of internal feuding,
a lack of suitable studio locations and raids by the DTI’s Radiocommunications
Agency – but there is always someone to replace them. So far this year,
the RA has raided 179 pirate stations in London. Most went straight back
on the air. As the RA dolefully admits: “There’s no easy victory or cure
for pirate radio. You take them down, they put them up again. You can’t
be sure people won’t re-offend. You’re just dealing with a specific complaint
at a specific time.”


    According
to Stealth, central London’s airwaves are so overcrowded that the suburbs
are the best option for a new station. “We’re doing it as a hobby. There
are too many stations in London and they’re all doing it for money. When
it turns into a money market, you get people using dodgy rigs, employing
thick cement mixers to install the equipment.” Meanwhile, he says, pirate
stations are springing up in locations that make Bexley look like a teeming
metropolis: Weymouth, Newquay, Telford, Ludlow, Swindon.


    To prove
the point, Stealth suggests a visit to his friend’s station, Y2K Kent,
which broadcasts from Margate. The next weekend, we rendezvous in a lay-by
near the Blackwall Tunnel. Stealth arrives in a small hatchback, with a
large skull and crossbones flag sticking out of the sunroof.


    In Margate
I am introduced to Y2K’s founder, a stocky 20-year-old who works for a
drainage company by day and who calls himself Fraudster. Fraudster has
been involved in pirate radio since he was 13. He originally DJed around
London before realising the pirate scene was simply too crowded there.
“We realised we needed to go somewhere else,” he says, “so we packed everything
into the car and just started to drive out of London, through the Blackwall
tunnel. This was the first place we got to.”


    Fraudster
says that in its year of existence, Y2K Kent has been successful enough
to attract complaints from the local commercial radio station. “They said
we nicked 1,000 of their listeners, but they play music for over-30s, so
I don’t see how that works.” Nevertheless, it is a modest set-up, located
in the box room of a student house. The room is so tiny that three people
constitute a life-threatening crush. DJs and associates crowd outside,
peering in. It is extremely hot, and the unmistakable stench of bloke wafts
down the stairs. The windows must be kept shut, lest anyone notices the
noise and contacts the RA. “You have to be careful in Margate,” says Fraudster,
“because there’s no crime, the police have got nothing to do. The front
page of the local paper is ‘man steals pork pie from Tesco’s’.”

    On the
floor, an electric fan cools a tangle of wires and electronic boxes, apparently
assembled to plans by Heath Robinson. On our arrival, it breaks down. “Hold
tight the massive,” says the MC, “as we sort it out inside the place.”


    Stealth
immediately springs into action. “You need a graphic on the mixer,” he
suggests. “I need another studio,” groans Fraudster, looking harassed.
In fact, Fraudster spends most of my visit looking harassed. His mobile
phone rings constantly, not with shout outs or requests, but irate calls
from his girlfriend, for whom the novelty of pirate radio has clearly long
worn off. “I sometimes wonder why I do this,” Fraudster admits. “I spend
my whole week cleaning out shitty drains, then spend all weekend doing
this. I’m not in it to earn anything. I suppose it’s for the joy of the
music.”


    The RA’s
spokesman argues that “people suffer as a result of pirate radio. They
tune into a station they want to listen to, and find something else blocking
it. I take their calls, and they’re absolutely furious. If you live nearby
they create a noise nuisance. They’re anti-social.”


    You take
his point – you wouldn’t want to live next door to an illegal radio station,
pumping out UK garage or drum’n’bass from Friday evening to Monday morning.
However, it’s hard not to be impressed by the determined attitude of the
pirates. There is little fame and less cash in their world of box bedrooms
and converted garages.


    Yet still
they doggedly carry on, buying new rigs, finding new studios, skulking
about in search of suitable transmitter sites. Although most of them are
far too young to remember the Sex Pistols, there’s something resolutely
punk about theirattitude: confronted with a dance scene that has slid into
mundane irrelevance, they have decided to do something for themselves.
Their ambitions are not commercially driven, yet they extend far beyond
anti-authoritarian posturing. At Soundz, there’s a lot of talk about digital
radio. When legal stations switch to digital transmission, they live in
hope that the RA will leave the obsolete FM band to them. Soundz even has
aspirations beyond playing music. “We run a show between 8pm and 12am where
we do comedy,” says Stealth, proudly. “It’s absolute chaos. We had a bloke
out with a microphone doing wind ups on people in McDonald’s in Lakeside
shopping centre, and on drivers at the Dartford tunnel. You’d crease up
if you heard it.” A little corner of pirate radio, it seems, will be forever
DLT.


    A few
weeks after my visit, Stealth telephones. Both Soundz FM and Y2K Kent have
gone off the air. Soundz has collapsed due to internal disagreements: Stealth
and Master Control have fallen out over music policy. Y2K Kent, meanwhile,
was raided by the RA, who found not only their rig, but two station staff
standing next to it. For the first time, Stealth sounds bleak about the
future of pirate radio: “Fines are going up, more stations are getting
raided, things are getting tighter all the time. They’re really turning
up the heat.”

    But it’s
still not hot enough to discourage Stealth and Fraudster. Within weeks,
both are back in business with new stations, Fraudster with a station called
Essence 105.1 FM, Stealth with Impact 99.7 FM. He has moved out of the
garage and set up a studio in an industrial estate. And he has finally
nailed pirate radio’s unique appeal. “The buzz is when you’re driving down
your local high street and you hear it playing out of someone else’s radio,
or you hear people talking about it on the bus,” he says. “You realise
you’re having an effect. If it was going nowhere, you’d soon lose interest.”

na

24 NOVEMBER 2002

From November 17, 2002 New
York TImes Sunday Magazine:

Fashion’s High Priestess
of Gnosticism


By HERBERT MUSCHAMP

Why don’t you . . . give
all your ideas away to other people, so that you’ll fill up again with
new ones? Diana Vreeland, the great fashion editor, understood that this
is how creative minds work. It’s fatal to be a hoarder. When you have an
idea, get it out there. Pretend you’re Josephine Baker, tossing fruit into
the audience. Hit someone on the head with a pineapple. Circulate the energy.
Distribute the wealth. Rinse your child’s hair with dead Champagne.


    This
is a gnostic way of thinking. Now relax. It’s Sunday. You won’t mind a
bit of Gnosticism with your Styles. Glamour and knowledge both share the
same root in gnosis (secret learning), so why shouldn’t Gnosticism be fashion’s
true faith?

    The gnostics
were a religious order, circa the year 0, but in modern times it makes
better sense to view them as a personality type. Vreeland was one of them.


    “If you
do not bring bring forth what is within you,” the gnostics believed, “what
you do not bring forth will destroy you.” And I suspect Vreeland truly
believed that if she had an idea and didn’t get it out there, it would
kill her. Killer-diller. If she couldn’t come out with observations like
“pink is the navy blue of India,” she would die.


    Thanks
in part to those observations, she hasn’t. Or, rather, the point of view
defined by Vreeland’s insights remains indispensable. It is the viewpoint
of fearlessness, the stance of “Why not?” And if Vreeland’s legend looms
larger today than it did during her lifetime, that may be because this
particular stance has become harder to sustain.


    Vreeland
is the subject of a new biography by Eleanor Dwight, and it is the first
to explore the personality behind the histrionic public persona. The book
rides a wave of printed material by and about Vreeland that did not begin
until years after her retirement from Vogue. “Allure,” a coffee-table book,
written with Christopher Hemphill, of black and white photographs punctuated
with Vreeland’s taped recollections of them, was published in 1980 and
has been reissued this year.


    The first
book was followed in 1984 by the editor’s memoir, “DV.” Two additional
volumes of Vreeland’s musings have appeared in the last year: “Why Don’t
You?” a collection of her columns for Harper’s Bazaar, and “Vreeland Memos,”
an issue of the fashion periodical Visionaire.

       
Why don’t you . . . buy Dwight’s biography and read it, so that I don’t
have to try your patience with one of those super-compressed summaries
that nobody reads anyhow? “Elegance is refusal,” Vreeland once pronounced.
I don’t know whether this is a gnostic idea precisely. But it appears to
be an essential antidote to excessive gnostic fecundity. If what you have
to bring forth is tedious, just leave it alone.


    Vogue
in the 1960′s was as much the creature of its time as it was the creation
of an editor. At the beginning of the decade, fashion magazines reflected
a relatively rarefied realm of elegance, style and social poise. Ten years
later, they had become a mass medium. Vreeland’s Vogue occupied the pivotal
place in this transformation. Herself a latter-day Edwardian Woman of Style,
she hit her manic professional stride in the postwar years, when people
were just beginning to grasp the full extent of changes brought about by
mass communications.


    These
circumstances are unrepeatable. That’s why it is pointless to complain
that no magazine quite like Vreeland’s exists today. No world like hers
exists today. When she started out, celebrity was tantamount to notoriety.
Now, the news media are glamorous in their own right. Today, everybody
knows who Diana Vreeland was. In her own time, she communicated to audiences
who never gave much thought to who an editor was.


    I know,
because I was part of it. When I started reading Vogue in my early teenage
years, I had little interest in fashion and knew even less about it. Rather,
like The New Yorker, and Ada Louise Huxtable’s architecture columns, Vogue
represented what I recognized as an urban point of view. I found my suburban
life confining. It was a relief to project myself into the escapist fantasies
offered by those texts. I wouldn’t know of the existence of Diana Vreeland
or William Shawn, the editor of The New Yorker, until many years later.
Now the situation has changed. We’re all regaled by the antics of editors
without magazines.


    Vreeland,
I later read in a biography of Alexander Lieberman by Calvin Tomkins and
Dodie Kazanjian, once described Vogue as “the myth of the next reality.”
The myth was accurate in my case. The next reality was relatively exempt
from the pleasures of cold war normalcy.


    People
were onto something when they called Vreeland the high priestess of fashion.
She was a gnostic priestess. In the gnostic system, there was an outer
mystery for the many and an inner mystery for the few. So it was with Vreeland’s
Vogue. Many readers may have regarded it as the leading fashion magazine.
Others, too few to constitute a mass readership, understood that glamour
has only incidentally to do with clothes. It has mainly to do with personality
structure, with the places we choose to dwell or avoid within the architecture
of our subconscious fantasies.

    Now,
the point of Gnosticism is to be reborn to the divine within oneself. If
“the divine” is not acceptable, you can substitute the truth within oneself.
Or, as the psychotherapist D. W. Winnicott called it, the authentic self.
But Vreeland probably would be comfortable with the divine.


    Why don’t
you bring out that divine thing that is within you? If you don’t, that
divine thing will slay you.


    In any
case, you have to kill off the inauthentic, or at least not let it take
over the executive committee of the self. Vreeland was vigilant in this
regard. Of course, she was also a fabulist. She made up or grossly exaggerated
her accounts of her past and the world around her. But if she had stuck
to the facts, she would have falsified her self. She had “the wound” of
the creative artist: an unshakeable disbelief in her potential to be loved,
coupled with an iron determination to conceal this disbelief from herself.
From this stemmed her power as an architect of other people’s desires.


    Ms. Dwight’s
biography is, among many other marvels, a brilliant study in the relationship
between love and work. The book is a treatise of changing mores, too, of
course, but at heart it is a report from the front lines in the struggle
to craft new identities for men and women in the modern world of work.
The evidence suggests that Vreeland was not a feminist. She was, however,
a strong woman and a breadwinner who reformed the decorous world of fashion
magazines within her muscular grip.


    Vreeland’s
is the flip side of the “Lady in the Dark” story. This extraordinary woman
blossomed when circumstances forced her to create a world outside her marriage
to a man of limited emotional and financial resources. Reed Vreeland looked
the part of leisured money. The leisure part was real. He was a Ralph Lauren
ad campaign before a Ralph Lauren was even dreamed of, but evidently possessed
neither the earning power nor the work ethic of an average male model.
A woman who considered herself unattractive might see him as a catch.


    But what
a lot of hard work it must have taken for Vreeland to believe that he was
worthy of her devotion! The fantasies it must have taken to fill up the
vacuum between herself and a human version of the spotted-elk-hide trunks
she advised her readers at Harper’s Bazaar to strap on the backs of their
touring cars! She was herself the driver. And although it is pleasing in
life to travel with attractive luggage, greater rewards await those who
travel light. A higher quality of attention will be paid to the active
partner in the wider world.

    “I know
what they’re going to wear before they wear it, eat before they eat it,
say before they say it, think before they think it, and go before they
go there!” This astonishing outburst, once overheard by Richard Avedon,
could be taken as evidence of a fashion dictator’s disrespect for her readers.
But perhaps the woman was simply reassuring herself that she could trust
her instincts.


    What
else did she have to go on? It’s not as if she was dealing with anything
rational. In “DV,” Vreeland recounts the possibly apocryphal story of assigning
a photographer to shoot a picture against a green background. The photographer
strikes out after three attempts. ” `I asked for billiard table green!’
I am supposed to have said. `But this is a billiard table, Mrs. Vreeland,’
the photographer said. `My dear,’ I apparently said, `I meant the idea
of billiard table green, not a billiard table.’ “


    In other
words it did not pay to follow this dictator literally. Far better to respond
with instincts of one’s own. This, I think, was the core clause in Vreeland’s
contract with her readers. We expected her to know where we were going
before we went there. We were traveling to places deeper within ourselves.