Reading, Watching, Listening / 08.08.2024

The meaning of elections in today's capitalism, George Miller's 1979 vision of the apocalypse and one of 2024's best debut albums.

Another month, another modest list of the best things I have been reading, watching and listening to recently, presented for your enjoyment. This newsletter is coming to you after a slight delay due to, among other things, an illness from which I am steadily recovering. Part of this delay, though, has been related to having to complete a couple of commissions. I assume the first, a book review of Slick by the Australian investigative journalist and author Royce Kurmelovs, will be available in Meanjin online shortly. The second is an essay on George Miller’s latest Mad Max film, Furiosa, for Arena, which I believe will print. I will let you know when and where they become available!

Also, looking again to the near future, I will be travelling throughout Turkey for about the next two and a half months. I greatly anticipate using some of this time for my writing. I can’t make any promises, but I have a couple of interesting Turkey-related ideas I’m kicking around, and I hope to bring them to you in the fullness of time. Besides, who knows what else I might be struck by on my travels. The bottom line is that I hope to devote much more of my time in the remainder of 2024 to writing, and whatever comes of this, I hope you will enjoy it. Without further ado, here is the fifth edition of Reading, Watching, Listening.

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Reading: ‘The Meaning of Sarkozy’, Alain Badiou

Confusion, fear, and anger—these three emotions dominate individual and collective human experience today. Life is now overwhelmingly mediated by social media monopolies, which are themselves engineered to produce confusion, fear, and anger because, well, they can be highly profitable. The headline consequence of this mass affective disorder is the creeping loss of legitimacy suffered by the institutions of liberal democratic capitalism: trust is plummeting in corporate media and government with few exceptions.

This is why you hear liberal authoritarian decline managers across the ‘West’, such as Australia’s ex-Minister for Home Affairs and Labor Party member Clare O’Neil, constantly bemoaning the rise of “populism”. Yes, the Minister who until only recently presided over the country’s categorically illegal and torturous regime of racial persecution against asylum seekers is whining that her symbiotes in the domestic far-right take advantage of such signals to stoke further anti-immigrant xenophobia. She drops a line to The Guardian telling us how important it is not to listen to racialising Rightist agitators from on high, all the while unreasonably denying visas to Palestinians attempting to flee the genocide in Gaza.

And yet, while profuse, embittered dissatisfaction and disaffection now pervade Western democracies, it is just as clear that, in the absence of any genuine anti-systemic alternative, meaning a radically left-wing force, the system is consistently renewed at the ballot box at the end of each term of government. In simple terms, the vast majority of people continue to ritualistically affirm the exact state of affairs through which their confusion, fear and anger arise and which, in the main, rules at their expense.

As the progress of human civilisation remains deferred in this purgatory of constant oscillation at arbitrary intervals between ‘democratic’ and ‘conservative’ ideologies of capitalist governance, it is apparent that protraction will come at unthinkable costs. The first industrial-scale genocide of late modernity grinds on in Palestine at the behest of the so-called liberal democratic West. More than 300 days of the campaign of extermination has not been enough to satiate the bloodthirsty bureaucrats of Israel’s Western patron states, who remain “committed” to arming the exterminators of the Palestinians. Those opposing this epochal crime have been subjected to predictable smears, censorship and criminalisation by the very cowards crying wolf about the anti-democratic strain of their electoral opponents. 

At the same time, that older, baser form of racial violence, the pogrom, is once again finding purchase in the lexicon of hate everywhere from the United Kingdom to India and Türkiye. This crisis is general to the bourgeois national form itself. It would be naive to focus here only on the rise of what I term electoral fascisms in the West alone—while Western media obsesses over MAGA and the emerging far-right bloc in Europe, many other societies can model more advanced forms of the coming barbarism. What it says that ‘late fascisms’ can thrive inside the liberal democratic configuration of capitalism itself, without strictly needing to resort to the extraparliamentary tactics of historical fascism, will have to be left to future discussion.

This brings me to my favourite book that I have read since the last newsletter, The Meaning of Sarkozy. Once again, its author is the radical French philosopher Alain Badiou, whom I also reviewed in a previous edition. I must confess to benefitting a great deal from Badiou’s writing, which is exceptionally clear in its philosophical logic and equally vigorous in its political, aesthetic, and ethical convictions. I consulted this book, first published in English in 2008, in the wake of this year’s snap-election in France, which delivered a curious temporary setback for the local electoral fascist formation, Marine Le Pen’s Rassemblement National. My interest was in cross-referencing my analysis of contemporary events with Badiou’s tracing of a particular longstanding reactionary tradition within France, hoping that doing so would help me better understand the crisis within liberal capitalist governance more generally. As is often the case when reading Badiou, I emerge with a stronger understanding of the complexities at hand and invigorated with the defiance required to avoid resignation to the crisis.

The book is relatively short, frontloaded with an analysis of then-President of France Nicolas Sarkozy’s particular meaning as a symbol of the broader “restoration in the restoration”, the return of a mass conservative subjectivity once threatened by powerful left-wing movements. Fear is critical to this form of thought and expresses itself through bourgeois elections as “the contradictory entanglement” of two types of fear. Badiou calls the first of these the essential fear: this is the inciting fear experienced by the privileged classes—the fear of losing their status as dominants, which they correctly see as insecure but wrongly ascribe this threat onto, for instance, migrants and the poor, rather than the tiny oligarchy above them and the capitalist system they enforce (private property, commodity exchange, etcetera). The second fear is a derivative fear held by those uncomfortable with the authoritarian policies proposed by the first group. But in lacking a clear political vision, manifesting solely as anxiety and not action, this derivative fear folds itself into the essential fear more often than not.

Badiou identifies fear as central to the democratic process in contemporary liberal capitalism, a process that quite intentionally allows elections to function apolitically. If politics is organised collective action according to certain principles and aiming to bring about a new reality repressed by the status quo, then when we vote in bourgeois elections today, we are not doing politics at all. For Badiou, “a subjective index of this omnipresent affective negativity” defines the capitalist electoral subject where the major parties underwrite each other’s commitment to the system. In this context of false choice, voting carries no political conviction beyond which form of fear—fear, or the fear of fear—one most feels. In this fashion, capitalist elections are “organised disorientation”, presenting a fallacious choice between mere affects and not at all distinct political paradigms. Through this process, the state is validated purely through fear, getting armed with a mandate to “become terroristic” at the level of oppression and carceral controls, augmented by contemporary technology.

With it established that impotence is the rule within electoral democracy, Badiou continues rather amusingly to excoriate the particular French expression of the ritualistic worship of “democracy”, where voting is not strictly compulsory. He notes that politicians and commentators unanimously praised the high turnout in the 2007 election as a success of democracy, despite the vote delivering a feverishly reactionary President in Sarkozy. Again, Badiou points to the lack of political substance in such celebrations: “This means that democracy is strictly indifferent to any content – that it represents nothing more than its own form”. We are told to rejoice in the abstract that people came out to vote. “Certainly,” Badiou continues, “this only organised a disaster, of which we shall suffer the calamitous consequences, but all glory to them! By their stupid number, they brought the triumph of democracy”. In no other field, Badiou reminds us, do we consider something to be prima facie valid, independent from its actual effects.

There is more to Badiou’s criticism of ‘capitalo-parliamentary’ democracy here, from elections being an instrument of repression as opposed to that of expression, which they claim to be, to their consistent, widespread depressive psychological impacts. To counter these deleterious effects and renew an authentic form of mass participatory politics, Badiou proposes eight initial theses, which he encourages us to experiment with and add to, in keeping with his commitment to fostering a philosophy for militants. Significantly, these proposals range from the concretely political to reasserting the supremacy of scientific knowledge to its appearance in for-profit technologies and of art as creation over simple consumption.

Point 4, “Love must be reinvented”, is Badiou at his bleeding best, making a robust case that against contemporary conceptions of love on left and right, we should affirm that love begins “beyond desire and demand”, though it embraces both. For Badiou, love is “an examination of the world from the point of Two”, meaning it can never be reduced to an individual’s territory. As such, love is always “violent, irresponsible and creative”. To rescue love from “the mutilation that the supposed sovereignty of the individual imposes on human experience”, we must learn from love itself that the individual, as such, is “something vacuous and insignificant”.

In view of defeating the surging electoral fascisms of late capitalism, Badiou devotes an entire chapter to Point 8, that “There is only one world”. Here, Badiou critiques contemporary capitalism for engendering a society starkly divided by wealth, where there is not a singular world of human beings but rather a fragmented existence marked by barriers, from Israel’s apartheid wall to the ruthless border-torture regimes of the USA, UK and Australia. This arbitrary division perpetuates inequality and fosters exclusion, destroying the notion of a unified global humanity and laying the basis for nativist animus, now increasingly spiralling into pogromism.

Badiou contends that proclaiming “there is only one world” is not merely a declarative statement but a performative act—a political imperative that demands the recognition of the inherent equality and coexistence of all human beings, irrespective of their cultural or national differences. He poignantly asserts that this unified world should transcend the superficial “unity of objects and monetary signs” propagated by global capitalism (the “false single world”), which necessarily produces paritition and violence. Instead, Badiou envisions a society that celebrates diversity, asserting that true unity emanates from acknowledging and constructively engaging with these differences.

Central to Badiou’s argument is the critique of “integration” as imposed by Western democracies, which he views correctly as a form of cultural erasure. He fervently advocates for the right of individuals drawn from different societies to maintain and develop their unique identities while actively participating in the single world, wherever they may find themselves at a given point in time. Badiou’s vision is refreshing in its dogged inclusivity, advocating for a politics that promotes universal equality and shared existence without raising identity to the highest principle of political thought or action. Such an approach will be a precondition to toppling the barriers erected by capitalist globalisation, which serve to segregate and marginalise rather than unify and embrace. Badiou’s exploration of the “one world” is also notable for its metaphysical qualities, especially his notion that the world is transcendentally the same because the beings within it are different. This dialectic, where unity arises precisely from diversity, underscores valuing the multiplicity of human experiences and identities as foundational to creating a truly inclusive world and extinguishing the capitalist divisions that stoke vile persecution today.

Rounding out his alternative to the crisis of capitalo-parliamentarism, Badiou reiterates the necessity of the Communist hypothesis as a guiding principle in the struggle for human liberation. Vitally, Badiou begins by situating Sarkozy as the symbol of a period of complete dominance of capitalism and bourgeois ideology, which continues today. But while the system currently enjoys unchallenged dominance, the mere fact of this historical interval where the Communist Idea is in retreat does not diminish its essential correctness. Badiou understands that abandoning this hypothesis—the Idea of a different world being possible, one where the class structure and state apparatus are abolished, and humanity achieves basic unity and freedom—would mean resigning ourselves to the vicious logic of the market and parliamentary cretinism.

In making the case for Communism’s enduring relevance, Badiou critiques the reduction of the Idea to the wayward experiments of the 20th century while cautioning radicals against attempting to organise a return to these failures. Badiou’s vision is one where the human species can finally realise its potential through collective organisation rather than being trapped in the cycles of exploitation that have defined history since antiquity. In short, Badiou urges us to reclaim Communism as a dynamic Idea (and not a rigid political structure) that must continue to guide efforts towards true human emancipation​​.

It is one of the many tremendous virtues of Badiou’s writing that he can condense all these philosophical arguments and many more I haven’t explored in just over 100 pages. This kind of cutting, urgent intervention stands in stark contrast to the ceaseless and fatuous babble of liberal commentators and ideologues, who gleefully participate in the engineering of a world that Badiou rightfully views as beneath humanity. There is also something to be said for returning to The Meaning of Sarkozy now, after almost two decades of further decline and crisis within Western liberal democratic capitalism. The analysis and arguments laid down by Badiou some 17 years ago have only found greater salience as the terrible policies of racial, sexual and other oppression of capitalist states have given rise to a growing body of anxious, angry and violent thugs willing to take the dominant “order” into their own hands. To defeat the protofascist mob, as Badiou says, we must throw off the illusion of parliamentary elections and assert that there is only one world while devotedly constructing it.

Watching: ‘Mad Max’ (1979), dir. George Miller

Speaking of prescient visions of the future constructed from the present, I recently revisited George Miller’s original Mad Max film, produced almost 50 years ago. I was utterly taken with Miller’s fury. It is impossible not to sense his revulsion with the freakish atmosphere of capitalist society, which in 1979 was only beginning to enter the period of extended degeneration within which we live today. And it is extraordinary to reflect that with Furiosa—a film very much of our more advanced stage of crisis—Miller refuses to give into despair. Indeed, when one returns to Mad Max in the post-Furiosa world, it is striking the degree to which, as it stands, the saga ends far more hopefully today than does its initial entry, impressively constructed on a shoestring budget 45 years ago. 

Given the length of this month’s Reading recommendation, I’ll keep it relatively light with Watching and Listening (more writing on cinema is on the way). Here’s what I logged on Letterboxd:

George Miller’s 1979 vision of the apocalypse set against the Australian outback endures in its cinematic inventiveness, plucky execution and sheer foresight.

Humanity subsuming modern technologies—incessant radio chatter and the inherent hysteria of piloting a motor vehicle—into itself in a desperate attempt to cope.

“I’m a fuel-injected suicide machine.”

White settler jazz as the longing, raunchy soundtrack to a disintegrating society.

That pet word of the capitalist ruling class, “freedom”, decidedly used as a synonym for a new, all-swallowing nihilism.

“Step right up, chum, and watch the kid lay down a rubber road, right to FREEDOM!”

Horrific mutilations as constitutive of a nascent form of human corporeality.

Medicine as impotent, unable to treat—much less save—victims of the savagery unleashed by this emergent fusion of man and machine.

The flattening force of a road to madness that was never meant to be carved into this land.

“Perhaps it’s the result of an anxiety.”

To drive is to kill. To die is meaningless. To live is to be mutilated. You’d be mad to survive.

Listening: ‘Perceive its Beauty, Acknowledge its Grace’, Shabaka

Shabaka Hutchings, a name that has become synonymous with the contemporary jazz renaissance, recently released his debut solo record, Perceive its Beauty, Acknowledge its Grace. A saxophonist, clarinetist, and composer, Hutchings, who works under his first name, has carved out a niche in the global music scene by melding traditional jazz with Afro-Caribbean rhythms, spirituality and avant-garde elements. Known for his work with bands like Sons of Kemet, The Comet is Coming, and even hip-hop duo Armand Hammer, Shabaka has consistently used his music to explore cultural identity, resistance, and the human condition.

Perceive its Beauty, Acknowledge its Grace is a journey through the many sonic landscapes that have defined Shabaka’s career to date without at all skimping on stylistic innovation. Notably, Shabaka’s foray into solo work finds him adopting the Japanese bamboo flute in place of his trusty sax. The album is a testament to his versatility as a musician and his deep understanding of the interconnectedness of music, culture, and history. Listeners are immediately drawn into a soundscape where traditional jazz motifs mingle with polyrhythmic patterns and electronic textures. The album’s title, a meditation on the importance of recognising beauty and grace in a world often dominated by chaos and conflict, sets the tone for the entire listening experience. This meditative quality is extended in the “breathwork” proposed on tracks like ‘Managing My Breath, What Fear Had Become’ featuring Saul Williams and ‘Breathing’.

While musically sublime, the album is also markedly political, and one gets the impression that for Shabaka, these two elements cannot be separated. Messages are conveyed through mood, tone, and explicit, poetic lyrics. Shabaka has long been vocal about issues of racial and social justice, and this album continues that conversation, albeit in a more subtle and introspective manner. Perceive its Beauty, Acknowledge its Grace challenges listeners to engage with the complexities of modern life while offering moments of solace and reflection. Tracks like ‘Insecurities’ and ‘The Wounded Need to Be Replenished’ encapsulate this duality, weaving moments of intense dissonance together with passages of haunting beauty. On one of my favourite tracks, ‘Body To Inhabit’, Shabaka reunites with E L U C I D (one half of Armand Hammer), who raps “A face / Behind this mask / Behind this face / So many at the same time” over the former’s luscious flute and evocative backing vocal and percussive layers.

For those familiar with Shabaka’s previous work, this album will feel like a natural progression. It deepens the themes he has explored throughout his career and crafts a sumptuously pleasurable new sound. For newcomers, Perceive its Beauty, Acknowledge its Grace can be a welcoming introduction to one of the more critical voices in contemporary jazz. It is an album that demands to be listened to with intention—exquisite in its flowing tracklisting—offering rewards for those who sink into the music. Whether you consider yourself a jazz listener or not, Shabaka’s first solo album, one of 2024’s best, is essential listening—an exploration of beauty and grace in a world that so often feels devoid of both.

And to sign off, here’s what I listened to the most in July, 2024:

As always, thank you kindly for your precious time and interest. It means a lot to me.