Books in brief: Ben Chu, Daljit Nagra and Philip Ball

Three new books you might have missed.

Chinese Whispers: Why Everything You’ve Heard About China Is Wrong
Ben Chu

Ben Chu, the economics editor of the Independent, thinks we’ve been getting it wrong about China for years. Bertrand Russell once wrote, “The spectacle of suffering does not . . . rouse any sympathetic pain in the average Chinaman.” For others, notably Voltaire, the Chinese empire was “the best the world has ever seen”. From the orientalist fantasies of the 18th century to the “tiger moms” of today, China has always been a mirror for European fantasies and fears. Chu’s smart, iconoclastic portrait dismantles seven misconceptions – or “whispers” – to let in light on a heterogeneous nation about which it is impossible to generalise.
Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 288pp, £16.99

Ramayana: a Retelling
Daljit Nagra

The Ramayana is the story of Rama and his quest to recover his wife, Sita, from Raavana, the lord of the underworld. It is an important story in numerous religions and cultures across Asia. “The Ramayana I present now is not the one I was told as a child,” writes the poet Daljit Nagra. “Instead it is the product of a globalised, westernised writer who lives among many faiths and cultures who seeks to represent voices from as many villages as possible.” Recounted with energy, wit and bold imagination, this version is a joy.
Faber & Faber, 352pp, £18.99

Serving the Reich: the Struggle for the Soul of Physics under Hitler
Philip Ball

In his preface, Philip Ball writes with clear misgivings about the view of science as “disembodied, pure knowledge”. After the Second World War, most scientists who had worked under German rule maintained that they had been apolitical. Peter Debye fled to the US to warn the world about Germany’s nuclear potential, while Werner Heisenberg and others argued that they delayed the bomb. Was it so simple? Ball’s book shows what can happen to morality when cleverness and discovery are valued above all else.
Bodley Head, 303pp, £20

Painter Matthias Bier works on the historic Rokoko hall of the Anna Amalia library in Weimar, eastern Germany. Photograph: Jens Ulrich-Koch/Getty Images.

Philip Maughan is a freelance writer in Berlin and a former Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 11 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Iran vs Israel

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Only Drake could wow the O2 by pointing out random audience members' clothing

It takes charisma to pull off abandoning hits halfway through.

On the last London night of his Boy Meets World tour (20 March), Drake doesn’t come on stage until 10pm, which is enough to kill off most gigs at the O2 Arena (hello, Bieber), as people are worried about getting the Tube home. The amount of rum and Coke in the room – a steaming, unrecognisable space with a false ceiling of globular lights and a stampeding crowd split in half by a fence – certainly helps keep the buzz. But who’d have thought that a man standing onstage diligently pointing at audience members and saying what they’re wearing (“You in the blue dress shirt with the ­lager!”) would constitute one of the most exciting nights the O2 has seen in a while?

“Tonight is not a show, not a concert, not about me,” says Drake, who runs an annual “Drake Night” in Toronto and once visited Drake University in Iowa.

So far, the world’s favourite rapper – his latest album, More Life, recently got 90 million streams on its first day of release on Apple Music alone – has had a shifting identity. His songs capture a new strain of emotionally literate but solipsistic hip-hop, which can feel intense or whiny depending on how you look at it. His offstage behaviour is Type-A rapper – he has been accused of throwing beer bottles at Chris Brown, he has been punched by Diddy and he has had altercations with Jay Z, Kendrick Lamar, Pusha T and Ludacris.

But Aubrey Drake Graham, the son of a white, Jewish mother and an African-American father who once played drums alongside Jerry Lee Lewis, does skits about his petulance on Saturday Night Live (see “Drake’s Beef”). Emotionally demonstrative, openly dysfunctional, a bit of a bruiser, with an ability to flit between a dozen styles of music while expressing a desire for crowd participation that borders on the needy . . . Could this man be the ­Michael Bublé of hip-hop?

Drake’s sprawling two-hour roadshow is held back from chaos by the force of his physical presence. Blunt-headed with muscular, sloping shoulders and mesmerising, nimble feet, he prowls the edge of the stage. He has had so many hits (and has so many guest stars tonight) that he is not interested in playing them all the way through. Instead, recalling Prince in the same venue ten years ago, the show becomes a series of medleys. With just a drummer and a synth player at the back of the stage, he demonstrates an invisible, physical control over the music, operating it like a string puppet, stopping or starting songs with the drop of a foot or the shrug of a shoulder, so they collapse in the middle and are gone.

It takes charisma to pull off abandoning hits halfway through. Pointing at people in the audience, real or imaginary, is a music hall thing. Bruce Dickinson and Metallica’s James Hetfield do it too. Amid a hokey message to follow your dreams, he recalls his time spent singing for $200 a night as a John Legend tribute act. Cue a perfect demonstration of Legend-style singing – before he suddenly sloughs off “all this bathrobe-and-candle-sexy acoustic Ed Sheeran shit”, while huge columns of flame engulf the stage.

Drake is still at his best with blue, slinky songs of alienation – “9”, “Over”, “Feel No Ways” and “Hotline Bling”, which doubles up as make-out music for the couples in the crowd. One pair of lovers, Drake establishes during one of his crowd surveys, have been together for ten years. “I can’t even make a relationship last ten days,” he laments. In 2012, he told the Guardian, “I’ve had too many girls to ever feel uncomfortable about the man that I am.” An old-school boast from a modern man.

The guest stars serve to highlight Drake’s variety, rather than shine on their own. Their songs, too, are started, suspended, chopped and screwed. Drake is more macho when there’s another guy onstage with him – doing “Successful”, with the literally named Trey Songz, or dueling with thefrenetic Skepta, who sounds so much tougher (maybe because he’s a Londoner). The two whirl around the stage like helicopter seeds.

Nicki Minaj, apparently Drake’s one-time lover, rises fembotishly from a hole in the stage and says in a London accent, “I want some fucking crumpets and tea.”

She adds, of her host, “This nigga single-handedly changed the game.” Minaj sings her song “Moment 4 Life”: “I call the shots, I am the umpire . . .” But she doesn’t really. Even her presence flares up quickly and is gone.

Kate Mossman is the New Statesman's arts editor and pop critic.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution