Apology for Alan Turing

A reminder of Labour's gay-rights achievements


Fifty-five years after his death, and following a Downing Street petition, Alan Turing has received a heartfelt posthumous apology from Gordon Brown. Turing was a code-breaker at Bletchley Park during the Second World War, instrumental in cracking messages from German Enigma machines. He is also widely considered the father of modern computing.

In 1954, aged 41, Turing took his own life with cyanide after being sentenced to chemical castration for being gay. Two years earlier, he had been convicted of "gross indecency" with another man -- essentially, in the pre-Wolfenden Report era, just for being homosexual.

The petition was signed by well-known figures including Ian McEwan, Richard Dawkins and the human rights campaigner Peter Tatchell. Tatchell, head of OutRage!, commends the Prime Minister but also calls for an apology to the "estimated 100,000 British men who were also convicted of consenting, victimless same-sex relationships during the 20th century".

In Downing Street's lengthy statement, the Prime Minister called Turing's treatment appalling:

Thousands of people have come together to demand justice for Alan Turing and recognition of the appalling way he was treated. While Turing was dealt with under the law of the time and we can't put the clock back, his treatment was of course utterly unfair and I am pleased to have the chance to say how deeply sorry I and we all are for what happened to him. Alan and the many thousands of other gay men who were convicted as he was convicted under homophobic laws were treated terribly. Over the years millions more lived in fear of conviction.

I am proud that those days are gone and that in the last 12 years this government has done so much to make life fairer and more equal for our LGBT community. This recognition of Alan's status as one of Britain's most famous victims of homophobia is another step towards equality and long overdue.

As much as being a long-overdue tribute to Turing's genius and recognition of his persecution, it is also a reminder of how much Labour has done for LGBT Britain since 1997 -- and the stark contrast with Labour's Tory predecessors. Thatcher's government, let's not forget, introduced Section 28 in schools in 1988 and continually resisted lowering the age of consent for gay men (a campaign latterly spearheaded by the bitterly prejudiced Janet Young). Since 1997, Labour has repealed Section 28, lowered the age of consent first from 21 to 18, and then again to 16, and legalised civil partnerships.

The new face of the Conservatives is of a caring, sharing, gay-friendly party, which boasts its own LGBTory group, and where Mayor Boris joins the Pride march in London. But how much have beliefs at the Conservative grass roots really changed? It's unlikely that a Tory government would, for example, reintroduce a version of Section 28, but with a widely predicted Tory election victory in the offing it remains to be seen whether David Cameron will be able to keep the less tolerant elements of his party in check. With the religious right also in the ascendant, gay rights campaigners shouldn't let their guard down just yet.

Thomas Calvocoressi is Chief Sub (Digital) at the New Statesman and writes about visual arts for the magazine.

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On the trail of Keith Jarrett's melodies

Lose focus for a second and you can quickly drop the thread of Jarrett's complex improvisational techniques.

“So, this is a piano,” said Keith Jarrett, sitting down at the one that had been placed centre stage for him in the Royal Festival Hall on 20 November. Blowing on his hands to warm them, he acted as if he had never encountered such an instrument before, raising a chuckle from the hundreds of fans who had turned out to see the man in the flesh. For 40 years, Jarrett has been giving concerts like this – alone with the piano, playing his improvised music to a room full of rapt devotees. Notoriously grumpy – and now as well known for his tirades against cameras and coughing audience members as for his early days playing with Miles Davis – he has an almost eerie focus onstage, relieving the tension only very occasionally with his barbed observations about the excellence of the instrument, or the shuffling in the auditorium.

Jarrett gave us a series of short pieces, each rendering separate and distinctive musical ideas. He began with an intricately woven flash of notes in both hands, criss-crossing the melodies that were by turns dark and haunting, or light and dancing. At particularly complex moments, when his arms were crossed over and the notes were flowing from his fingers faster than anyone could imagine them into existence, he leaned his ear down towards the keys, as if physical closeness could help his ideas more swiftly become sound.

A couple of folk-inflected ballads followed; heart-achingly sweet melodies picked out above rumbling, sour arpeggios. Like Glenn Gould, the Canadian pianist best known for his recordings of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, Jarrett can’t help adding vocalisations as he plays, which are all the more evident in his quieter compositions. He rose and fell from his stool; we heard his guiding hum along with the melody, as well as the odd strangled shout, yelp and grunt. He might insist on absolute silence from the audience but his own noises seem completely uninhibited as the music spins around him.

Although notorious for his curmudgeonly attitude to his fans, Jarrett was mostly restrained in this outing, allowing himself just one short, sweary outburst about killing a “f***ing camera”. At the age of 70 and with the power to sell out his concerts in just a few hours, you do wonder how much of the persona is genuine and how much of it is just giving the audience what it expects. A case in point came near the end, when he yielded to clamouring and gave a surprisingly simple and straightforward rendition of “Danny Boy”, an encore that long-time fans know well.

Given that this recital was under the auspices of the London Jazz Festival, there was surprisingly little in Jarrett’s programme that could easily be identified as jazz. One piece, full of brisk rhythms and chunky chords, gradually revealed itself to be based on a modified 12-bar blues structure and another had haunting overtones surely pulled from the classic American songs of the first half of the 20th century. Indeed, this musical ghosting becomes a major preoccupation when you see Jarrett live. It is too easy to distract yourself in trying to follow the auditory trail he has laid for you – was that a bit of Debussy, or Bach, or Glass just then? – and lose the thread of what he plays next. The improvisational technique might have more in common with jazz but now, 40 years on from his bestselling live recording The Köln Concert, it’s difficult to characterise Jarrett’s output as anything other than contemporary classical music.

If it needs a classification, that is. At one point, I became convinced that a particular piece was a Jarrett riff on Beethoven’s Bagatelle No 25 in A Minor – or Für Elise, as it is more commonly known. I was sure it was all there: the extended opening trill, the rising arpeggios in the left hand, the melody cascading from treble to bass and back again. Except, by the time I surfaced from my musing, there was no trace of Beethoven to be heard. A clashing, almost violent melody was dangling over a long drone in the bass. If you try too hard to pin down Jarrett’s music, it moves on without you.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State