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Asterix and Obelix, 50 years on

For the past couple of weeks, Asterix the Gaul's 50th birthday has been the subject of sustained media attention, thanks largely to the tributes that erupted all over Paris throughout October. (In 1959, a short Asterix and Obelix comic strip in the magazine Pilote was published -- it wasn't until 1961 that the first full "album", Asterix the Gaul, started a ball rolling that soon became known as "le phénomène Astérix". So be prepared for further celebrations come 2011.)

But, depressingly, most commentators have seen the golden jubilee of René Goscinny's and Albert Uderzo's greatest creation as an opportunity to explore the way in which the Asterix brand has become a little tarnished in recent years -- following the mediocre film adaptations starring Gérard Depardieu, for example, as well as Uderzo's decision to sell the series rights to the mega-publisher Hachette and the high-profile feud with his daughter that ensued -- and to ignore the undiminished brilliance of the books themselves. A piece that appeared in the Times is typical. "It happens to plenty of men," it suggested. "They turn 50 and all the vim disappears. But it shouldn't happen if you have access to a magic potion that revives your powers faster than Viagra."

An excellent essay by Mary Beard that appeared in the LRB a few years ago does a better job of celebrating Goscinny's and Uderzo's genius. It even reserves praise for the several albums that Uderzo has composed alone since Goscinny's premature death in 1977 (which have been the focus of some particularly scathing birthday criticism).

But having spent the weekend rereading my collection of Asterix and Obelix titles, I think that something rather important has, for some reason, gone largely unacknowledged in all the furore: how extraordinarily well both men's work (and, of course, Anthea Bell's and Derek Hockridge's English translation has aged. Far better than, say, Tintin in the Congo, yes. But, more than that, in a manner which makes the fact that they were written decades ago almost entirely irrelevant.

Which raises the question: why is it that Asterix stories feel as fresh as they do, thirty or fifty years on? Here are three suggestions of mine. Feel free to make any of your own in the comment box below.

Literary references: The stories' penchant for referring to cultural touchstones -- Asterix in Belgium (1979) opens "with apologies to: George Gordon, Lord Byron, Mr Wm Shakespeare, Mr John Milton and Peter Breughel the Elder" -- is well known. That these references invariably come from canonical classics -- from Horace's Odes to Cervantes's Don Quixote (the eponymous knight-errant and his squire make a cameo appearance in Asterix in Spain (1969) -- ensures that Asterix's adventures feel timeless.

Metanarrative: Asterix in Belgium and Asterix and Son (1983) feature flourishes of an altogether contemporary literary postmodernism. "Look, we're only just starting this story," Asterix explains early on in the former. "It's much too soon for a banquet."

Well-chosen modern touches: Instead of alluding to 1960s- and 1970s-specific issues that might have quickly lost their relevance, the books ingeniously make use of durable modern ideas. So, a character in Asterix and Caesar's Gift (1974) suggests that "if anyone ever decides to go digging up the past behind this house, he'll have a few archaeological problems on his hands". And Obelix points out in Asterix and the Banquet (1965) that, compared to boar, "Oysters are all right, but you can eat boar even when there isn't an 'r' in the month . . ."

Photo: Catgod
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Gig economy: apps offering a small-scale solution to the decline of the UK's music venues

Could bands and fans increasingly start swapping concert halls for strangers' living rooms?

Most up-and-coming musicians rely on live gigs to win new fans, but their ability to find somewhere to play is increasingly under threat. Earlier this month, Arts Council England rejected a funding bid from the Music Venue Trust (MVT), the primary charity looking after the country’s grassroots music venues.

After encouraging the MVT to apply for several grants, the Council ended up awarding 85 per cent of its £367m music budget to the opera and classical sectors. There is no more Arts Council funding available for the next four years, which means that countless grassroots venues in smaller towns and cities that rely on support from the MVT will be left out in the cold.

Music venues are already disappearing across the country. Since 2007, more than 430 live music venues in London alone have had to close down. The majority of these were small, local spots that buckled under rising rents, increasing business rates, and the constant threat of avaricious property developers.

Unsurprisingly, such a dramatic decline in the infrastructure supporting the country's music scene hurts emerging musicians, but it also runs the risk of undermining musical heritage. Places like the 100 Club in London – which in its heyday played host to The Clash, Sex Pistols and Rolling Stones – are at risk of shutting their doors permanently.

Spanning several generations and musical movements, these spaces have helped give popular music a central role in the city’s cultural history. They have also shaped bands that at the time were merely looking for a chance to escape their parents’ basement.

The picture appears gloomy, but a potential solution is on the horizon that taps into two things the millennial generation can’t seem to live without: apps and social media. The success of services such as Uber and Deliveroo has inspired music start-ups to apply digital savvy to this very physical problem.

One such start-up is Tigmus, a platform for artists to find venues that are both interesting and affordable, while connecting them with both venue owners and fans. Venues can include cafes, warehouses, and even people’s living rooms.

Tigmus veterans Catgod are a soul and trip-hop collective who relied heavily on the service while establishing themselves in Oxford. Robin Christensen-Marriott, the band’s manager, says Tigmus gigs were “a vital income for us to pay for our studio recordings, as Tigmus take a small cut of the takings, whereas other promoters generally will take more.”

The platform has also helped Catgod unlock “lots of interesting venues in our hometown as you can virtually book anywhere” – meaning the band “played some really poky, cosy venues ...that have been fun and sweaty”.

Tigmus is not the only start-up offering a more unusual way to cater to a smaller budget. Similarly, Sofar Sounds works as a go-between, however it also adds a bit of old-school secrecy to proceedings. An intimate and authentic experience is the company’s main concern – fans apply for tickets, and only when they get accepted does the secret address get released. This adds a layer of mystery to seeing live music.

These days, fanbases are birthed and sustained on social media, so the extra opportunity to publicise events and venues on Facebook or Twitter is part of the allure of these platforms. Both Tigmus and Sofar encourage performers, once booked, to plaster their events all over fans’ news feeds and timelines. This makes them an appealing option for a band just starting out and looking to make a name for themselves.

The development of platforms such as Tigmus and Sofar mirrors the digitisation of music more generally. Just as streaming services such as Spotify and Tidal sprung up in response to the threat of piracy, as digital music replaced vinyl and CDs, digital platforms are emerging to deal with the decline of traditional venues. Could bands and fans increasingly start swapping concert halls for a perch on a stranger’s sofa instead?