Battle of the wheatfield

Rational discussion of genetically modified crops is beyond us

Let me say from the outset, I think the experiment at Rothamsted should go ahead without interference from campaigners opposed to the genetic modification of crops. But I doubt it will.

The experiment looks at whether wheat could repel aphids by expressing genes that give off a “panic” pheromone that aphids use to warn of danger. These genes, which have been synthesised from chemicals in a lab, have been woven into the wheat’s genome.

It’s a brilliant strategy, well worth trying. If it works, you wouldn’t need to spray this wheat with insecticides. However, this very sensible experiment is under attack.
Anti-GM campaigners have announced they will arrive en masse to destroy the experiment on May 27th. The scientists have released a video pleading with the protestors not to trample years of their work. It’s unlikely to have any traction, though. This isn’t personal; it’s simply that GM scientists have not yet earned the right to do their research uncontested.
In many people’s minds, science is still scary – especially when it tinkers with nature. Watch this one-minute of video about Rachel Carson’s call for a ban on DDT in 1963, and see if the scientist doesn’t make you shiver a little bit.
This is still the tone many people hear when they hear scientists talking. People are, in general, all in favour of the products of science. But they also know there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Advances and comforts come at a cost – and people want to know what the cost might be before they give unqualified support to a programme of research.
That leaves scientists with two choices. They either try to win a battle for hearts and minds before they press ahead with experiments – those who mix human and animal biology are engaged with this right now. The alternative is to ignore public concerns, raise private funding and do semi-secret experiments, then present the public with a fait accompli that they like – such as Louise Brown, the world’s first test tube baby.
It seems to be too late for GM researchers to do either. The battle for hearts and minds is already lost: there is a pervasive belief that, without extreme caution, genetic modifications are likely to spread beyond experimental boundaries and might have unintended adverse effects on natural ecosystems. And Monsanto scuppered any future acceptance of the private route by their early attempts to create themselves a lucrative market at the expense of farmers in the developing world.
We have never managed to hold a properly informed public discussion about genetically modified organisms, and thanks to the subject’s history, that discussion might now be impossible. Which means extremist anti-GM groups will continue to thwart even the most laudable scientific efforts while the public shrugs and wonders if that isn’t the best thing for everyone in the long run.
An ultralight helicopter hovers above a field where Greenpeace activists wrote the message 'NO GMO'. Photograph: Getty Images.

Michael Brooks holds a PhD in quantum physics. He writes a weekly science column for the New Statesman, and his most recent book is At the Edge of Uncertainty: 11 Discoveries Taking Science by Surprise.

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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