Josh Osho: A portrait of the artist in a digital age

"People just want to connect. If I put my heart in it and people connect that’s the most important thing."

Even if you’ve not heard of Josh Osho, you’ve probably heard his music: it’s been played everywhere from ITV’s football coverage to the Queen Vic this year. His most famous song, "Redemption Days", is about rising above your weaknesses in order to become the person you want to be.

The concept is important to Josh. His favourite book was given to him by his father. It’s called The Black Jacobins, and it’s by the historian and critic C L R James. The book is about a man called Toussaint L’Ouverture. This is a picture of him:

Image via WikiCommons

It tells the story of the Haitian revolution, which took place between 1791 and 1804. It’s an incredible tale: you may not know that at the time the French were espousing “Libertéégalité, fraternité”, they were simultaneously trying to quash a rebellion among the slaves of Saint-Domingue. The French bourgeoisie found the idea of slaves adopting their own revolutionary principles incomprehensible. Toussaint was born a slave but quickly became their leader, and thanks to his martial and political skills, Haiti became an independent state. As James writes: Although born a slave, "both in body and mind he was far beyond the average slave".

Josh likes this: “It’s a really complete book. It shows you the depths and extremes of people, but also the ability to transcend - not just the community you come from – but yourself; your own resentment and bitterness.”

Josh’s second-most famous song, "Giants", is about people, or experiences, or things, to which we relate in order to feel most free.

Toussaint L’Ouverture, needless to say, is one of his Giants.

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Alan White: I was thinking about geniuses the other night. Creating art is about expressing yourself - but you can’t avoid the influences that have gone into you. And some geniuses - the influences are obscure, or they react to them in such an odd way that you can’t see them - I was thinking of Bill Hicks, Andre 3000, Richard Pryor, Oscar Wilde – actually C L R James would be a good one - they’re artists you experience for the first time and you think, “Where the hell did these guys come from?” I mean, in James and Wilde’s case they even say what influenced them, but you can’t really see how it works. Then you’ve got another kind of artist - where you can hear the original influences and what they’re doing with them, but they just take it to a totally different level.

Josh Osho: Like Michael Jackson -

AW: Exactly. And Amy Winehouse.

JO: You can’t really choose your influences. There are lyrics, or melodies or diction that come into my subconscious. When you’re in the moment of being creative it flows out. When I became a professional musician it felt like shackles were put on me straight away. As far as other people are concerned musicians have a sound; an identity. Over time I started to realise my most progressive moments were coming when I stopped saying: “This sounds too bluesy, or this sounds too folky.” You just have to let go. Just be a vessel. That’s why I called my latest EP the John Doe EP, and have a song called “Forget, to Remember”. There’s a comma there for a reason: you have to forget everything you think you are to remember what you really are.

AW: For ten years all I wanted to do was write. And if someone had said that to me back then - I mean, I spent ten years thinking, I really want to sound like this writer or that writer, and then suddenly I wrote a couple of pieces and didn’t think about it, and the weird thing was that all those influences still came through.

JO: There’s a part of yourself that’s omnipotent. That’s the creative moment – you start with something tangible, then you’re almost like a God for a moment, and then you step back, and you’re human again. At that point, you can analyse it and break it down. And quite often I read back something I wrote and don’t understand where it came from. There are all these layers you never saw. It’s like Amy Winehouse – she always starts with something tangible – little conversations, or moments, raises them to the level of art, and then in the ears of her listeners, it becomes something different again.

*

This is a video of Josh performing a song called "Ebenezer Hotel".

In his teenage years, Josh fell out with his mother. He contacted the council and moved into a hostel in Lambeth called the Ebenezer Hotel. Detached from his family, scared to talk to his friends about his experiences, he found himself alone in a grotty place, full of drug addicts and asylum seekers. One day he came home to find his room had been burgled. Most of his possessions had gone. He felt desperate; feral.

A little later, Josh was sitting on a sofa in a friend’s flat in south London, looking at his guitar, when a riff popped into his head. Dung-a-dunga dung. Dung-a-dunga-dung. It fitted with some words he’d been writing about this period – two words, in particular: “Depressing confessions.”  Suddenly, he had a chorus. Later he’d fit those words with some he’d written about his time in the Ebenezer Hotel. It was one of the first times he’d let himself go artistically.  

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AW: This is what gets me about the music industry. It says...

JO: “Josh Osho, soul sensation”...

AW: Yeah, “the new Seal” or whatever - and I listened to that song, and I just thought - nah - this is a Bo Diddley blues lick from about 1950, and it’s coming from the same place – responding to adversity. I love that cover you did of "Jesus Walks". It’s one of my favourite videos on YouTube:

Because - what is it? Hip hop? Folk? Soul? And if I look on your site, you’re posting stuff by Nick Drake, and Howling Wolf – and I think a lot of the things you say about social divisions and how they make it easier to sell a narrative, they’re true of music too.

JO: That’s it. Genre is division and it’s all about profit. We can market an identity and our customers will reinforce the division. Let’s make them think Josh is soul or blues or whatever - and my whole time has been spent fighting that. Even yesterday my mum asked what set I was playing, and she asked why I wasn’t playing "Redemption Days", because it’s my biggest song. But people just want to connect. If I put my heart in it and people connect that’s the most important thing.

AW: It’s like when Nirvana did the Unplugged in New York show, and the MTV bods were asking Cobain when he was going to play "Smells Like Teen Spirit", and he tells them, “Well, um, actually, I’m going to play some stuff by the Meat Puppets and a Bowie cover...”

JO: Ha!

AW: But the thing is - he was right, you know? That’s why it’s such an iconic gig.

JO: Marketers need to make you think there’s a lot more than there is and a lot less than there is - so sounds are divided, there’s more of them, but at the same time there’s a lot less to connect to. If you love Nick Drake, you can’t love the Fugees. But it all feels the same to me.

AW: I remember when I was a kid and I learned the minor pentatonic scale on the guitar. And I suddenly thought - hang on - I can play that Pink Floyd track now, but I can also play Muddy Waters, and loads of Britpop - I couldn’t believe it. And the only difference between all of those genres is feeling. Technically, it’s not so different.

JO: Exactly – rather than having a parochial mindset, you can see how it’s connected. And it’s not just true of music. At the minute I’m reading Mein Kampf. Everything Hitler did was justified, to his mind. But the misdirection comes, essentially, because a lot of his experiences were very parochial. His entire vision was based on a small perspective of the world.

AW: Would you say the internet’s changed that?

JO: We call the internet revolutionary. But revolution comes from connecting with your environment. How can you when everything’s external? A lot of stuff online is vacuous. Characters and personalities are manufactured. People’s perceptions of me for example - once upon a time the only way you knew me was if you met me, or saw me perform. Otherwise, you didn’t. But now there’s this saturation of false identity. People can flesh out their insecurities and be the person they think everyone needs them to be. And it’s far too easy to generate knee-jerk, simplistic reactions to things.

AW: That’s exactly what I wrote a while back. It’s like a chainsaw – powerful, but read the instructions.

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One of my favourite lines by Josh is in the chorus of his song "Even in War". It’s only six words: “Even in war, the birds sing.” Here’s why:

1) Rhythmic bathos. I like the two stressed syllables of the final two words. They’re almost making the point that he could have put so much more in there – there’s all sorts of different things going on during war, especially modern wars like Iraq or Afghanistan: children play in the streets; women and men go to the shops and barter and haggle and have sex and – but he doesn’t need to describe any of that: just that birds sing. And we notice them. Which leads to -

2) Compression of meaning. It’s like the end of "An Arundel Tomb" – “What will survive of us is love.” There’s an ambiguity about it, so you can choose what it means to you – maybe it means nothing, but if it means something, then it carries an emotional charge of some sort.

3) Simplicity: I think of Gerard Manley Hopkins writing about how a bird “rebuffed the big wind” – a great writer with thousands of words like “rebuffed” at his disposal, and then he goes for “big”, because there’s something childlike about how the bird makes him feel, and likewise I think Josh is trying to portray a childlike view of the world that’s at once less complicated and more honest.

4) I’d heard this story about how Monet had been asked to donate decorative panels to the French government to mark the end of the First World War, and they’d wanted something symbolic of the nation’s greatness but instead he’d gone for his water lilies because actually it was more truthful – they said that, sadly, life just goes on, there is no real winner, but there is beauty because there’s always beauty in life, somewhere, whatever’s happening (like Josh will say later in this piece life is a process) and actually I told Josh this story about Monet but it turned out I was totally wrong, because it was Monet’s friend Georges Clemenceau (the former Prime Minister), who persuaded him to hand them over, but I still like that story anyway, and while it’s not truthful it’s true, the way that Josh and I describe Arsenal when Henry and Pires were playing as “pure” even though there’s not really any such thing because ultimately football is just people kicking a ball, and that’s really what the moment of artistic contemplation is: a moment of truth, and good art forces these moments where all of the above hits you, all at once, the connections formed in microseconds, which is what happens when I see Josh playing and notice that every couple in the crowd seems to be holding each other and swaying together and I tap notes in a blank phone text that say “Bathos -> Arundel Tomb -> GMH -> Monet” and a few days later try to work out what the hell I meant.

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AW: I struggle with the question of whether the internet’s been a good or bad thing for the creative industries. I mean, on the one hand, it’s much harder for a guy like me to make money. But on the other hand, I can get my writing out there much easier than ever before. It’s a more transparent, honest experience.

JO: I don’t think it’s easier or harder than it’s ever been. It’s about adapting to change. For a while the music industry allowed loads of people to become multi-multi-millionaires, but no one really knew who they were. And now it’s like the 1930s. If you want to make it, you have to go and play every single venue. There’s always been two types of musician - there’s the people who make music out of love, and the people who make it out of fear. And the people who make it out of fear do it for money or fame.

AW: And it’s a vicious cycle between them and their fans, isn’t it?

JO: Totally. The riots are a perfect example. A lot of these people turn on the TV and see trainers, cars, and clothes. If these mediums are telling you that this is success and success is growth and expansion: well, we have an instinct to grow and expand. That’s being a homo sapiens. We believe who we are, is what we have. I was in Clapham Junction watching these kids I know putting their lives, their future at risk - for a fucking pair of trainers.

AW: In a way it’s fine for guys like us - we want to create. That’s what we’re going to do, and stuff will get in our way, but we overcome it because we know what we want to do above all. Not everyone wants to create, but there’s something positive they want to do with themselves.

JO: With kids from ethnic minorities: you go in a classroom and ask if they want to be a lawyer, an accountant, a pilot - they say no. But they want to be a musician or a sportsman. The reason is when you turn on the TV, when do you ever see that success attributed to your reflection? You don’t see a successful black lawyer or architect. They’re brought up in an environment with a lack of identity. There’s a mental parochialism - a lack of connection. They go to school and think they’re different, even though they bleed and shit the same colour.

AW: It’s funny, because you cite so many black role models – L’Ouverture, but also Harriet Tubman, Lauren Hill –

JO: You know, it goes back to the manipulation. There are artists out there like Lauren Hill but there’s a reason more like her don’t get promoted - and there’s a reason it’s difficult for me to break through but I look up and see, say, Cher Lloyd or 50 Cent. There’s no lack of people with open minds - but expansion means unity. And people profit from the perception we’re divided, or not connected.

AW: Like you say, it’s true of more than music.

JO: I wrote about Palestine and Israel recently - there are families on both sides that don’t want to die, don’t want to go to sleep to the sound of rockets and explosions, but they’re told they have to live that existence because of their national identity. And what is that identity, really? Centuries before they were Canaanites, and before that they were nomadic.

AW: Have you ever heard that E M Forster quote? "If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country." He places the personal above the political. In a weird way it takes us back to that "Jesus Walks" cover: things are more connected than they seem, in life and in art.

JO: If you look at where hip hop came from - it’s a corruption, of funk and disco. Likewise, without slavery you wouldn’t have the blues, without the blues you wouldn’t have rock and roll, and so on. Once you accept life is a process; a cycle, it’s unnerving, but it’s also empowering. It doesn’t mean that power comes free of responsibility, whether it’s having to do a day job, or shitty corporate gigs. You still need to do whatever it is that allows you to be free, but the important thing is: you’re still free.

*

23/11/2012

Last night I saw Josh perform live for the first time, at the Scala in King’s Cross. He was looking forward to the gig, but London crowds could sometimes be a struggle: too cool for school. He was on a four-part bill that included Gabrielle Aplin, whose version of Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s “The Power of Love” is everywhere thanks to a certain John Lewis advert.

And Josh took the stage, and launched into "Ebenezer Hotel", and I turned to my left, and half the crowd hadn’t seemed to even notice him, continuing to chat among themselves. He was right about this crowd: young, trendy, mostly white and mostly bored.

And then, little by little, they stopped talking to each other, and started listening to him. It was probably the chorus of “Giants” that tipped the balance – suddenly everyone was bopping their heads.

Then Josh addresses the crowd. “I hadn’t wanted to ever write a love song, because I thought it would be a load of clichés. Then I fell in love. And I had to write a song about it. So I called it The Clichés.”

His band put down their instruments. Josh picks out a delicate pattern on his acoustic guitar. The verse is a quiet, smooth little entree to the rasping chorus: “Oh baby/Look what you made me/I’m screaming the clichés.”

When he stops, there’s a tiny little silence before the crowd burst into applause. And in that silence, I hear a man’s voice from the back of the room.

“Beautiful.”

He’s made a connection.

Josh Osho performing in Dublin in September 2012. Photograph: Getty Images

Alan White's work has appeared in the Observer, Times, Private Eye, The National and the TLS. As John Heale, he is the author of One Blood: Inside Britain's Gang Culture.

LINDA BROWNLEE / CONTOUR BY GETTY IMAGES
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“Trump is a great opportunity for us writers": Zadie Smith on fighting back

The author of Swing Time on Michael Jackson, female friendships and how writers can bring down Donald Trump.

In a packed college lecture hall at the Cambridge Literary Festival on 22 November, Zadie Smith joined me on stage to talk about her fifth novel. Swing Time is the story of an unnamed narrator and her childhood friend – “two brown girls” – which begins at a church hall dance class and never quite lets them go, throughout their divergent lives. Despite being a little jet-lagged from her flight from New York – where she lives with her husband, the poet and novelist Nick Laird, and their two children – Smith spoke with the cool, lucid intelligence familiar from her essays and criticism as well as her fiction. “You’re so quiet compared to American audiences,” she said to the crowd. “American audiences say thing like, ‘Uh huh! Yeah!’ just randomly in the middle of things.” Met with reverential silence, she was free to navigate fluidly between racial identity, female friendship, Barack Obama’s legacy and her love of Mad Men.

New Statesman Swing Time is about many things, but it is dance that gives the story its rhythm and arc. What’s your own relationship with dance?

Zadie Smith For me, it’s a joy. I’m a 41-year-old woman; I don’t dance that much any more. My children don’t enjoy me dancing in any context, but I love to watch it, and I found out writing this book that I love to think about it.

 

NS As a child, the narrator is absorbed by classic musicals and through them she discovers a handful of black dancers – the Nicholas Brothers, the young Jeni LeGon – who take on huge significance for her. Did these figures have that kind of impact on you?

ZS No, Jeni LeGon is someone I only found out about writing this book, so I had to construct what it would have been like to know about her aged five or eight; it’s like a fake memoir. But I loved that kind of early dance, and I recognise the instinct a lot of black and Asian children of my generation might have: the sense of counting the brown faces wherever we saw them, in a slightly desperate way. I definitely did that, in my everyday life, switching on the BBC and hoping to see Daley Thompson, or whoever – this kind of search for a reflection.

 

NS There were major black stars in the 1980s: the narrator’s friend Tracey idolises Michael Jackson and Prince.

ZS Michael Jackson’s a really interesting example, because he’s such a traumatising figure for a whole generation of kids! You were offered him as this wonder – this incredible black dancer – who then you had to watch throughout your childhood become un-black. You had to have this magical thinking and believe that he had a mysterious skin disease that does not manifest in that way in any other human on Earth, and that all this surgery also had nothing to do with it. It required a great deal of denial, and I think it did something very odd to a generation of children. He certainly loomed large in my mind as a figure of such penetrating self-hatred and self-disgust. Perhaps I have a suspicion of role models exactly for that reason, that you’re offered something – a model of behaviour or thought – but it can only ever be narrow. And then, when it goes traumatically wrong, as it did in poor Michael’s case, you’re left slightly rudderless.

 

NS You wrote that the Nicholas Brothers remind you of a line that a mother tells her daughter, that she needs to be twice as good as the other kids. This sentiment crops up in NW and in Swing Time, too.

ZS When I meet black British kids of my generation, that’s what all their mothers said to them. But with the Nicholas Brothers, I was also thinking about talent, because the novel is about different relations of power: in friendships, in families, between countries.

One of the things power is based on is the feeling that someone has a natural right to a certain amount of things. If you’re born into a situation, what accrues to you because of that? If you’re born into an unfortunate situation, what do you deserve in replacement for that? Politics lies along those lines. But talent is interesting because people on both sides of the political divide tend to think of it as a natural bounty not to be interfered with. The Nicholas Brothers are so extraordinarily talented that it’s a kind of offence to our most democratic thoughts. Why do these boys dance like that? How is it possible to have those kinds of gifts in the world, and what should you get because of them?

 

NS Did the Nicholas Brothers get the recognition that their talent deserved?

ZS Well, it was complicated, because they would do these extraordinary routines, but the studio always ensured they weren’t integral to the plot, so that when the films went south of the Mason-Dixon line, you could just cut the offending scene. So that was their experience – a very painful one, I think. But they were extraordinary professionals and Astaire spoke so well of them.

When I was a kid, what preoccupied me even more than the movies themselves was the idea of what was going on behind the scenes, between these black actors and the directors, the producers, the other actors. Because even though someone like Fred Astaire was a supporter of these artists, he didn’t actually actively help them on set. There’s a moment in Easter Parade when a maid comes in with a pug in her arms, and that maid is Jeni LeGon. Astaire knew who she was and how talented a dancer she was and yet he allowed her to appear for 35 seconds in a movie, passing him a dog.

 

NS In Swing Time, the narrator goes on to work for a pop star who is busily incorporating African imagery and clothing into her routines. What’s your take on this idea of cultural appropriation?

ZS Aimee, the pop star, says something that I don’t disagree with, which is that art involves an act of love, and of imitation. I would maybe use the word “voyeurism”. I think of myself explicitly as a voyeur, somebody who wants to be inside other people’s lives. To write On Beauty, I wanted to know: what’s it like to be a middle-aged, white male academic? Or in The Autograph Man, what’s it like to be a young, Chinese-Jewish guy who collects autographs? I guess sometimes the reader thinks it’s not appropriation when I’m writing about an older, black American woman – but I’m not an older, black American woman. It’s all voy­eurism on my part. But the way it’s argued a lot of the time, on both sides, is so vulgar.

Also, I feel that the identity facts of your life are so profoundly contingent – where your parents happened to be on the day you were born – that I can only take identity ­seriously as an act of commitment and love. I don’t think it runs through your blood. It is a compulsion. You have chosen to become, for example, British, even if you were born British and your great-grandfather was British. Being British is a kind of engagement; you have to commit to the idea of a culture.

 

NS In terms of identity, the narrator defines herself by the light other people cast on her. She’s almost a negative space.

ZS I felt that I wanted an “I” who was like a void, partly from my own sensibility – I recognise myself as a person of some passivity – but also in response to the performance of a certain kind of persona, particularly among young people. My students have a very firm sense of their “I”, or say they do, and they take that “I” on to the various social platforms and into their lives. It’s a type of presentation. But the kind of person that I was thinking about is asking, “What did I do here, there and then? What does it mean?” She’s working out, “Who am I?” but it comes from action, not from a series of staged performances. I knew it would be a slightly unnerving experience, because we’ve got so used to opening a book or reading a blog or watching Instagram and being presented with this full technicolour person with all these qualities. I felt that maybe in my novel, I could try something else.

 

NS When asked about the target audience for their book, writers usually say that they don’t write for an audience, or they write for themselves. But you have said that Swing Time was written explicitly for black girls.

ZS That’s how I felt when I was writing it. I did have somebody I was trying to speak to, and that might be no different to writing the kind of book – as writers often say – that you might have hoped to read when you were young. I was aware of an explicit imagined reader. I can’t deny that was in my mind. These are not normal times, and I think even writers as domestic or comic as I generally am find themselves in a more political place than they would in peaceful times. Being in America the past few years, I felt I had a lot of things that I had to get on paper, to get off my chest.

 

NS One of the most interesting aspects of the book is the relationship between the two girls. Do you think there’s something particularly fraught and complex about female friendships?

ZS I feel that perhaps in the past – because so much was written by men, because the women were with the children – relations between women have been depicted with very simple concepts like envy, or the idea of the bitch fight. And now that women are writing so much more frequently and the men in their lives are helping with the children, I think you’re getting for the first time in a very long time a different depiction of intimate female relations.

One of the things that strike me is that the much-vaunted envy between women is also a kind of radical imagination, in that women are always in each other’s business; they can imagine each other’s lives with great intensity. When I was writing this book, I was with my daughter at a children’s party, parting from another girl who wanted to know every little thing about where we were going next. I compared that with my son, who, if he’s saying goodbye to a friend, is just like, “See ya!” and doesn’t even remember they exist until the next morning.

That ability of girls to project their imagination into somebody else’s life can have toxic elements, but also seems to me an extraordinary fictional instinct, and might explain the domination of women in the novel historically, when so many other art forms were practically blocked for them. The novel, to me, is a woman’s art. I don’t say men don’t have enormous achievements in it, of course, but it has a strong female element, exactly because of that projection, which can be called empathy, I suppose, but is also a deep curiosity and voyeurism.

 

NS We tend to associate male relationships with power struggles, but aren’t female friendships equally involved in exchanges of power and power games?

ZS Right. I think it can be sometimes invisible to men, because the form of the power game can be so inverted. There is a very funny Amy Schumer sketch of four women meeting in a park in New York and competitively downgrading themselves: “You look nice!” “No, I look like something pulled out of the trash.” On it goes until they explode. All women will recognise that, and it’s a compulsive English habit. I do it all the time. Someone says to me, “You look nice.” I say, “Oh, Topshop, 15 quid.” That habit maybe doesn’t look like power from the outside, but all women know exactly what they’re doing when they’re doing these things.

 

NS In your fiction, mother-daughter relationships seem equally fraught.

ZS Even though I know a lot of women have difficult relationships with their mothers, what’s amusing, and kind of moving, too, is the amnesia. When they have children, women cannot imagine the idea that maybe this lovely two-year-old will one day do ­anything to avoid calling you between Sunday and Sunday – they can’t conceive of it, even as they’re doing it to their own mothers. I guess I never had that illusion about motherhood. I always thought, “This is going to be terrible,” so anything that’s good is a kind of bonus. I was very surprised when my kids started saying the normal things that kids say, that they love you.

Then there are the sweet delusions of what you want and what the child wants. I can’t tell you how many times people in New York have said to me things like, “I’m going to go and get a massage, because if I’m happy, the child’s happy.” You want to believe that you want the same things at the same time, but exactly the opposite is true. The child wants everything, and it’s the mother’s decision how much she’s going to give. I find that battle kind of comic and sweet and interesting, and certainly having children has reanimated it in my fiction.

 

NS What was your involvement in the recent BBC television adaptation of NW?

ZS When they started, I was pregnant and I just couldn’t engage with it at all. So I just said, “Do whatever you like.” I saw it only two weeks ago on my laptop – very anxious, with my husband, Nick, late at night – and I was just so happy and amazed at that scriptwriter [Rachel Bennette] and all the things she cut so effectively. I’m not in the habit of being moved by my own material, but the power of it struck me, particularly the section with Felix. You see so many people stabbed, all the time, in movies and on TV, and you never really understand the weight of the life being lost – and the actor playing Felix managed to die.

I’m going to try to adapt Swing Time for TV, probably with Nick, because he’s much more of a plot guy. I’m excited. I love telly.
I don’t have original taste – I love all the usual suspects. I think Mad Men is stunning.
I felt like it was a dream life that I was in, and when it was gone I felt really depleted, like I couldn’t have that dream every night, with all those beautiful men and women in it.

 

NS You’ve long been associated with the idea of “multicultural London”, but what comes out strongly in your recent work is a sense of division. Do you feel more pessimistic about London as a mixed community?

ZS Particularly in America, I’ll be asked, “Are you a supporter of this thing multiculturalism, and now can you admit that it’s failed?” What’s being said is that the conditions of your childhood were a kind of experiment, and it turns out it hasn’t gone well, so we’re going to revoke that – it’s over now. I find it kind of unnerving, because millions of people around the world are still living with each other in mixed situations, and I also don’t accept the premise that a homogeneous society is by its nature more peaceful and more likely to succeed. The Romans, the Greeks, the Northern Irish, England for 400 years . . . There’s no reason to believe that. I never felt that a heterogeneous society was perfect. But I think there are promising things in my community, and I don’t accept the idea of an experiment shut down, finished: these are people’s lives.

But what certainly is the case, I feel, is that you cannot, on the left or on the right, assume that a historical situation will remain in perpetuity. If you value things in that ­society, you have to restate them, reimagine them, and the kind of housing crisis we have in London now makes various conditions I grew up in impossible. There will always be rich and poor but, as [Thomas] Piketty makes the case, the gap is so extraordinary now. To have allowed it to get to this almost feudal situation, I don’t see how it can’t create deep cracks within civilised life. The ­division in London is a financial one. It feels extreme and it has extreme consequences.

 

NS In 2008, you wrote an essay full of cautious hope that Obama’s mode of speaking might be the thing required to pull the country together. How do you feel looking back at that moment now?

ZS On the morning of this election, I heard a young black girl on the subway ­speaking very loudly about why she’d voted for Trump. One of her reasons – a kind of “Face­book fact” – was that Obama created fewer jobs than Bush, which I believe had been going round the right-wing sites. In some of the big car towns, Obama saved so many jobs – but it’s hard to sell the counterfactual idea that there would be 800,000 fewer jobs here had this not happened.

But I think another counterfactual will be in his favour soon, and that is all the ways in which Obama is calm. Recently in New York, we had a small terrorist attack in Chelsea. Try to imagine Donald’s response to that. And so I think that over the next four years, all the ways in which Obama has not done many things that would have led us into terrible situations will become very clear, very quickly. It’s a painful way to secure your legacy, but that’s the way I see it.

 

NS As a New Yorker, what has your experience been over the past few weeks?

ZS I left the morning after it happened, because I had to go to Europe. When we turned up at my son’s daycare, the teachers were crying. My friend told me that the pizza delivery guy came that evening and burst into tears at the door. It was traumatic.

My gut feeling is that the job of American journalists and writers is going to be to somehow defy the normalisation of what’s happening. I think there are positive signs. It blows my mind that a man who is meant to be preparing to be leader of the free world watched Saturday Night Live [in which Alec Baldwin played Trump] and tweeted three times about it. So, in one sense, it’s a great opportunity for all of us artists, comedians, writers, because he’s so easily wound up! It gives the press an opportunity to be a real fourth estate and do something significant. Which could perhaps lead to impeachment. It’s promising, from our point of view.

“Swing Time” by Zadie Smith is published by Hamish Hamilton

Tom Gatti is Culture Editor of the New Statesman. He previously edited the Saturday Review section of the Times, and can be found on Twitter as @tom_gatti.

 

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage