Reviewed: Revolutionary Iran - a History of the Islamic Republic by Michael Axworthy

Parallel lines.

Revolutionary Iran: a History of the Islamic Republic
Michael Axworthy
Allen Lane, 528pp, £25

As they travel down a road in the scrublands of south-western Iran, a group of soldiers hear noises from a nearby trench. It is the height of war with Iraq, which lasted from 1980 until 1988. They scramble into position and start firing at their half-hidden enemies:

We were exchanging fire and launching RPG-7s at each other . . . We could hear the others, opposite us, who were attacking us, shouting “Allahu Akbar” . . . [A]s we listened to them . . . we realised that they were speaking Persian . . . We had been fighting with another group of Iranian forces.

Stories such as this one, recorded by Michael Axworthy for his new history of revolutionary Iran, are not unusual in war. Yet while there may be chaos and confusion at the front, there is usually cohesion at home. Though most Iranians were united in the face of a foreign enemy, they were also battling one another in a separate, hardly less significant struggle – for the soul of their revolution.

The stakes in that fight were high: it was for the nature of the state and the ability of the people to determine their own futures. By the time war broke out in September 1980, a referendum had resoundingly endorsed an Islamic republic in Iran; an interim government had come and gone; a bitter row over a new constitution had resulted in an unexpectedly conservative document and the hostage crisis had shattered relations with the US. A controversial new principle setting out the political authority of the chief religious scholar was embedding itself in the machinery of government.

As this book shows, the effect was polarising. The revolution didn’t simply get rid of the shah and his cronies. It comprehensively reallocated power: better-off, better-educated, anti-monarchist liberals found themselves excluded. The poor, devout and provincial were elevated, in some cases to dizzying heights. In the scramble to wrest advantages from a system in flux, the winners were those prepared to be nimble, ruthless, often violent. Sadegh Khalkhali, Ayatollah Khomeini’s avenging angel, travelled the country executing enemies of the revolution. Some of those enemies refused to go quietly: in June 1981, 70 leading members of the Islamic Republican Party were blown up by oppositionists. Two months later, a suitcase bomb killed the president and prime minister. Consolidation was not going to be easy.

This is a story with plenty of historical echoes. When thousands of political prisoners were executed in 1988, commentators invoked the French Revolution’s reign of terror. And the transformation of revolutionaries into authoritarian rulers is a pattern familiar from Cromwell onwards. There are modern parallels, too: the controversy over the drafting of Iran’s Islamist constitution brings to mind arguments now raging in Egypt.

Axworthy is good at placing Iran into context in this way, which is important as it’s too often seen as exceptional. The revolution’s religious underpinning is hard for the secular west to comprehend. Islam is the wild card that puts Iran’s predicament beyond conventional analysis. Some claim that there is a tinge of irrationality in its decisionmaking that makes it impossible to engage with in the usual way.

This line of argument leads not only to calls for pre-emptive strikes but to terrible wasted opportunities. The “grand bargain” – a settlement with the US that would have seen Iran stop funding anti-Israel groups in return for an end to isolation and sanctions – was vetoed by Donald Rumsfeld and Dick Cheney on the grounds that: “We don’t speak to evil.” Yet Iran’s domestic and foreign policies (including its stance on nuclear technology) are perfectly intelligible in terms of a desire to maintain cultural and political independence. The conservative establishment is right, Axworthy points out, in believing that if it relaxes its grip on freedom of expression, the culture it believes it has a duty to defend will be eroded. Iranians’ long history of exploitation by superpowers makes some loath to co-operate with an “international community” dominated by western interests.

Iran’s relations with the rest of the world are a reflection of who has the upper hand at home. Over the past three decades, that contest has been brutal. The reformists, always at a disadvantage because they want the state to relinquish some of its power, remain at a low ebb. Whatever the outcome of the presidential elections this summer, we must hope that the friendly fire that still characterises Iranian politics will one day stop.

Because of that election, Revolutionary Iran, which takes the reader up to the end of 2012, is particularly well timed. It will be invaluable for those hoping to make sense of the coverage. With it, Axworthy has confirmed his position as one of the most lucid and humane western interpreters of Iran writing at the moment.

 

An Iranian flag fluttering at an undisclosed location in the Islamic republic next to a surface-to-surface Qiam-1 (Rising) missile. Photograph: Getty Images

This article first appeared in the 04 March 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The fall of Pistorius

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If tattoos could talk: Glen Campbell's life in music

The late singer made a trade of music, and made it look easy.

There was a rudimentary tattoo on his left upper arm, which he’d given himself at the age of nine: a small cartoon dagger, scratched with a needle and filled with ink, 72 years ago, in the yard of the house he shared with 11 brothers and sisters in Bills­town, Arkansas. In his last years, doing interviews about Alzheimer’s in his final home of Nashville, he’d wear T-shirts and you could just make out the tip of the dagger emerging from his sleeve. But for decades you wouldn’t have seen it, beneath flower-power shirts on his late-1960s TV show, or the fitted tuxedos of the 1970s, as he played the “William Tell Overture” on his guitar with the philharmonics of the world.

His accent came and went, too, as he adapted his vowels and crossed his Ts for the sophisticated compositions of his regular musical partner Jimmy Webb, another southerner making his way in LA. Campbell was the son of a sharecropper but he didn’t like getting his hands dirty. When he left home at 14 to become a musician, it was a practical move for the family – the money was good, and without him there was more room in the house.

As the first-call guitarist in the elite LA session group the Wrecking Crew, he played on 500 tracks in one year. Carole Kaye, who later delivered the bass line on his most famous song, “Wichita Lineman”, told me they all went out to buy big diamond signet rings with their wages one day. Glen peered into his: “Hey, look, I can see Russia,” he said.

Dirt poor, down-home, authentic – he may have been those things, but it was not his business to claim to be. He wasn’t a songwriter; he was an interpreter of other people’s material – a concept almost alien in a modern musical climate that expects songs to be a reflection of an artist’s inner life. He would take the most urbane track and throw it back at his audience with an incandescent ordinariness. “It is like a bird flying, it’s like somebody breathing, it is easy for him,” his musical director TJ Kuenster said.

Exactly how he achieved it was more mysterious. He had a habit of speeding things up, injecting light and energy into songs and turning them into something kinetic and fresh. His vocal entries often lagged a fraction of a second behind the beat, making each one sound like a spontaneous thought.

On his prime-time TV show, with his hair sprayed into a high wave, he’d awkwardly navigate the light comedy of the day: the Smothers Brothers riding hippos through the studio, or the skits with Sonny and Cher. His talking voice was chirpy; then he’d sit down to play Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now” and it was as if a switch had been flicked. His face fell into a state of instant clarity, intense but faraway, with sometimes a hint of pain – though you knew the pain wasn’t his.

He never sang about himself, which made the private self a separate entity. There was the lost Glen of the late 1970s, blank of eye and huge of beard, free­basing cocaine in a Vegas hotel room, having fisticuffs with his girlfriend. There was the middle-aged golf-playing Republican, baptised in a freezing creek under the watch of his younger wife; then tanned and born again, happily doing his Donald Duck impressions on stage. There was the lapsed Glen who hit the whiskey again as a pensioner, drove drunk, attempted to knee a policeman in the genitals, ran down a freeway, got snapped for a famously bad mugshot and spent ten days in prison, where he still managed to perform an impromptu set on a couple of hay bales.

But at any point in the 55-year ride, amid the personal dramas and lapses of musical taste, he’d open his mouth and what came out was deeply serious. You couldn’t imagine him writing a shopping list but he had an ear for poetry – teeing up particular lines in Webb’s songs for his audience, asking how someone so young could write “Asleep on the Wind”, an impressionistic portrait of a legendary bird that spends its whole life in the air. He’d take Webb’s tracks away and arrange them for his guitar, playing them back at their composer in his trance-like state. When the song was over, he’d snap out of it and laugh. “Those chords! If I start thinkin’ about them I miss ’em! I love it! Write me another one like that!”

When I noticed the tattoo sticking out of his T-shirt, faded like a biro scrawl, it struck me as strange that the same piece of skin had passed through so much of 20th-century music, with its changing notions of what it means to be “authentic”. The arm had travelled from sacred harp singing in Steinbeck’s south to Bob Wills’s hayseed country shows in the golden age of 1950s TV; from Vietnam protest songs to the stifling world of residencies in Las Vegas – and finally to the life of a “country legend”, via the theatres of Missouri and the golf courses of Arizona. In middle age, he recorded religious albums that sounded as pure as “Wichita Lineman”. Once again, he was acting as a funnel, for a different kind of light.

He was the real deal not because he turned his personal experience into a marketable commodity but because he made a trade of music, and made it look easy. He followed the gold rush, sold himself, got himself back just in time – yet in his playing, and the very touch of his tongue on his teeth, he was astonishingly truthful. It was the ultimate life in music, and in that sense, too, he is a piece of time lost. 

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

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear