Goodbye to a marvellous racket

Stephen Bates welcomes the end of duty-free and sees in it a rare victory for social justice over th

This Easter, as you idly stroll the marble halls of some duty-free emporium while waiting for your holiday flight, pondering your last chance to choose between a bottle of that strange-coloured local liqueur or Old MacSporran's oak-cask-matured 25-year-old malt whisky, pause just a moment for quiet reflection. Even if it means you will no longer be able to weigh yourself down with a bottle of something you would never otherwise have thought of buying, you may still be able to derive limited satisfaction from the abolition of duty-free sales, for it reflects an increasingly rare victory for the European Union over the power of corporate lobbying.

That it has come about with no thanks to our government, which backed the corporate case, should produce a sobriety that not even MacSporran could dispel.

Duty-free - that long-established wheeze by which airports and ferry operators, airlines and terminal owners tempt passengers into buying at least partially tax-free goods such as drink, cigarettes and electrical goods supposedly cheaper than they can buy them in local shops - will end on 30 June this year for travel in the European Union. (It will remain for transcontinental travellers.)

It was a deal done and dusted eight years ago by the governments of the EU. To have reopened the issue would have required not just majority consent but unanimity from all 15 member states. Now there is no chance of that happening, though the duty-free lobby was still clinging to that hope this week.

Far from being a time-hallowed perk of sailors and air crew, duty-free is a commercial lure to part passengers from their money. It dates all the way back to 1947 when Shannon airport, desperate to win a piece of the transatlantic trade, introduced cheap sales. It has become big business. It is now worth £12 billion a year worldwide, nearly £5 billion of that in Europe, £1 billion in Britain alone. Those figures have doubled since the EU decided to phase out duty-free in 1991. The industry itself estimates that 140,000 people depend on such sales for their jobs and that over 80 per cent of all duty-free goods sold across the world are made in Europe.

The arguments for getting rid of duty-free are largely practical. The practice currently amounts to a subsidy of about £1.4 billion a year to duty-free companies; that is the amount they do not have to pay in excise and tax on their sales. The European Commission wanted to end it because it is an anomaly in the EU's supposedly single market, which is meant to preclude unfair competitive advantages between member states and companies. It is also a form of commerce that benefits only those who travel and disadvantages those who do not, who have to pay higher prices for the same products in their local shops because of it. The more you travel abroad, the more you're subsidised: business travellers most of all. Furthermore, it does not benefit all travellers equally - you can buy duty-free if you catch a plane to Paris but not if you go by bus or train.

As travellers know, not all duty-free sales are the bargains they seem and, because tax rates and discounts vary, that cheap bottle of ouzo you bought while waiting for the ferry may actually be cheaper in the shops when you get to your destination. And, if you want to be really po-faced about it, duty-free encourages people to buy more alcohol and cigarettes than is good for them, or at least than they otherwise would.

The European Union originally wanted to end duty-free in 1993, but it was postponed until 1999 to give the industry a chance to adjust gradually. Instead it has used the past eight years to build ever larger duty-free shops and shopping malls in the airports and terminals of Europe, to expand sales - and to lobby remorselessly and expensively to stave off the change. This week it was complaining about a "sudden" decision.

It has been a powerful campaign, costing millions (why stint when there is so much potential gain?), spearheaded by the owners and assisted by trade unions representing workers in the travel industry. In Brussels the lobbying has been masterminded on behalf of the International Duty Free Confederation by John Hume, son of the saintly Northern Ireland peace campaigner.

The industry has a case in saying that, as the European single market is still far from completion and there is no agreement on what duty should be levied on goods bought in transit, abolition is likely to leave an unsatisfactory vacuum. As you travel from Britain to France you will pay British rates of VAT; in the opposite direction, French rates. In mid-Channel, excise rates will change, which means you had better make your purchases on the French side of the line. If you sense a Commission ambition to harmonise excise duties and VAT you would not be mistaken.

More tendentious has been the argument that the end of duty-free means fares will rise and airports will lose investment. It beggars the question why these companies have been investing in their airport shopping malls these past few years. Are they really expecting to have to close them down? Or will they find another way of enticing passengers in?

The industry has naturally based its arguments largely on the effect the end of duty-free will have on employment rather than profits. It has claimed that more than a third of jobs may have to go, that half the airports of Europe will have to close and that ferry services will be decimated. It has been sad to see disconsolate ferry seamen and air cabin crews bussed to Brussels to complain that they are likely to be thrown out of work, with the connivance of the very employers who are about to sack them. As the driving rain drips remorselessly off their placards, they look like troops being prodded over the top by staff safe in their nice dry billets behind the lines at corporate headquarters. The Commission's study this week found claims of job losses were much exaggerated.

This time last year there wasn't a prayer for a postponement of the end of duty-free, no chance of the unanimity among the 15 member states required to reprieve it. When Ireland's finance minister Charlie McCreevy fought for the issue to be re-opened last May, he looked to be on his own. Britain's Gordon Brown dismissed the suggestion brusquely as something that had been already decided.

Slowly, however, duty-free seeped back onto the agenda. It started with Gerhard Schroder's election campaign in Germany where, to garner votes along the Baltic coast, he came out in favour of a review of the effect of the ban - there is a profitable trade in Baltic shopping cruises. Then the French premier Lionel Jospin commissioned an MP, fortuitously from Calais, to conduct a survey on likely job losses.

With France and Germany on board for a review, the British government also jumped ship. In December, at a meeting in Brussels, Brown suddenly discovered that he had always been in favour of a review, too. So unexpected was his discovery that, the evening before, officials in Whitehall had been briefing journalists that the government saw no reason to reopen a long-decided issue. Now suddenly the original decision was all the fault of previous Tory ministers. Brown even had the nerve to chide journalists for getting the government's position wrong.

The source of this Damascene miracle was not hard to find. It was the week the Sun dubbed Oskar Lafontaine, the German finance minister, the most dangerous man in Europe for his ideas on tax harmonisation. The tabloids were also beginning to make menacing noises about the loss of "our" duty-free. A couple of weeks later at the EU summit in Vienna, Tony Blair, who might otherwise have been under the newspapers' cosh over Britain's budgetary rebate or the tax harmonisation wrangle, was suddenly also claiming to be battling for duty-free. Heads of government spent an hour discussing the issue instead of the anticipated two minutes. Other member states reluctantly agreed to ask an even more reluctant European Commission to carry out a review of job losses. Blair told the Commission president, Jacques Santer, that he wanted a significant postponement because abolition would lead to "higher fares and much popular unhappiness". Note the emphasis.

Duty-free now looks likely to be abolished this June, but there has been an almighty behind-the-scenes row in the Commission over whether a delay might not after all be expedient. Last week I caught up with a very senior bureaucrat in a Brussels restaurant. He mused: "With all our other problems is this something we really want to go to the wall over? People want it, don't they?"

This week, the duty-free lobby was complaining, of all things, about a lack of democracy in the decision. For once, a limit to the power of corporate lobbying, more like.

Stephen Bates is European affairs editor of the "Guardian"

This article first appeared in the 19 February 1999 issue of the New Statesman, We are richer than you think

MATTHIAS SEIFARTH FOR NEW STATESMAN
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Moby: “The average American IQ is around 98”

Moby, the vegan king of chill-out pop, talks wealth, David Bowie’s hat and the average intelligence of his fellow Americans.

In January 2012, two women walking their nine dogs on the hill beneath the Hollywood sign found a man’s severed head wrapped in a plastic bag. His decomposing feet and hands were discovered nearby. First theories pointed to the work of a Mexican drug cartel, or the murderous Canadian porn actor Luka Magnotta. The story piqued the interest of the electronic dance music mogul Moby, who wrote about it in a New Statesman diary in May this year.

Today, the smell of cedar and pine hits you on the canyon path, which is hot, steep and sandy – an immediate wilderness in one of LA’s most exclusive areas. The Griffith Observatory shines like a strange white temple on the hill. Brad Pitt, a local resident, was doorstepped after the head was discovered: he lives near Moby on the streets of Los Feliz, near Griffith Park, where the only sounds are hedge strimmers and workmen’s radios. Moby’s 1920s mansion is all but obscured by Virginia creeper.

As we sit down at his kitchen table, Moby tells me that the body parts were found to belong to a 66-year-old Canadian flight attendant called Hervey Medellin. Shortly before Medellin’s disappearance, his boyfriend, Gabriel Campos-Martinez, had used a computer in the flat they shared to find an article titled, “Butchering of the human carcass for human consumption”. The head, feet and hands showed signs of having been frozen: the rest of the body was never found. He says it was one of those rare times in life where reality was more intriguing than the conspiracy theories.

Moby, of course, eats no meat. Fifteen minutes’ drive away in the hipster neighbourhood of Silver Lake, his vegan bistro, Little Pine, serves a variety of plant-based dishes, proceeds from which go to animal rights organisations including the Humane Society and Peta. His own music is never played there. We are meeting to talk about his new album – but, he says: “It’s 2016 and people neither buy nor listen to albums. And they certainly don’t listen to the 16th album made by a 51-year-old musician. I don’t care if anyone gives me money for this music or for live shows ever again. Once a record’s released, I couldn’t care less what happens with it. I liked making it, but I don’t care.”

He is currently working his way though the stages of grief outlined by the psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. To denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance he has added a new phase: Schadenfreude. On the night of the US election, he left the house at 6pm west coast time to watch the coverage with some friends. He checked his usual round of sites on his phone: CNN, the New York Times, the Washington Post, Nate Silver’s FiveThirtyEight, the Guardian, the Huffington Post, the BBC, politico.com. He was concerned to see that no one was calling any of the early states; with Obama’s election, exit polls suggested the victory by noon. Days earlier, Moby had been predicting humanity’s “wake-up call” in the form of the destruction of Greenland or a zoonotic virus – but not this. He is softly spoken, with a quick laugh and the kind of intelligence that seems to warm him up from the inside when he talks, but today he is angry.

“It is disturbing on so many levels,” he says. “One, that we have elected an inept racist as president. Two, just seeing how dumb and delusional so many Americans are. Because really – in terms of the subsets of people who would vote for Trump – you have to be delusional, or racist, or stupid. I am so confused as to the fact that such a high percentage of Americans are either really stupid or incredibly bigoted.”

The stupidity of Americans is, he says, a matter of “anthropological curiosity” – or simply demographics. “The average American IQ is around 98,” he notes. “So that honestly means – in a vaguely non-pejorative way – that there are a lot of really, really dumb people. The nonsense that people were spouting before the election – that Trump was a good businessman, for example? This phenomenon has been particularly egregious of late: people have an almost adversarial relationship with evidence. Climate-change deniers are another example.”

As a self-described old-timey alcoholic, Richard Melville Hall (nicknamed Moby by his father in honour of his great-great-great-uncle Herman) has a pervasive interest in neurochemistry. He uses it to explain much of the past six months in Western politics. Our failing political systems – the subject, in fact, of the album he doesn’t want to talk about – are underpinned by “a kind of delusional motivation, which is basically to ignore the countless things that are actually going wrong in the world and focus all your attention on things that are arbitrary. In the United States, you have people who have perfectly good jobs in safe communities who are obsessed about Mexico, crime and unemployment. We have these quasi-Orwellian responses to stimuli, and they come from a place of fear and scarcity. Humans are still built to amass as much wealth as possible, and fight off the enemies as quickly as possible, but the only threats are the ones we generate ourselves.”

There’s a dishcloth on the table, a few magazines, a bit of a draught and Moby in a black hoodie pouring two glasses of water.

Fear and scarcity pervade American society, he says, because social policy is an extension of corporate process and “nothing is free from the cadres of professional lobbyists”. Meanwhile the ravenous news consumption that helped drive Trump reflects a human addiction to the “neurochemical jolt” of engaging with the media.

“People have a profound and almost feral attachment to that which makes them feel good in the moment,” he says. “Without thinking of long-term consequences, does their belief give them a shot of dopamine right at this second? If so, they hold on to it. Eating junk food, voting Brexit and voting for Trump.”

 

***

 

Moby is the model of an addictive personality well-practised at controlling itself. He was a fully fledged alcoholic by his early twenties: at ten, he’d been given champagne and made himself the promise, “I always want to feel this good.” Now, he cannot touch a drink, but his modern-day addiction, he says without a beat, is his phone. Every thought is pursued to extremes. He recently released an animated video for a new song, “Are You Lost In the World Like Me?”, showing a procession of grotesque, phone-addicted cartoon characters filming a girl as she throws herself off a skyscraper and hits the ground.

The house is vaguely baronial, airy and open-plan: all dark wood and furniture polish. An Annie Hall poster in the pool house; a coyote postcard on the kitchen wall.

This particular property is a result of serious downsizing: Moby has a habit of buying very big places, doing them up and then moving out. When he was still in New York, he bought a remote mountaintop retreat in Kent Cliffs, 50 miles north of Manhattan. He created a magnificent bedroom of 1,500 square feet with ten skylights – but quickly learned he could only get a decent night’s sleep when he pulled his mattress into the cupboard. He told the New York Times that, living all alone in the big house, he “felt like Orson Welles at the end of Citizen Kane”.

He moved to LA in 2010, swapped vodka for quinoa smoothies and took the keys for another large building – the Wolf’s Lair, the turreted, 1920s Gothic castle in Hollywood once inhabited by Marlon Brando, with the swimming pool historically used for porn movies and the hidden tiki bar. He bought it for $4m and sold it for $12.5m four years later – allegedly to Banksy. He rattled around in that house, too. Right on cue, he tells me: “I felt like Orson Welles at the end of Citizen Kane.”

On the one hand, these were sensible ­investments for the man who’s sold 20 million records; on the other, large impersonal spaces appealed to Moby long before he was in a position to buy them. Raised by his single mother on food stamps and welfare in Darien, Connecticut, he started his adult life squatting an abandoned lock factory, where he could ride his moped around his bedroom, piss into a bottle and read battered Star Trek paperbacks while working on early demo tapes, rather like a ragged, vegan version of the boy in the movie Big.

He was very happy in his penniless state, as he records in his memoir, Porcelain. He’d like to propose something he calls the End of Wealth – but we’ll come back to that.

In the past few years Moby has broken free from the “Beckettian purgatory of touring”. When his biggest-selling album, Play, was released in 1999, his music career was effectively “over”. Before Play, he had changed creative direction, going from progressive house to ambient to thrashy punk – to which he has just returned – and no one knew what to do with him. The only reason he hadn’t been dropped by his UK label, Mute Records, was that its owner, Daniel Miller, was “an old egalitarian socialist”.

Play sampled slave songs of the Deep South – recorded by the ethnomusicologist Alan Lomax in the 1940s – and wove them into a backdrop of cerebral chill-out. The songs of pain and emotion took on an eerie neutrality, and TV shows and ad companies came calling. He was approached by Will and Grace and Grey’s Anatomy. At that point, selling records and touring were still more lucrative than licensing a song to TV – and licensing a song to TV was still considered selling out. But Moby considers himself an ugly duckling: “If someone who was once unattractive suddenly gets asked out on loads of dates, of course they say yes a lot.” He licensed every song on Play and it became the soundtrack of the millennium.

His memoir was unusual because it concentrated on the ten-year period before he got famous. It captured his enthusiasm – and his strangeness – at its source and showed him to have a sense of humour that may have passed people by the first time round. “I’m in London! London!” he wrote. “Benny Hill, Joy Division, Peter O’Toole!” He visited the vegan café in Covent Garden.

The book is filled with money: or with the constant, practical concern of not having it. Navigating poverty is an everyday routine: he is an “alchemist” turning used beer bottles into nickels at the recycler, and thence into soya milk and oranges. In his early twenties he becomes a Christian, partly so that he can repeat the Sermon on the Mount at Bible classes in the households of Greenwich Village and “judge” the rich children.

Book two, which Faber & Faber is waiting for, is more difficult. The period of his fame and fortune in the 2000s is too much of a cliché. “Ten years ago I was entitled, narcissistic, bottoming out, alcoholic, selfish and feral. Robbie Williams has done that story, so has Ozzy and Mötley Crüe. Who wants to read that? It’s tautological.”

Instead, he has decided to write about the first ten years of his life. It will look into his relationship with his mother, who loved him but raised him in various drug dens. He was at her side when she died in 1997, but he missed her funeral, having woken late in the morning to discover that at some point in the night he must have got up and set his alarm clock three hours late. He took a taxi to the wake, worrying about the fare, and for reasons he can’t really explain, turned up cracking jokes.

He has a strange nostalgia for the kinds of friendships you have in early adulthood, when everyone is equal, “before that point when someone starts making money and they think they’ve won: they’re going to have access to a different kind of happiness”.

In 2003, when he turned 38, he was famous, wealthy and miserable. “I’ve been able to see and inhabit almost every stratum on the socioeconomic scale, from extreme poverty and obscurity to wealth and fame, and it gives me an insight into it,” he says. “Because a lot of people who experience wealth are born into it, and a lot of people who experience poverty never leave it. I can safely say that for me there has been no causal effect between increased fame and wealth and increased basic happiness and well-being.”

When Moby talks about himself, he applies many apologetic epithets: clichéd, meditating, yoga-loving, mealy-mouthed. In 2007 he developed mobygratis.com, a large online resource offering independent film-makers and film students a licence to use his music for free. If their films are commercially successful, the revenue from licence fees must go to the Humane Society. He says he wants to propose a more rational, evidence-based approach to wealth.

“We are still attached to the idea of the redistribution of wealth,” he says. “As progressive lefties, we’re all brought up to think that is a good idea. In the old days, it meant the difference between eating and not eating. Nowadays the person on $30,000 consumes twice the calories of the millionaire, and has a bigger TV and works fewer hours.

“There is an underlying assumption that if wealth were distributed more evenly then people would be happier, but there is unfortunately very little anthropological or sociological evidence to support that idea, unless there are institutions to support the basic needs of community, like food and shelter. Confusing materialism with happiness is the essence of our culture.”

While west LA is plastic surgery and gold-plated toilets, he says, his own neighbourhood is “David Lynch wearing an old T-shirt and mowing the lawn”. Among the millionaires of Los Feliz, conspicuous consumption is frowned upon. He knows several who live “incredibly austere lives. I was having tea with Jim Carrey the other day. He’s basically just giving everything away. He just realised that owning three planes was stressing him out . . .”

In his New Statesman diary, Moby said that life in LA offered him miles and miles of lavender-scented name-dropping.

“Coldplay played the Rose Bowl recent­ly,” he says. “And the Rose Bowl holds 75,000 people. It’s a struggle for me to sell 2,000. At first, I winced with a little jealousy. But then I thought, ‘If my career was at that Coldplay level, how would that actually affect my daily existence? Would it make my shoes fit better? Would it make the water pressure in my shower better?’ As long as you’ve satisfied the basic hierarchy of needs – enough to eat, clean air to breathe, bears not eating your legs – happiness is all where and how you put your attention.”

***

He goes to his kitchen cupboard and from among the colanders and measuring jugs he extracts a black velvet fedora – size seven, silk-lined, from a London company established in 1879. In green marker around the inside rim are the words “With love from David – Christmas 2005”. Bowie gave it to him over Christmas dinner that year. “It’s the hat that he wore in The Man Who Fell to Earth,” Moby says. “There’s this amazing picture of him wearing it with John Lennon and it’s clearly when he was doing a lot of cocaine.”

Moby lived on Mott Street in Little Italy and Bowie lived on Mulberry Street. “I had a little roof deck, and he had a beautiful roof terrace, and we could wave at each other.” They were neighbours and friends, worked on music together, went on tour together, had barbecues together. He says the title of Bowie’s last album, Black Star, is a reference to the 1960 Elvis Presley song of the same name “about the end of a life” (“And when a man sees his black star,/He knows his time, his time has come”).

“David had been sick for a long time,” he says. “Or ill, as you say in the UK. So, David had been ill for a long time. I was very pleased that . . . after he died, people were asking me, ‘How do you feel?’ and I’m like, ‘Actually, I’m just kind of happy that he lived as long as he did.’ Because I . . . had thought, yeah, I had thought that he was going to die a little before that. So.”

The Radiohead singer Thom Yorke lives just up the street from him in Los Angeles but Moby has never met him “as far as I know”. Apart from Bowie, he claims not to have musician friends.

“Musicians – and I’m sure you’ve encountered this many times – have a sense of self-importance that is off-putting,” he says. “It is very hard to be friends with someone who thinks that just by showing up, they’re doing something special. At the end of the day, you want to say to them, ‘You know what? You wrote a couple of good songs. Let’s put it in perspective.’”

He was born on 11 September 1965, and on his 36th birthday he watched the twin towers burning from his roof deck. He tells me that when the second plane hit and it became clear the first was no accident, he heard “the cumulative effect of ten thousand rooftops covered with people, and the weirdest scream. A scream of horror but also a scream of understanding.”

Fifteen years on, he talks about this year’s politics as a Manichaean thing. “Half the world are motivated by fear and desire to move backwards, and the other half are motivated by optimism and a desire to move forward rationally. It’s religious tolerance versus fundamentalism; it’s racism versus inclusion. I wonder if there’s a way we can make peace with that whole other half of humanity who are holding on to a non-evidence-based approach to the future. But I don’t know what it is.” He has known Hillary Clinton for two decades, was a vocal supporter of hers during the election run and released a pair of anti-Trump tracks for Dave Eggers’s music project 30 Days, 50 Songs.

He says that many celebrity Clinton backers were cautious to come out for her during the primaries “because Bernie supporters wanted to crucify you. Now Trump has united and inspired Democrats more than anything since the Vietnam War.”

The election result, he says, might just be “the equivalent of a crystal meth addict going on one last bender. Maybe this bender will finally convince Americans to stop voting for Republicans. Because they are terrible. There has always been an understanding that if everyone in America voted, there would be no Republican politicians. The reason Republicans win is that most Americans don’t vote.

“Those of us on the left who were brought up to be tolerant of people who had different opinions from us – well that’s great, ­unless the opinions are bigoted and wrong. If someone is a climate-change denier, they are wrong. If someone voted for Brexit, they are wrong. If someone voted for Trump, they are wrong. There is a lot of ambiguity in the world, but not about these things.”

The clock ticks towards 11.15am and Moby, ever punctual, is done.

“These Systems Are Failing” is out now on Little Idiot/Mute

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

This article first appeared in the 08 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brexit to Trump