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Hurricane Sarah

McCain's new partnership with a telegenic mother-of-five has dramatically shifted the dynamics and d

Hurricanes Gustav and Hanna may have brought hell to the people of America's Gulf Coast, but they came like manna from heaven for Senator John McCain, his brand-new running mate Sarah Palin, and the Republicans. First, McCain was quicker off the mark than Barack Obama by taking the decision to abandon political rallies, and he toured the affected areas instead - getting priceless footage on to the nation's television screens of a would-be president looking and acting just like a president should, receiving briefings and talking knowledgeably about the situation in press conferences and interviews. Obama, meanwhile, was stuck looking helpless in Lima, Ohio - 1,000km north.

Second, Hurricane Gustav made landfall in the early hours of 1 September, the day the Republican convention, destined to crown McCain and Palin, was due to begin in St Paul, Minnesota. You would have thought, four days after the Democratic convention in Denver reached a televised climax with Senator Obama's acceptance speech, fireworks and balloons at his $6m extravaganza in the Denver Broncos stad ium, that McCainites would have wanted every minute of live, coast-to-coast television they could get.

But a convention on Monday night would have been their nightmare: the scheduled speakers were none other than George W Bush and Dick Cheney - the last thing McCain would have wanted the nation to see was those two passing their mantle to him. Bush, mindful of his ineffable performance when Hurricane Katrina struck in 2005, stayed at the White House and immediately cancelled his appointment at the convention. So did Cheney, who was off - phew! - to Georgia, Ukraine and Azerbaijan the next day, making any appearance by him impossible.

Third, besides creating the illusion that he was taking charge of hurricane preparedness, McCain - emboldened, I suspect, by at last having a running mate of his own - seized the opportunity to make himself appear to be a thoroughly responsible decision-maker by selflessly cancelling the razzmatazz planned for Monday night. "This is a time when we have to do away with our party politics and we have to act as Americans," McCain said in an oh-so-respon sible broadcast that, had he been reading more fluently from an autocue and with the presidential seal in front of him, could have been coming from the White House itself. "We take off our Republican hats and put on our American hats," he went on. What a statesman!

Fourth, and in what may prove to be the most valuable of all the unlikely benefits Gustav and Hanna bring to the Republicans, the storms took much of the immediate public pressure off McCain's vice-presidential running-mate. I understand that the 44-year-old governor of Alaska, Sarah Palin - whose name McCain announced to a stunned world the day after Obama's fireworks - spent the hours closeted, out of the limelight, with party apparatchiks in St Paul, frantically trying to get up to speed on national and foreign policy issues for the hustings and, above all, for the much-awaited evening when she comes face-to-face with Senator Joe Biden at the vice-presidential debate in St Louis, Missouri, on 2 October.

At a stroke, McCain has seized much of the “change” territory

for himself

Inevitably, the dirt about Governor Palin was already flying. First came the national airing of "Troopergate," a saga that has already received wide publicity in Alaska: Palin has been accused of sacking the state's public safety commissioner because he refused to dismiss a policeman named Mike Wooten - Palin's former brother-in-law, who had divorced her sister and Tasered her 12-year-old nephew. Wooten has been reprimanded a dozen or so times since 2001, but because Palin herself has acquired a reputation for being incorruptible in a state that is notoriously corrupt, the story took off.

A calculated risk

Then, last Monday, came the "bombshell" that Palin's 17-year-old, unmarried daughter Bristol was five months pregnant - and was going to marry her high-school boyfriend, the baby's father. But in this peculiarly nasty campaign, the furore did not stop there. Blogs such as http://www.barackoblogger.com, as well as some in the mainstream media, starting putting out untrue allegations that Palin's own five-month-old son, Trig - who has Down's syndrome - is, in fact, the child of Bristol.

I wrote recently that Obama is taking a "colossal" risk in having Senator Joe Biden as his running mate, but it is nothing compared to that of McCain's risk when it comes to Palin. The two had never even met until February, when they had a 15-minute chat at a meeting of the National Governors Association in Washington.

But, despite the legions of Democratic and Republican operatives heading for Anchorage as I write, the McCain campaign insists that Palin's background had been carefully vetted, and that they already knew about Trooper- and Babygate; they say privately that they wanted both supposed scandals to come out early, so that manufactured furores in the final two months before polling day could be avoided.

The truth, though, is that McCain needed to do something dramatic to light fire to his campaign. Although he was holding his own against Obama to a degree many found surprising for a Republican in George W Bush's America of 2008, his campaign was not gaining traction. The problem facing him was that nearly all the obvious possible running mates were white men on the wrong side of middle age, such as former governors Mitt Romney (the choice until the last moment) or Tom Ridge - or even Senator Joe Lieberman, Al Gore's Democratic running mate in 2000 who has been drifting rightwards ever since and is now an Independent. The one remaining alternative was 47-year-old Tim Pawlenty, governor of Minnesota, but he is not especially telegenic.

So a woman it had to be. McCain seriously considered Meg Whitman, the 58-year-old founder and former chief executive of eBay, and Carly Fiorina, 53, the former boss of Hewlett-Packard, but neither had the necessary political instincts. He also needed somebody as young as possible to offset his own biggest liability - his age, now 72- and finally came up with Palin, 44, whose popularity ratings in Alaska have just soared to an unprecedented 80 per cent. By choosing her, the McCain ticket magically morphed into one that was, on average, only two years older than Obama.

McCain's announcement, which came the day after Obama's acceptance speech and stole much of his thunder, changed the entire dynamics of the race. The Obama team had prepared McCain-Romney, McCain-Lieberman, and McCain-Pawlenty attack ads, ready to be broadcasted across the nation the moment the Republican nominee made his announcement. But even they, the fastest-moving and most efficient campaign organisation since Bill Clinton's took President George Bush Sr by surprise in 1992, were not at all prepared for Governor Palin.

In one single strike, therefore, McCain had altered the thrust and direction meticulously planned by both sides. The Obama campaign had settled on a strategy of hammering away until election day on 4 November with the insistence that a McCain presidency would merely be a continuation of George W Bush's, constantly using the slogan "McCain the Same" in their two-month blitz of ads.

Suddenly, though, that argument weakened when Obama found himself facing an opponent whose running mate - rather than the stodgy old Romney or Ridge figure he had expected - was a self-described "hockey mom" and mother-of-five from Alaska, known to her basketball teammates in school as "Sarah Barracuda". The argument that the Obama-Biden ticket alone represented "change" also suddenly weakened; arguably, the McCain-Palin ticket now represented an even more seismic change.

For his part, McCain largely sacrificed his "experience" and "not ready to lead" arguments against the Democrats by choosing Palin. She, after all, did not even have a passport until she recently applied for one to visit Alaskan National Guard troops in Germany and Kuwait, so McCain could hardly continue to campaign against Obama by citing his foreign policy inexperience.

At a stroke, though, McCain had seized much of the "change" territory for himself: instead of two men in jackets and ties taking over the White House in 20 January as usual, he could argue that he is offering the prospect of a man and a mother-of-five in a skirt doing so instead. He had also positioned himself to steal a chunk of the non-ideological female supporters of Hillary Clinton, who are still chafing bitterly at the way Obama treated the Clintons; the database of Hillary donors would be like Alaskan gold-dust should it somehow mysteriously find its way into the McCain camp.

McCain's decision has also made life much more difficult for Biden, Obama's designated attack dog: at 65, he is from a generation still not comfortable with the notion of gender equality, and the possibility that he could bully and/or patronise Palin in the vice-presidential debate is a very real one. That alone would badly damage Obama, especially with female voters.

All of which is to say that we now have a new 2008 election on our hands, its dynamics and directions dramatically shifted. The supreme irony in the debate about Palin's lack of "experience" is that, compared with Hillary Clinton, McCain or Obama, she is the only one to have had actual executive experience of running anything: two years as governor of the nation's sixth most affluent state which is twice the size of Texas. This is the reason Americans have traditionally looked to governors, rather than senators or congressmen, to be their presidents; either McCain or Obama will be only the third president in history to have gone from the Senate to the White House (the others being Warren Harding in 1921 and JFK in 1961).

It is too early to say what Palin's arrival has done to the persistently close poll figures; Obama's extravaganza appeared to have given him little or no bounce until 1 September, when CBS found him five points up from before the Democratic convention. That gave him an overall lead of eight points, the largest so far.

Daily tracking polls, though, still showed Obama with statistically insignificant leads, ranging from one to six points. These polls mean little, in any case, until each party has had its convention enthroning its candidate and his running mate, and the real, post-Labor Day battle has commenced. Which means that next week we will have an altogether better idea of just how much the unexpected advent on the scene of Sarah Barracuda is affecting this most bizarre of US presidential elections.

Andrew Stephen was appointed US Editor of the New Statesman in 2001, having been its Washington correspondent and weekly columnist since 1998. He is a regular contributor to BBC news programs and to The Sunday Times Magazine. He has also written for a variety of US newspapers including The New York Times Op-Ed pages. He came to the US in 1989 to be Washington Bureau Chief of The Observer and in 1992 was made Foreign Correspondent of the Year by the American Overseas Press Club for his coverage.
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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