Berlin breach: the fall of the wall on 9 November 1989 changed the Soviet Union almost as much as Germany. Photo: Chute du Mur Berline/Gamma-Rapho/Getty
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Why the fall of the Berlin Wall was a disaster for the right

To those on the right, the end of the Iron Curtain 25 years ago was a moral and ideological victory – but they have found some of the consequences dismaying.

One of the guiding ambitions of right-of-centre politics in Britain, America and most of the west during the 1970s and 1980s was to effect an end to the Soviet Union or, at least, to its imperialist domination of eastern Europe. This was bred most obviously of self-interest, given the threat this superpower was assumed to pose to the security of the west. Many on the right went further, harbouring an ideological desire to have communism removed from the map of Europe. Though far from unknown in Britain, this view was most common in America and attributable not just to the influence of hard-line Republican politicians – Barry Goldwater was there long before Ronald Reagan – but also to writers popular in American culture such as the Russian refugee Ayn Rand.

In common with fellow democrats on the centre and left, the right also sincerely deplored the lack of freedoms in the Soviet system and the violations of human rights caused by the repressiveness of the state. However some, following a tradition of isolationism that stretched back to the 1890s and the Marquess of Salisbury, embraced the doctrine that what happened domestically in those countries was no concern of Britain. Yet others, notably Margaret Thatcher and her adherents, regarded the suppression of individual liberty in the Soviet Union and the eastern bloc as morally unacceptable and a stain on any nation that condoned it; and in the case of countries in eastern Europe that had functioned as democracies before 1939, it represented a shocking reversal of progress compared with the period between the two wars.

Then, with the toppling of the Berlin Wall 25 years ago this weekend and the dissolution of the Soviet Union on Christmas Day 1991, both the end of the eastern bloc and the emasculation of its former masters came in quick and inevitable succession. One commentator, Francis Fukuyama, declared that history had ended. A bright and irresistible future beckoned for the west; Russia could join the family of free and progressive nations; swords could be turned into ploughshares; liberty and, in its wake, prosperity would sweep the old world once more. The right rejoiced at this near-bloodless toppling of an evil empire and celebrated the triumph of its ideals of liberty and capitalism. Mrs Thatcher, of course, fretted about the reunification of Germany, as did many of her generation who recalled the megalomaniacal wickedness of Hitler, his conquests and his genocide – but such reservations were not to be allowed to spoil the party.

A quarter of a century later it is apparent that things have not turned out so well as the right of 1989 had hoped. Russia, humiliated in a fashion similar to Kaiser Wilhelm’s Germany after Versailles, its empire lost and its clout enfeebled, has sought to rebuild a place in the world by resorting to a means familiar from its history – auto­cracy and not necessarily a more enlightened and just one than was practised by the Romanov tsars. Eastern Europe is nothing like the mythologised fairy tale of the Austro-Hungarian empire or even the inter­war model of new, earnest statehood: the right especially is having to come to terms with parts of it being a breeding ground for organised crime (something that flourishes under capitalism), an entrepôt for the drugs trade, a back door into Europe for immigrants and a source of tension with Russia that, because of the enthusiasm with which Nato and the EU embraced the former Soviet bloc, has become our shared problem. The European Union has expanded to include many former client states of the Kremlin and has therefore supplied the influx of legal immigrants causing so much difficulty to the present Conservative Party and providing such an opportunity for Ukip.

If all of that weren’t proof enough of the soundness of the adage “Be careful what you wish for”, the lifting of the Iron Curtain also led to strategic and foreign policy developments that most on the traditional right would never have chosen. The decision in Britain to wind down the country’s defence capabilities, even before the cuts enforced by the present coalition, was informed by the notion that Russia was no longer a threat. After the events of the past 12 months in Ukraine and with mounting evidence of destabilisation in the former Baltic states because of the alleged mistreatment of ethnic Russians, that may no longer be the case. And the US, which since 1945 has increasingly seemed a country seeking an enemy in order to define itself, appeared temporarily destabilised after 1991, as if part of its raison d’être had been removed. After disastrous foreign wars it now seems reluctant to engage at all with Europe and came half-heartedly and late into the Ukraine imbroglio. The fall of the Wall began a long process of detachment by the US from Europe, helped on by other factors of its own making, leaving its former enthusiasts on the right without the paternal guidance so many of them had come to rely on.

None of this is to dispute the great benefits that came after the Wall and the Iron Curtain were taken down. The regime had liberalised since the murderous days of Stalin but life in the east in the 1980s, a time of expansion and rabid consumerism in the west, remained controlled, monochrome and underpinned by fear. The inhumanities went on almost to the end. The imposition of martial law in Poland by Wojciech Jaruzelski and the intense activity of the Stasi in East Germany right up to the fall of Erich Honecker were but two testimonies to that – and the rough justice meted out to the Ceausescus, executed by a firing squad on Christmas Day 1989, betrayed the effect on the people of living under totalitarianism.

Those trapped in eastern Europe before 1989 rarely desire to return there. The want of freedom of speech, freedom of conscience, freedom of movement and freedom to grow outside the Soviet model was truly repressive and is well rid of. The reunification of Germany was a magnificent achievement even if, after all this time, parts of the old east still show signs of relative poverty and deprivation. But what the west failed to handle properly – indeed, failed to handle at all – was the new Russia, with consequences that, many fear, have yet fully to play out.

Mikhail Gorbachev may eventually be seen as one of the greatest lost leaders of the 20th century, one who deserves comparisons with F W de Klerk for the enlightened way in which he resigned himself to the morally inevitable and enabled some measure of representative democracy to be brought to his country. But de Klerk was fortunate to be passing South Africa to a statesman of the calibre, integrity and vision of Nelson Mandela: Gorbachev had only the increasingly drunken, corrupt and venal Boris Yeltsin. Under Yeltsin the poor had their meagre savings devastated by his economic mismanagement, while the cunning became fabulously rich. A kleptocracy was formed. All that changed when Putin succeeded Yeltsin at the millennium was that the kleptocracy was taken over by the government itself and therefore became more systematic and better organised.

Given the nature of Yeltsin, the novelty of the conditions in which he was operating, the ease with which he was manipulated by others even less scrupulous than himself and the bruised condition of a Russia shorn of its empires in eastern Europe and in the former Soviet Union, it was never going to be easy for the west to influence him, let alone bring him onside. Once he left and an apparently more rational being succeeded him in the shape of Putin, hopes were high, until Putin showed himself to be uninterested in liberal ideals and very interested in sequestering as much power and money as possible for his own use.

Perhaps it was because the end of the Soviet system came so precipitately that the west had such unrealistic, or half-formed, expectations of what would follow. What the New Statesman, in its editorial last week, described as “the havoc being wrought by the forces of globalisation: the free flow of capital and people, open markets, the dominance of a deracinated plutocracy” are as much a consequence of the end of the cold war as of anything else. The right, which advocated globalisation as part of the inevitable march of capitalism, has shown itself incapable of dealing with its realities.

The EU is one obvious example. In the early years of the century prominent Conservatives, then impotent in opposition, were among those leading the cry for the expansion of the club to include those countries that had for decades been impoverished by Soviet control. Their eventual admission was represented almost as a reward or a compensation for what they had endured between 1945 and 1990. However, in moments of honesty those same Tories who wanted eastern Europe brought into the EU expressed the hope that the numbers would become so unwieldy that there would have to be extreme subsidiarity if the club were to continue to function: which meant a return of sovereignty to nation states, while only those matters essential for the maintenance of a single market remained in Brussels.

In did not turn out like that. The European Commission wields as much power with 28 members as it ever did with six, nine or 15. The EU may be over-bureaucratic, deficient in democracy and even in some senses corrupt but it still functions and it still restricts the sovereignty of its members. What the right certainly did not envisage was that the liberation of eastern Europe from the Soviet empire would lead to a mass migration of its former citizens, or their children, to Britain. The idea that eastern Europe post-liberation would revert to a kind of Slavonic Hollywood musical, with happy, smiling locals industriously and cheerfully confining themselves to the development of their own nations, was always going to be nonsense. One of the principles of a free market – which Europe notionally is – is that it entails mobility of labour, even if that means workers going from Bratislava to Bradford or Tallinn to Torquay. The EU, with the earlier complicity of the right, has become a structure that is the inevitable consequence of the end of the Soviet system (and indeed in some structural ways replicates it), just as the Soviet bloc was the inevitable consequence of Stalin’s part in the defeat of Nazism.

The other main consequences of 1989 have been equally unwelcome to the right. Even before the attacks of 11 September 2001 the US was scaling down its presence in Europe, its need to engage with the continent diminished since the cold war. This was of sufficient concern to the then prime minister, Tony Blair, that when asked to endorse George W Bush’s foreign policy in the aftermath of those attacks he did so rather too wholeheartedly, not least, as was widely perceived at the time, to renew US engagement with Europe. Blair, absurdly, saw himself as the “bridge” between the two continents. And, for a time, the US not only tried to stay friends with Europe but it also sought, through the G8 and bilateral relations, to make a liberal westerner of Vladimir Putin. It failed in that, too.

America’s first reaction to those failures was to withdraw wherever possible, Barack Obama realising, when he succeeded Bush, that his country was not wildly popular in the world. Obama did, belatedly, engage with Europe over Ukraine, resuming a role familiar to presidents from Truman to Reagan in warning Russia not to overstep the mark or it would be punished. Russia has been punished with sanctions but remains in Ukraine, suggesting it lacks the respect for Obama’s America that Khrushchev reluctantly had to show to Kennedy’s during the Cuban missile crisis. Obama must wish he had stuck to the state department’s original message, which was to tell those who asked that Russia was primarily Europe’s problem and Europe should solve it. In reality, Ukraine has proved the absurdity of the EU’s claim to have a security function in keeping the peace in Europe: the EU simply abandoned Ukraine to its fate after years of increasing its vulnerability by attempting to seduce it and Russia has revealed itself as being as ruthless as it ever was in the days of the Soviet Union, if not more so.

But there are two harder consequences to swallow still. Germany may not have fulfilled Thatcher’s fear that it would start a third world war and most would think it highly unlikely that it would ever do so. However, it has established an economic hegemony over Europe that may yet destroy the euro and, with it, much of the European project. Far from unifying the continent through the institution of the EU, Germany has divided it. The French rail against its economic policies; the Greeks brandish swastikas when Angela Merkel pays them a visit; the Hungarians have an unpleasant, anti-Semitic government whose brand of politics, mixing kleptocracy with totalitarianism, bears an alarming resemblance to that of Vladimir Putin; across the Mediterranean from Spain to Greece the German-led policy of austerity has led to youth unemployment rates of up to 60 per cent.

In the wake of the liberation of eastern Europe, many of the liberated countries have been condemned to follow German-backed economic policies and have started to feel not so liberated after all. Because of the German memory of the hyperinflation of the Weimar Republic, the rest of the eurozone must suffer: so much for the rampant prosperity that was advertised as being the result of a wider, freer Europe.

Russia is now going out of its way to make friends with China, a move calculated to ensure Putin gets the last laugh over his detractors in the west and which could yet be the furthest-reaching consequence of the end of the Soviet system. America is in its fortress, isolated and disappointed. Europe is impoverished, financially if not morally. Bloody old Britain, home to so many who longed for the end of communism, ought to be bemused. That the repression ended was wonderful. But is the world really safer now than it was in 1989 and is it inevitably happier? Or will those who write the history of this period in 200 or 300 years’ time conclude that the world had a once-in-a-century chance to start again in 1989 and that through insufficient support to Russia, overambition in Europe and some wild misjudgments in the US, it blew it? 

Simon Heffer is an author and columnist for the Daily Mail

Simon Heffer is a journalist, author and political commentator, who has worked for long stretches at the Daily Telegraph and the Daily Mail. He has written biographies of Thomas Carlyle, Ralph Vaughan Williams and Enoch Powell, and reviews and writes on politics for the New Statesman

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