covellistake

Oh no! Music and politics collide! Come on people; to be fair, it’s been happening for decades.

The latest person to discover this is rapper Macklemore (I’ll admit, I’d never heard of this Macklemore fella before but that’s probably more on me), who’s been axed from the remaining US dates of Ed Sheeran’s tour after making pro-Palestinian statements from the stage.

The situation has become a bit of a bloody mess.

Macklemore says he was removed after stadium owners objected to his comments. The tour promoter said venues had made it clear they would not allow the shows to go ahead with him on the bill. Ed Sheeran has since said the decision was made by the promoter and venues rather than by him personally.

And now the other supporting acts have withdrawn in solidarity with Macklemore. So, everyone’s unhappy. Which, let’s be honest, is usually when things get interesting. Now, I’m not going to sit here and tell you whether this Macklemore chap was right or wrong.

That’s not really what interests me.

What interests me is something I think is much bigger.

When did music and politics become so inseparable?

Because here’s the thing. This isn’t new, not even remotely. Music has been making political statements for as long as most of us have been throwing shapes to it.

Actually, probably longer.

The difference is that there is, I think, a very important distinction between an artist making political music and an artist stopping a concert to give the audience their political opinions.

And I’m not entirely sure we’ve ever decided where that line actually sits.

Take Bob Dylan.

In the early 1960s, Dylan wasn’t exactly writing songs about fluffy kittens and rainbow unicorns. He was writing about war, racism, injustice and social inequality. (I only know this as my brother-in-law is a huge Dylan Fan) Songs like Blowin’ in the Wind and The Times They Are A-Changin’ became associated with the civil-rights and protest movements of the era.

And this wasn’t simply Dylan standing on stage between songs shouting at everyone.

The politics were in the bloody music. That was the point. Joan Baez was doing much the same thing. She became heavily involved in civil-rights and anti-war activism during the 60s, performing at political demonstrations as well as incorporating protest songs into her shows. She and Dylan even performed together at the ‘63 March on Washington.

Pete Seeger was another.

The Vietnam War produced an entire generation of musicians whose politics were inseparable from their music. And then you’ve got Neil Young. In 1970, after the Kent State shootings, Young reportedly wrote Ohio in response to what had happened.

The song was recorded and released incredibly quickly. That isn’t somebody stopping halfway through a concert and saying:

“Right, before we carry on, I’ve got something to say about Donald Trump…”

Well, not quite.

It’s actually making the political statement through the music itself. And I think that’s different. You can listen to Ohio decades later without knowing exactly what Neil Young’s views are on every other bloody subject under the sun.

The song is the statement.

Then we get into the 1970s, and things get a bit more aggressive.

The Clash.

Punk.

Joe Strummer.

Politics everywhere.

The Clash weren’t exactly subtle about their political leanings. Their music dealt with unemployment, racism, war, class, policing and social inequality. They also performed at Rock Against Racism in London’s Victoria Park in 1978, an event which brought music and political activism together very deliberately.

Again, though, the politics were built into what they were doing.

The songs.

The band.

The whole bloody thing.

Then you get the Sex Pistols.

And now we’re getting closer to the other side of the argument.

Because the Sex Pistols weren’t exactly known for quietly presenting a carefully researched political thesis. They were there to piss people off and let’s be honest, they were bloody good at it. Their appearance on Today with Bill Grundy in 1976 is probably one of the most famous examples.

They swore on live television. Grundy encouraged them and they obviously obliged. And Britain collectively lost its mind. That wasn’t a carefully constructed protest song. That was confrontation. That was attitude. That was a band deliberately creating a reaction.

And there’s a difference.

Or at least I think there is.

By the 1980s, political music had become absolutely bloody massive.

You had artists like Bruce Springsteen dealing with American identity, working-class life and the consequences of politics through songs such as Born in the U.S.A.

You had Public Enemy taking political rap into an entirely different territory. And with Public Enemy, we get an interesting mixture of the two things I’m talking about.

Their music was overtly political.

But Chuck D also used the microphone between songs to deliver political speeches. A 1990 Washington Post review described a Public Enemy show as part concert, part political rally, noting that Chuck D delivered a lengthy monologue attacking censorship and discussing contemporary political issues.

And that’s fascinating.

Because if you’re buying a Public Enemy ticket, you’re probably not expecting them to sing a few songs and then spend the evening discussing the weather. Politics was part of the package; it was built into the identity of the band.

Then you move into my era with bands like Rage Against the Machine.

And let’s be honest, nobody bought a Rage Against the Machine album because they thought they were going to get twelve relaxing songs about gardening.

The politics were right there. In the lyrics, in the imagery. In the performances, well, In everything. Which brings me back to Macklemore.

Because I think the interesting question isn’t: “Should musicians be political?” Because if they have a message through their music and they want to express it, then of course they should.

They’re human, they have opinions and just like us normal bods, they’re entitled to express them. The question is whether there’s a difference between saying:

“This is what my music is about.”

and:

“You’ve paid to see Ed Sheeran, but before we carry on, you’re now going to listen to my political views.”

And I think there probably is. But where exactly do we draw the line?

Because Eddie Vedder has spent decades using the stage to talk about politics. Pearl Jam’s music has dealt with subjects including gun violence, war and American politics, but Vedder has also been known to speak directly to audiences about political issues.

And that’s where things get messy. Because once you’ve bought a ticket, what exactly have you bought? Two hours of music? Or two hours of an artist’s opinions? If you’ve paid to see Rage Against the Machine, you’re probably buying the whole package.

If you’re watching a singer-songwriter who has built their career around protest music, political commentary is hardly a surprise.

But what about someone opening for another artist?

That’s different again.

Macklemore wasn’t headlining his own political rally. He was supporting Ed Sheeran. And that’s where I think the argument becomes more complicated. You’ve got thousands of people who’ve bought tickets. You’ve got Ed’s name on the bloody poster.

And you’ve got some other guy coming on before Edd and using that platform to make his own political statement.

Suddenly there are commercial interests involved.

And that’s exactly what has happened here.

The promoter has said venues told them Macklemore couldn’t appear because of how he conveyed his message. Sheeran has said he tried to find a way through the dispute and described his own position as non-political in the context of his shows.

And now the other support acts have walked away.

Which rather spectacularly demonstrates the other side of the argument. Because if one artist can be removed for making a political statement, other artists can decide they’re not comfortable working under those conditions. Suddenly the other support acts are making political statements too.

We’ve always had this.

As I’ve said, In the 60s, music was deeply connected to civil rights and opposition to the Vietnam War. In the 70s, punk became a vehicle for anger at the establishment and pretty much everything that went with it. In the 80s, political rap became increasingly prominent. In the 90s, bands like Rage Against the Machine and the sweet, timid lass from island, Sinéad O’Connor were hardly keeping their opinions tucked away in their pockets.

Sinéad O’Connor gives us probably one of the clearest examples of the other side.

In 1992, she appeared on Saturday Night Live and performed Bob Marley’s War. At the end, she tore up a photograph of Pope John Paul II and told viewers to fight the “real enemy.”

It wasn’t her song.

It wasn’t a concert.

It was a television performance.

And it caused an enormous backlash.

Whatever you think of the message, it was clearly an artist using a performance to make a political and social statement rather than simply performing a song and going home.

And again, I find this fascinating. Because sometimes the political message becomes inseparable from the art. Sometimes the art is the political message.

And sometimes…

It’s just the guy with the microphone having a bloody rant and maybe that’s what we’re really arguing about. Not whether musicians are allowed to have political opinions. They obviously are. It’s whether the audience has somehow agreed to hear them simply because they’ve bought a ticket.

Personally, I don’t think there’s a simple answer.

If I buy a Rage Against the Machine ticket and Zack de la Rocha starts talking about politics, I’m hardly going to look shocked. If I buy a ticket to see someone whose music has always been political, that’s part of the deal.

But, if I’m going to see another artist and the support act suddenly decides to turn the stage into a political rally, I can also understand why some people might think:

“Mate, I came here for the music.”

Both things can be true.

The artist can have every right to speak but the audience can have every right not to want to hear it. The promoter can have commercial decisions to make while the venue owner can have their own position and then, the artist can decide if they don’t want to perform under those conditions.

None of that means anyone has to agree with anyone else.

Which brings us back to Macklemore.

I don’t think this story is really about Macklemore. He’s just the latest chapter. The argument has been going on since Dylan, Baez, Seeger and the protest singers of the 1960s.

And now it’s sitting on a massive stadium stage in 2026 having a row about Palestine. Music has always reflected what’s happening around it. Sometimes it challenges governments. Sometimes it challenges society. Sometimes it challenges the audience and occasionally, sometimes it challenges absolutely everybody.

And sometimes it’s just some guy shouting between songs because he’s angry about something. The important thing, perhaps, is knowing which one you’re doing. Because there’s a difference between writing a song that says something…

And grabbing somebody else’s microphone and deciding that everyone in the stadium needs to hear what you think.

Although, having said all that, I’ve been to enough gigs to know that if you give someone a microphone, there’s always a bloody good chance he’s going to tell you what they think.

It’s probably one of the unwritten laws of live music. You pay £90 for a ticket, you get three hours of music, a pint for the same price as a small car, a six-foot four dude standing directly in front of you and, if you’re really lucky…

A political lecture you didn’t ask for.

Maybe that’s always been part of the deal. Maybe it isn’t. But one thing’s for certain. Music and politics have been sleeping in the same bloody bed for more than sixty years.

And I can’t see either of them getting out anytime soon.

Or it could just be me.