The Proposition: The Middle Classes Cannot Do Protest Music

In the unlikely event you're reading this through a haze of cigar smoke and brandy fumes, you might as well stop now. That probably also goes for those of you desperately trying to doctor the books of your mind and financially distance yourself from social groups A and B, not to mention trying to pretend your studio apartment is actually on the edge of the schemes rather than the suburbs. The middle classes cannot do protest music. It takes disenfranchisement to generate genuine indignation. “Keep it real,” as the ghetto says.

It's ironic that much of modern activism stems from the upper echelons of society i.e. the people who probably need change the least. Remember those outraged students breaking that window last November in London? Did you see how long it took? Mincing back and forth, timidly kicking at the glass in their Brogues. Have you ever seen a drunken builder throw a brick through a window? Now that's some efficient damage. If those protesters had spent some time at community college they could have defenestrated half the desks in the UK in the same amount of time.

Let's take rap for example. Its tales of street life and fighting “The Man” (well, pre-platinum album rap, rather than the bling-obsessed, Harrods infomercial that usually follows). It is hilarious to think that so many of our toughest, grittiest genres are kept afloat by voyeuristic curiosity and social guilt. The US rap scene is almost totally dependent on young, affluent, white girls ploughing money into tough looking dudes that Daddy does not want to see at the dinner table, like some perverse reparations for slavery and the decades of subjugation that followed.

But then again, perhaps the rich do deserve some pity. Like the tragically uncool kids at school, they have had to dress down and try to fit in with most of the best bands in history – see The Beatles, Black Sabbath, Nirvana, Guns N Roses. Even The Happy Mondays, Stone Roses and much of the baggy scene wouldn't have them, so after many meetings and adverts in the Daily Express, they eventually had to invent Coldplay, Keane and “Oxford Rock” just to have somewhere to call home.

They are also faced with the realisation that most music-orientated fashion trends come from the lower classes (rap, punk, heavy metal). Wellingtons and Jodhpurs were never going to catch on in a practical sense where mosh pits were concerned. Then again, given the amount of vomit usually sloshing about at your average Motörhead show, wellies might well be an idea.

In light of their hopeless credibility prospects, much of the middle class decided to give up on becoming great musicians altogether and, having astutely acknowledged their superior education, chose to play to their strengths and get highbrow in their ironic embrace of art-rock and the noisy esotericisms it entails. After all, most art-rock doesn't require much practice, which is perfect because the horses need fed and this salmon isn't going to smoke itself.

In addition, art-rock is perfect when finding a use for those wonderful knitted sweaters Father keeps and that darling little bicycle Mummy used to ride as a feisty young undergraduate at the RSAMD. At least, that is, until it’s time to surrender the skinny jeans and take over at the firm.

Generally speaking, as long as they can all agree that absolutely none of Sonic Youth's work is tepid, droning, self-indulgent pish, then they know they are not alone. This “Emperor's New Clothes” approach is especially useful given that the Bourgeois control the means of production, which invariably means they run the media and thus can choose to foist pretty much any old shit upon us that they wish whilst calling it solid gold. Vice magazine, I’m looking right at you.

But despite all of this, perhaps there is something to be said for aligning one's self with the lower ranks. They at least have a sense of self deprecating humour. In all likelihood, I may well be discovered some time from now on a St Andrews beach, my lifeless mouth stuffed with exquisite quilted toilet tissue and an immaculately handwritten note saying “PROLE SCUM” pinned to my chest with a disposable plastic fork from Marks and Spencer.

One can only hope the Six Nations goes well and the toffs are otherwise occupied.