Spotify has been subject to various lingering critiques. These range from criticism of its payment model, to the presence of “fake artists”, the Joe Rogan boycott saga, and controversies around AI-made music.
More recently, cofounder and chief executive Daniel Ek has come under fire for investing €600 million (more than A$1 billion) in the military AI company Helsing. The news prompted several artists to remove their music from the platform, including King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard, Xiu Xiu, Deerhoof, Wu Lyf and, as of last week, Massive Attack.
To top it all off, Spotify has been steadily raising its prices for premium subscribers.
We’ve seen a spate of headlines targeting users who for one reason or another are considering, or determined to, tune out from the platform. For many, this may not be a hassle-free adjustment – but that doesn’t mean it can’t be done.
Users are picking up the tab
As of 2022, streaming accounted for 67% of the revenue generated by the music industry.
It’s estimated one in 12 people are regular Spotify users – putting the streaming giant well ahead of its nearest rivals YouTube Music (a Google subsidiary) and the China-domiciled Tencent Music.
While most users access Spotify for free, about 268 million of its 696 million monthly active users pay a premium for ad-free access.
For many years, Spotify kept prices fairly steady as it concentrated on growth. It did not make a profit until 2024. But chief business officer Alex Norström recently said price rises “were part of our toolbox now”.
Spotify has promised price rises will be accompanied by new features. Norström said the platform was developing a feature for “superfans” of popular artists, not to mention introducing (belatedly) “lossless” (higher-quality) sound.
Other music streaming services, such as Amazon Music, are also raising prices, to varying degrees of success.
Why Spotify dominates music streaming
There are several reasons for the dominance of streaming, and the broader dematerialisation of music media. As David Bowie foresaw in 2002: “music itself is going to become like running water or electricity”.
Streaming services such as Spotify avoid the stigmas associated with consuming pirated music recordings. They also remunerate artists (although many would say these payments are inadequate).
Ek made it clear a key aim of the company was to ensure no perceivable “latency” (annoying delays due to buffering) when songs were selected to play.
Spotify has also been at the forefront of leveraging the social dimensions of music streaming. It promotes user-created playlists and wayfinding functions that allow fans to feel like they own “their” music collection, despite not having the physical artefacts such as vinyl or CDs.
From the early days, Spotify sought to present itself in ways that resembled social media. More recently, it has released TikTok-inspired feeds, comments, polls, artist stories, collaborative playlists and a messaging feature.
Calling the tune through algorithms
A significant part of Spotify’s success stems from its continuous development of its interface and recommendation algorithms. These algorithms have become central to how users find, access and listen to music.
Importantly, Spotify caters to what scholars identify as a “lean-back” mentality. Users are encouraged to consume editorial playlists, rather than actively browse for tracks. This increases its power to influence the music with which listeners engage.
It aims to be an easy-to-use, always-convenient service, catering to any moment:
Spotify has a playlist to match your mood. Not only in the morning, but at every moment of your day.
Switching may be hard, but not impossible
The move away from streaming may now be hard to reverse, even as it becomes more expensive. Despite the resurgence of vinyl, many listeners have given up on physical music collections.
Spotify has also developed features to increase “stickiness” for subscribers. Users have created nearly nine billion playlists. As it’s difficult to transfer playlists to another streaming service, it makes users more likely to stick with Spotify.
It also has a reputation for having the most songs available. There is a large chance it will have the song you want to listen to.
Nonetheless, that doesn’t mean alternatives aren’t available. And most of them are cheaper than the A$15.99 per month Spotify charges in Australia.
Apple Music is an audio (and now video) streaming app developed by Apple, and launched in 2015. It promotes spatial and high-resolution music and integrates effectively with iOS devices.
Amazon Music is a music streaming platform included with an Amazon Prime subscription, offering access to songs, podcasts and playlists. It also integrates with Amazon’s Alexa virtual assistant devices.
YouTube Music is available to YouTube Premium subscribers. Succeeding Google Play Music, it offers various playlists and radio station features, with strong integration into YouTube’s video ecosystem.
Tidal is a music streaming service that positions itself as the leader in high-fidelity audio. Alongside Spotify, Tidal was one of the first platforms to allow users to follow selected Facebook friends and receive music recommendations from them.
Anghami, launched in 2012, is the leading music streaming service dedicated to music from the Middle East and North Africa.
There are also third-party apps (both paid and unpaid) you can use to transfer your old Spotify playlists to a new service, such as Free Your Music, Tune My Music, Soundiiz and SongShift (only for iOS).
The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Amin Saikal, Adjunct Professor of Social Sciences, The University of Western Australia, Victoria University, Australian National University
Much of the world is focused on a two-state solution in resolving the long-running Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu appears devoted to realising his vision of a “Greater Israel” instead.
Netanyahu appears to be halfway through achieving this goal, despite all the international condemnation of his war in Gaza and the increasing isolation of Israel.
The two-state solution now seems to be no more than a catchword for governments around the world that want to show their solidarity with the Palestinian cause at a time when Israel is hard at work to ensure the concept becomes totally defunct.
The prospects for creating an independent Palestinian state out of the West Bank, East Jerusalem and Gaza Strip to live side-by-side with Israel in peace and security have never been dimmer.
The meeting proved to be very ineffective. The leaders issued a strong condemnation of the strike on Qatar, but no plan for how to prevent Israel from attacking its neighbours or halt what a United Nations commission has now called a genocide in Gaza.
Instead, the leaders offered a tepid statement, saying they would:
take all possible legal and effective measures to prevent Israel from continuing its actions against the Palestinian people.
Middle East leaders know the only power that can rein in Israel is its committed strategic partner, the United States.
Washington does not appear prepared to do that. While President Donald Trump has assured the region Israel will not repeat its attack on Qatar, his secretary of state, Marco Rubio, urgently flew to Israel to reconfirm America’s unshakeable alliance with the Jewish state.
In praying together with Netanyahu at the Western Wall with a kippah on his head, Rubio demonstrated the Trump administration would stand by the prime minister all the way.
And Netanyahu was quick to declare that Israel reserves the right to hit the “Hamas terrorists” anywhere. He has demanded Qatar expel Hamas officials or face Israel’s wrath again.
A vision for a ‘Greater Israel’
Based on the language used by the Israeli leader and his extremist ministers, the creation of “Greater Israel” appears to be a priority.
In recent weeks, Netanyahu has publicly alluded to this, saying he was “very” connected to the idea.
The “Greater Israel” phrase was used after the Six-Day War in 1967 to refer to the lands Israel had conquered: the West Bank, East Jerusalem, Gaza, the Golan Heights and the Sinai peninsula (which has since been returned to Egypt).
This concept was enshrined in 1977 in the founding charter of Netanyahu’s Likud Party, which said “between the [Mediterranean] Sea and the Jordan [River] there will only be Israeli sovereignty”.
Last year, Netanyahu affirmed that Israel must have “security control over the entire territory west of the Jordan River”. He added, “That collides with the idea of [Palestinian] sovereignty. What can we do?”
Netanyahu is now firmly in a position to annex the Gaza Strip, followed by formally extending Israeli jurisdiction over all the illegal Israeli settlements in the West Bank, where more than 700,000 settlers live under the protection of the Israel Defence Forces (IDF), and potentially annex the entire area.
In addition, Israel has made extraterritorial gains in both Lebanon and Syria after degrading Hezbollah and striking both southern Syria and Iran. He has said the IDF’s footprint in both countries will not be pulled back any time soon.
Arab and Muslim leaders have strongly condemned Netanyahu’s references to a “Greater Israel”. The US also has not publicly endorsed it, though the US ambassador to Israel, Mike Huckabee, has been a supporter of the idea.
What can the world do?
Netanyahu and his colleagues have weathered the international criticism over their catastrophic Gaza operations for nearly two years, with unwavering US security, economic and financial backing.
Equally, Netanyahu’s critics say he has shown little concern about the safety and freedom of the remaining Israeli hostages still in Hamas’s custody. He has brushed off the desires of a majority of Israelis for a ceasefire and release of the hostages.
For Netanyahu and his ruling clique, the end justifies the means. Given this, the expected recognition of the state of Palestine by many Western countries at the UN General Assembly this week will have little or no bearing on Israel or, for that matter, the US. They have both already rejected it as a meaningless and unworthy symbolic exercise.
This begs the question of what needs to be done to divert Israel from its path. The only means that could possibly work would be sanctioning Netanyahu and his government and severing all military, economic and trade ties with Israel.
Anything short of this will allow the Israeli leadership to continue its pursuit of a “Greater Israel”, if this is indeed their ultimate plan.
This would come at a terrible cost not only for the Palestinians and the region, but also for Israel’s global reputation. When Netanyahu eventually leaves office, he will leave behind a state in international disrepute. And it may not recover from this for a very long time.
Amin Saikal does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Recognition of a Palestinian state is likely to dominate proceedings at the U.N. beginning Sept 23, 2025, when world leaders will gather for the annual general assembly.
Of the 193 existing U.N member states, some 150 now recognize a Palestinian state. Ahead of the U.N. gathering in New York, Australia, Canada and the United Kingdom become the latest. And that number is expected to increase in the coming days, with several more countries expected to officially announce similar recognition.
That a host of Western nations are adding their names to the near-universal list of Global South countries that already recognize a Palestinian state is a major diplomatic win for the cause of an independent, sovereign and self-governed nation for Palestinians. Conversely, it is a massive diplomatic loss for Israel – especially coming just two years after the West stood shoulder to shoulder with Israel following the Oct. 7 attack by Palestinian militant group Hamas.
As a scholar of modern Palestinian history, I know that this diplomatic moment is decades in the making. But I am also aware that symbolic diplomatic breakthroughs on the issue of Palestinian statehood have occurred before, only to prove meaningless in the face of events that make statehood less likely.
‘I have come bearing an olive branch and a freedom fighter’s gun,’ PLO leader Yasser Arafat said before the United Nations General Assembly in 1974. Bettmann / Contributor
The non-state reality
The fight for Palestinian statehood can be traced back to at least 1967. Over the course of a six-day war against a coalition of Arab states, Israel conquered and expanded its military control over the remainder of what was historic Palestine – a stretch of land that extends from the Jordan River in the east to the Mediterranean Sea in the west.
At the war’s conclusion, Israel had taken control of the West Bank, East Jerusalem and the Gaza Strip.
Unlike after the 1948 war that led to its independence, Israel opted not to extend Israeli citizenship to Palestinians living in the newly conquered areas. Instead, the Israeli government began to rule over Palestinians in these occupied territories through a series of military orders.
These orders controlled nearly every aspect of Palestinian life – and many remain in effect today. For example, if a Palestinian farmer wants to harvest his olive trees near a Jewish settlement in the West Bank, they need a permit. Or
if a Gazan worker wants to work inside Israel, they need Israeli permission. Even praying in a mosque or church in East Jerusalem is dependent on obtaining a permit.
This permit system served as a constant reminder to Palestinians living in the occupied territories that they lacked control over their own daily lives. Meanwhile, Israeli authorities tried to squash the idea of Palestinian nationhood through policies such as outlawing public displays of the Palestinian flag. That, and other expressions of Palestinian national identity in the occupied territories, could result in up to 10 years in prison.
Around the same time that Meir made that comment, Palestinians started organizing around the idea of statehood.
Although the idea had been floated before, statehood was codified into official doctrine in a resolution in February 1969 in Egypt. It occurred during a session of the Palestine National Council, the legislative body of the Palestine Liberation Organization, which formed in 1964 as the official representative of Palestinians in the occupied territories.
That resolution called for a free, secular democratic state in Palestine – including all of the State of Israel – in which Muslims, Christians and Jews would all have equal rights.
From that moment on, the Palestinian struggle against Israeli occupation took twin paths: diplomatic pressure and armed resistance.
But events on the ground undermined the idea of a single state for all along the lines envisioned by the Cairo resolution.
The 1973 Arab-Israeli War’s inconclusive ending opened the door to greater diplomacy between Israel and the Arab states. Egypt and Israel decided that diplomacy would help them achieve their aims, culminating in the Egyptian-Israeli peace treaty of 1979. But the treaty also left the Palestinians without unified Arab support.
Meanwhile, throughout the 1970s, the Israeli occupation deepened and entrenched with the building of Israeli settlements, especially in the West Bank.
Yasser Arafat addresses the United Nations General Assembly in 1974. Bettmann / Contributor
The PLO responded in 1974 by issuing what became known as the 10-Point Plan, where they pivoted to seeking the establishment of a national authority in any part of historic Palestine that could be liberated.
It was, in effect, a way of threading the needle: It signaled to moderates that the PLO was adopting a more gradualist position, while also telling the group’s rejectionist front – which opposed peace negotiations with Israel – that they were not giving up completely on the idea of liberating all of Palestine.
The move was largely symbolic – the West Bank, Gaza and East Jerusalem were still under occupation, and the PLO was then in exile in Tunisia.
But it was nonetheless significant. It represented the bringing together of Palestinians in exile – most of whom were from towns and villages that were now part of the State of Israel – with Palestinians in the occupied territories.
It was also a moment of tremendous hope and possibility for Palestinians. What most Palestinians wanted was for the international community to recognize them as a national body, deserving of a seat at the table with other nation-states.
Compromise and rejection
Yet at the same time, many Palestinians saw the declaration as a huge compromise. The West Bank, Gaza Strip and East Jerusalem comprise about 22% of historic Palestine. So the declaration effectively meant that Palestinians were giving up on the other 78% of what they saw as their land.
Reaction from the international community to the PLO’s declaration was split. Many formerly colonized countries of the Global South recognized Palestinian independence right away. By the end of the year, some 78 countries had issued statements recognizing Palestine as a state.
Israel rejected it outright, as did United States and most Western nations.
Such was Washington’s opposition that the U.S. denied Arafat a visa ahead of his planned address to the United Nations at its New York City headquarters. As a result, the December 1988 meeting had to be moved to Geneva.
While refusing to accept Palestinian statehood, the U.S. and Israel did begin to recognize the PLO as a representative body of the Palestinian people. This was part of the Oslo Accords – a diplomatic process that many believed would outline a road map for an eventual two-state solution.
While some Palestinians saw the Oslo Accords as a diplomatic breakthrough, others were more skeptical. Prominent Palestinians, including Darwish and Palestinian-American professor Edward Said, believed that Oslo was a poison pill: While framed as a step toward a two-state solution, the agreement said nothing about a Palestinian state in the interim. It only said that Israel would recognize the PLO as a representative of the Palestinian people.
In reality, the Oslo Accords have not lead to statehood. Rather, they created a system of fragmented autonomy under the newly created Palestinian Authority that, though meant to be interim, has in effect become permanent.
The Palestinian Authority was allowed only limited powers and deprived of real independence. While it had some say over schooling, health care and municipal services, Israel maintained control of Palestinian land, resources, borders and the economy. That remains true today.
Mahmoud Abbas, the leader of the Palestinian Authority after Arafat, responded by pushing again for international recognition for statehood.
And in 2012, the U.N. General Assembly voted to upgrade Palestine’s status, elevating it from a “nonmember observer” to a “nonmember observer state.”
The Palestinian delegation at the U.N. General Assembly before the vote to upgrade Palestinian status to a nonmember observer state in 2012. Stan Honda/AFP via Getty Images
In theory, this meant Palestinians now had access to international bodies, like the International Criminal Court and the International Court of Justice.
But any meaningful change in the status of Palestinian sovereignty would need to come through the U.N. Security Council, not the U.N. General Assembly.
The U.S. remains opposed to Palestinians gaining statehood independent of the Oslo process. So long as the U.S. has a veto on the Security Council, achieving a truly sovereign Palestinian state will likewise be off the table. And that remains the case, regardless of what individual members – even fellow Security Council members like France and the U.K – do.
Maha Nassar does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Recognition of a Palestinian state is likely to dominate proceedings at the U.N. beginning Sept 23, 2025, when world leaders will gather for the annual general assembly.
Of the 193 existing U.N member states, some 150 now recognize a Palestinian state. Ahead of the U.N. gathering in New York, Australia, Canada and the United Kingdom become the latest. And that number is expected to increase in the coming days, with several more countries expected to officially announce similar recognition.
That a host of Western nations are adding their names to the near-universal list of Global South countries that already recognize a Palestinian state is a major diplomatic win for the cause of an independent, sovereign and self-governed nation for Palestinians. Conversely, it is a massive diplomatic loss for Israel – especially coming just two years after the West stood shoulder to shoulder with Israel following the Oct. 7 attack by Palestinian militant group Hamas.
As a scholar of modern Palestinian history, I know that this diplomatic moment is decades in the making. But I am also aware that symbolic diplomatic breakthroughs on the issue of Palestinian statehood have occurred before, only to prove meaningless in the face of events that make statehood less likely.
‘I have come bearing an olive branch and a freedom fighter’s gun,’ PLO leader Yasser Arafat said before the United Nations General Assembly in 1974. Bettmann / Contributor
The non-state reality
The fight for Palestinian statehood can be traced back to at least 1967. Over the course of a six-day war against a coalition of Arab states, Israel conquered and expanded its military control over the remainder of what was historic Palestine – a stretch of land that extends from the Jordan River in the east to the Mediterranean Sea in the west.
At the war’s conclusion, Israel had taken control of the West Bank, East Jerusalem and the Gaza Strip.
Unlike after the 1948 war that led to its independence, Israel opted not to extend Israeli citizenship to Palestinians living in the newly conquered areas. Instead, the Israeli government began to rule over Palestinians in these occupied territories through a series of military orders.
These orders controlled nearly every aspect of Palestinian life – and many remain in effect today. For example, if a Palestinian farmer wants to harvest his olive trees near a Jewish settlement in the West Bank, they need a permit. Or
if a Gazan worker wants to work inside Israel, they need Israeli permission. Even praying in a mosque or church in East Jerusalem is dependent on obtaining a permit.
This permit system served as a constant reminder to Palestinians living in the occupied territories that they lacked control over their own daily lives. Meanwhile, Israeli authorities tried to squash the idea of Palestinian nationhood through policies such as outlawing public displays of the Palestinian flag. That, and other expressions of Palestinian national identity in the occupied territories, could result in up to 10 years in prison.
Around the same time that Meir made that comment, Palestinians started organizing around the idea of statehood.
Although the idea had been floated before, statehood was codified into official doctrine in a resolution in February 1969 in Egypt. It occurred during a session of the Palestine National Council, the legislative body of the Palestine Liberation Organization, which formed in 1964 as the official representative of Palestinians in the occupied territories.
That resolution called for a free, secular democratic state in Palestine – including all of the State of Israel – in which Muslims, Christians and Jews would all have equal rights.
From that moment on, the Palestinian struggle against Israeli occupation took twin paths: diplomatic pressure and armed resistance.
But events on the ground undermined the idea of a single state for all along the lines envisioned by the Cairo resolution.
The 1973 Arab-Israeli War’s inconclusive ending opened the door to greater diplomacy between Israel and the Arab states. Egypt and Israel decided that diplomacy would help them achieve their aims, culminating in the Egyptian-Israeli peace treaty of 1979. But the treaty also left the Palestinians without unified Arab support.
Meanwhile, throughout the 1970s, the Israeli occupation deepened and entrenched with the building of Israeli settlements, especially in the West Bank.
Yasser Arafat addresses the United Nations General Assembly in 1974. Bettmann / Contributor
The PLO responded in 1974 by issuing what became known as the 10-Point Plan, where they pivoted to seeking the establishment of a national authority in any part of historic Palestine that could be liberated.
It was, in effect, a way of threading the needle: It signaled to moderates that the PLO was adopting a more gradualist position, while also telling the group’s rejectionist front – which opposed peace negotiations with Israel – that they were not giving up completely on the idea of liberating all of Palestine.
The move was largely symbolic – the West Bank, Gaza and East Jerusalem were still under occupation, and the PLO was then in exile in Tunisia.
But it was nonetheless significant. It represented the bringing together of Palestinians in exile – most of whom were from towns and villages that were now part of the State of Israel – with Palestinians in the occupied territories.
It was also a moment of tremendous hope and possibility for Palestinians. What most Palestinians wanted was for the international community to recognize them as a national body, deserving of a seat at the table with other nation-states.
Compromise and rejection
Yet at the same time, many Palestinians saw the declaration as a huge compromise. The West Bank, Gaza Strip and East Jerusalem comprise about 22% of historic Palestine. So the declaration effectively meant that Palestinians were giving up on the other 78% of what they saw as their land.
Reaction from the international community to the PLO’s declaration was split. Many formerly colonized countries of the Global South recognized Palestinian independence right away. By the end of the year, some 78 countries had issued statements recognizing Palestine as a state.
Israel rejected it outright, as did United States and most Western nations.
Such was Washington’s opposition that the U.S. denied Arafat a visa ahead of his planned address to the United Nations at its New York City headquarters. As a result, the December 1988 meeting had to be moved to Geneva.
While refusing to accept Palestinian statehood, the U.S. and Israel did begin to recognize the PLO as a representative body of the Palestinian people. This was part of the Oslo Accords – a diplomatic process that many believed would outline a road map for an eventual two-state solution.
While some Palestinians saw the Oslo Accords as a diplomatic breakthrough, others were more skeptical. Prominent Palestinians, including Darwish and Palestinian-American professor Edward Said, believed that Oslo was a poison pill: While framed as a step toward a two-state solution, the agreement said nothing about a Palestinian state in the interim. It only said that Israel would recognize the PLO as a representative of the Palestinian people.
In reality, the Oslo Accords have not lead to statehood. Rather, they created a system of fragmented autonomy under the newly created Palestinian Authority that, though meant to be interim, has in effect become permanent.
The Palestinian Authority was allowed only limited powers and deprived of real independence. While it had some say over schooling, health care and municipal services, Israel maintained control of Palestinian land, resources, borders and the economy. That remains true today.
Mahmoud Abbas, the leader of the Palestinian Authority after Arafat, responded by pushing again for international recognition for statehood.
And in 2012, the U.N. General Assembly voted to upgrade Palestine’s status, elevating it from a “nonmember observer” to a “nonmember observer state.”
The Palestinian delegation at the U.N. General Assembly before the vote to upgrade Palestinian status to a nonmember observer state in 2012. Stan Honda/AFP via Getty Images
In theory, this meant Palestinians now had access to international bodies, like the International Criminal Court and the International Court of Justice.
But any meaningful change in the status of Palestinian sovereignty would need to come through the U.N. Security Council, not the U.N. General Assembly.
The U.S. remains opposed to Palestinians gaining statehood independent of the Oslo process. So long as the U.S. has a veto on the Security Council, achieving a truly sovereign Palestinian state will likewise be off the table. And that remains the case, regardless of what individual members – even fellow Security Council members like France and the U.K – do.
Maha Nassar does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Recognition of a Palestinian state is likely to dominate proceedings at the U.N. beginning Sept 23, 2025, when world leaders will gather for the annual general assembly.
Of the 193 existing U.N member states, some 150 now recognize a Palestinian state. Ahead of the U.N. gathering in New York, Australia, Canada and the United Kingdom become the latest. And that number is expected to increase in the coming days, with several more countries expected to officially announce similar recognition.
That a host of Western nations are adding their names to the near-universal list of Global South countries that already recognize a Palestinian state is a major diplomatic win for the cause of an independent, sovereign and self-governed nation for Palestinians. Conversely, it is a massive diplomatic loss for Israel – especially coming just two years after the West stood shoulder to shoulder with Israel following the Oct. 7 attack by Palestinian militant group Hamas.
As a scholar of modern Palestinian history, I know that this diplomatic moment is decades in the making. But I am also aware that symbolic diplomatic breakthroughs on the issue of Palestinian statehood have occurred before, only to prove meaningless in the face of events that make statehood less likely.
‘I have come bearing an olive branch and a freedom fighter’s gun,’ PLO leader Yasser Arafat said before the United Nations General Assembly in 1974. Bettmann / Contributor
The non-state reality
The fight for Palestinian statehood can be traced back to at least 1967. Over the course of a six-day war against a coalition of Arab states, Israel conquered and expanded its military control over the remainder of what was historic Palestine – a stretch of land that extends from the Jordan River in the east to the Mediterranean Sea in the west.
At the war’s conclusion, Israel had taken control of the West Bank, East Jerusalem and the Gaza Strip.
Unlike after the 1948 war that led to its independence, Israel opted not to extend Israeli citizenship to Palestinians living in the newly conquered areas. Instead, the Israeli government began to rule over Palestinians in these occupied territories through a series of military orders.
These orders controlled nearly every aspect of Palestinian life – and many remain in effect today. For example, if a Palestinian farmer wants to harvest his olive trees near a Jewish settlement in the West Bank, they need a permit. Or
if a Gazan worker wants to work inside Israel, they need Israeli permission. Even praying in a mosque or church in East Jerusalem is dependent on obtaining a permit.
This permit system served as a constant reminder to Palestinians living in the occupied territories that they lacked control over their own daily lives. Meanwhile, Israeli authorities tried to squash the idea of Palestinian nationhood through policies such as outlawing public displays of the Palestinian flag. That, and other expressions of Palestinian national identity in the occupied territories, could result in up to 10 years in prison.
Around the same time that Meir made that comment, Palestinians started organizing around the idea of statehood.
Although the idea had been floated before, statehood was codified into official doctrine in a resolution in February 1969 in Egypt. It occurred during a session of the Palestine National Council, the legislative body of the Palestine Liberation Organization, which formed in 1964 as the official representative of Palestinians in the occupied territories.
That resolution called for a free, secular democratic state in Palestine – including all of the State of Israel – in which Muslims, Christians and Jews would all have equal rights.
From that moment on, the Palestinian struggle against Israeli occupation took twin paths: diplomatic pressure and armed resistance.
But events on the ground undermined the idea of a single state for all along the lines envisioned by the Cairo resolution.
The 1973 Arab-Israeli War’s inconclusive ending opened the door to greater diplomacy between Israel and the Arab states. Egypt and Israel decided that diplomacy would help them achieve their aims, culminating in the Egyptian-Israeli peace treaty of 1979. But the treaty also left the Palestinians without unified Arab support.
Meanwhile, throughout the 1970s, the Israeli occupation deepened and entrenched with the building of Israeli settlements, especially in the West Bank.
Yasser Arafat addresses the United Nations General Assembly in 1974. Bettmann / Contributor
The PLO responded in 1974 by issuing what became known as the 10-Point Plan, where they pivoted to seeking the establishment of a national authority in any part of historic Palestine that could be liberated.
It was, in effect, a way of threading the needle: It signaled to moderates that the PLO was adopting a more gradualist position, while also telling the group’s rejectionist front – which opposed peace negotiations with Israel – that they were not giving up completely on the idea of liberating all of Palestine.
The move was largely symbolic – the West Bank, Gaza and East Jerusalem were still under occupation, and the PLO was then in exile in Tunisia.
But it was nonetheless significant. It represented the bringing together of Palestinians in exile – most of whom were from towns and villages that were now part of the State of Israel – with Palestinians in the occupied territories.
It was also a moment of tremendous hope and possibility for Palestinians. What most Palestinians wanted was for the international community to recognize them as a national body, deserving of a seat at the table with other nation-states.
Compromise and rejection
Yet at the same time, many Palestinians saw the declaration as a huge compromise. The West Bank, Gaza Strip and East Jerusalem comprise about 22% of historic Palestine. So the declaration effectively meant that Palestinians were giving up on the other 78% of what they saw as their land.
Reaction from the international community to the PLO’s declaration was split. Many formerly colonized countries of the Global South recognized Palestinian independence right away. By the end of the year, some 78 countries had issued statements recognizing Palestine as a state.
Israel rejected it outright, as did United States and most Western nations.
Such was Washington’s opposition that the U.S. denied Arafat a visa ahead of his planned address to the United Nations at its New York City headquarters. As a result, the December 1988 meeting had to be moved to Geneva.
While refusing to accept Palestinian statehood, the U.S. and Israel did begin to recognize the PLO as a representative body of the Palestinian people. This was part of the Oslo Accords – a diplomatic process that many believed would outline a road map for an eventual two-state solution.
While some Palestinians saw the Oslo Accords as a diplomatic breakthrough, others were more skeptical. Prominent Palestinians, including Darwish and Palestinian-American professor Edward Said, believed that Oslo was a poison pill: While framed as a step toward a two-state solution, the agreement said nothing about a Palestinian state in the interim. It only said that Israel would recognize the PLO as a representative of the Palestinian people.
In reality, the Oslo Accords have not lead to statehood. Rather, they created a system of fragmented autonomy under the newly created Palestinian Authority that, though meant to be interim, has in effect become permanent.
The Palestinian Authority was allowed only limited powers and deprived of real independence. While it had some say over schooling, health care and municipal services, Israel maintained control of Palestinian land, resources, borders and the economy. That remains true today.
Mahmoud Abbas, the leader of the Palestinian Authority after Arafat, responded by pushing again for international recognition for statehood.
And in 2012, the U.N. General Assembly voted to upgrade Palestine’s status, elevating it from a “nonmember observer” to a “nonmember observer state.”
The Palestinian delegation at the U.N. General Assembly before the vote to upgrade Palestinian status to a nonmember observer state in 2012. Stan Honda/AFP via Getty Images
In theory, this meant Palestinians now had access to international bodies, like the International Criminal Court and the International Court of Justice.
But any meaningful change in the status of Palestinian sovereignty would need to come through the U.N. Security Council, not the U.N. General Assembly.
The U.S. remains opposed to Palestinians gaining statehood independent of the Oslo process. So long as the U.S. has a veto on the Security Council, achieving a truly sovereign Palestinian state will likewise be off the table. And that remains the case, regardless of what individual members – even fellow Security Council members like France and the U.K – do.
Maha Nassar does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Recognition of a Palestinian state is likely to dominate proceedings at the U.N. beginning Sept 23. 2005, when world leaders will gather for the annual general assembly.
Of the 193 existing U.N member states, some 147 already recognize a Palestinian state. But that number is expected to swell in the coming days, with several more countries expected to officially announce such recognition. They include Australia, Belgium, Canada, France, Portugal and the U.K. – although Britain says it won’t support statehood if Israel takes steps to alleviate the plight of Palestinians in Gaza.
That a host of Western nations are adding their names to the near-universal list of Global South countries that already recognize a Palestinian state is a major diplomatic win for the cause of an independent, sovereign and self-governed nation for Palestinians. Conversely, it is a massive diplomatic loss for Israel – especially coming just two years after the West stood shoulder to shoulder with Israel following the Oct. 7 attack by Palestinian militant group Hamas.
As a scholar of modern Palestinian history, I know that this diplomatic moment is decades in the making. But I am also aware that symbolic diplomatic breakthroughs on the issue of Palestinian statehood have occurred before, only to prove meaningless in the face of events that make statehood less likely.
‘I have come bearing an olive branch and a freedom fighter’s gun,’ PLO leader Yasser Arafat said before the United Nations General Assembly in 1974. Bettmann / Contributor
The non-state reality
The fight for Palestinian statehood can be traced back to at least 1967. Over the course of a six-day war against a coalition of Arab states, Israel conquered and expanded its military control over the remainder of what was historic Palestine – a stretch of land that extends from the Jordan River in the east to the Mediterranean Sea in the west.
At the war’s conclusion, Israel had taken control of the West Bank, East Jerusalem and the Gaza Strip.
Unlike after the 1948 war that led to its independence, Israel opted not to extend Israeli citizenship to Palestinians living in the newly conquered areas. Instead, the Israeli government began to rule over Palestinians in these occupied territories through a series of military orders.
These orders controlled nearly every aspect of Palestinian life – and many remain in effect today. For example, if a Palestinian farmer wants to harvest his olive trees near a Jewish settlement in the West Bank, they need a permit. Or
if a Gazan worker wants to work inside Israel, they need Israeli permission. Even praying in a mosque or church in East Jerusalem is dependent on obtaining a permit.
This permit system served as a constant reminder to Palestinians living in the occupied territories that they lacked control over their own daily lives. Meanwhile, Israeli authorities tried to squash the idea of Palestinian nationhood through policies such as outlawing public displays of the Palestinian flag. That, and other expressions of Palestinian national identity in the occupied territories, could result in up to 10 years in prison.
Around the same time that Meir made that comment, Palestinians started organizing around the idea of statehood.
Although the idea had been floated before, statehood was codified into official doctrine in a resolution in February 1969 in Egypt. It occurred during a session of the Palestine National Council, the legislative body of the Palestine Liberation Organization, which formed in 1964 as the official representative of Palestinians in the occupied territories.
That resolution called for a free, secular democratic state in Palestine – including all of the State of Israel – in which Muslims, Christians and Jews would all have equal rights.
From that moment on, the Palestinian struggle against Israeli occupation took twin paths: diplomatic pressure and armed resistance.
But events on the ground undermined the idea of a single state for all along the lines envisioned by the Cairo resolution.
The 1973 Arab-Israeli War’s inconclusive ending opened the door to greater diplomacy between Israel and the Arab states. Egypt and Israel decided that diplomacy would help them achieve their aims, culminating in the Egyptian-Israeli peace treaty of 1979. But the treaty also left the Palestinians without unified Arab support.
Meanwhile, throughout the 1970s, the Israeli occupation deepened and entrenched with the building of Israeli settlements, especially in the West Bank.
Yasser Arafat addresses the United Nations General Assembly in 1974. Bettmann / Contributor
The PLO responded in 1974 by issuing what became known as the 10-Point Plan, where they pivoted to seeking the establishment of a national authority in any part of historic Palestine that could be liberated.
It was, in effect, a way of threading the needle: It signaled to moderates that the PLO was adopting a more gradualist position, while also telling the group’s rejectionist front – which opposed peace negotiations with Israel – that they were not giving up completely on the idea of liberating all of Palestine.
The move was largely symbolic – the West Bank, Gaza and East Jerusalem were still under occupation, and the PLO was then in exile in Tunisia.
But it was nonetheless significant. It represented the bringing together of Palestinians in exile – most of whom were from towns and villages that were now part of the State of Israel – with Palestinians in the occupied territories.
It was also a moment of tremendous hope and possibility for Palestinians. What most Palestinians wanted was for the international community to recognize them as a national body, deserving of a seat at the table with other nation-states.
Compromise and rejection
Yet at the same time, many Palestinians saw the declaration as a huge compromise. The West Bank, Gaza Strip and East Jerusalem comprise about 22% of historic Palestine. So the declaration effectively meant that Palestinians were giving up on the other 78% of what they saw as their land.
Reaction from the international community to the PLO’s declaration was split. Many formerly colonized countries of the Global South recognized Palestinian independence right away. By the end of the year, some 78 countries had issued statements recognizing Palestine as a state.
Israel rejected it outright, as did United States and most Western nations.
Such was Washington’s opposition that the U.S. denied Arafat a visa ahead of his planned address to the United Nations at its New York City headquarters. As a result, the December 1988 meeting had to be moved to Geneva.
While refusing to accept Palestinian statehood, the U.S. and Israel did begin to recognize the PLO as a representative body of the Palestinian people. This was part of the Oslo Accords – a diplomatic process that many believed would outline a road map for an eventual two-state solution.
While some Palestinians saw the Oslo Accords as a diplomatic breakthrough, others were more skeptical. Prominent Palestinians, including Darwish and Palestinian-American professor Edward Said, believed that Oslo was a poison pill: While framed as a step toward a two-state solution, the agreement said nothing about a Palestinian state in the interim. It only said that Israel would recognize the PLO as a representative of the Palestinian people.
In reality, the Oslo Accords have not lead to statehood. Rather, they created a system of fragmented autonomy under the newly created Palestinian Authority that, though meant to be interim, has in effect become permanent.
The Palestinian Authority was allowed only limited powers and deprived of real independence. While it had some say over schooling, health care and municipal services, Israel maintained control of Palestinian land, resources, borders and the economy. That remains true today.
Mahmoud Abbas, the leader of the Palestinian Authority after Arafat, responded by pushing again for international recognition for statehood.
And in 2012, the U.N. General Assembly voted to upgrade Palestine’s status, elevating it from a “nonmember observer” to a “nonmember observer state.”
The Palestinian delegation at the U.N. General Assembly before the vote to upgrade Palestinian status to a nonmember observer state in 2012. Stan Honda/AFP via Getty Images
In theory, this meant Palestinians now had access to international bodies, like the International Criminal Court and the International Court of Justice.
But any meaningful change in the status of Palestinian sovereignty would need to come through the U.N. Security Council, not the U.N. General Assembly.
The U.S. remains opposed to Palestinians gaining statehood independent of the Oslo process. So long as the U.S. has a veto on the Security Council, achieving a truly sovereign Palestinian state will likewise be off the table. And that remains the case, regardless of what individual members – even fellow Security Council members like France and the U.K – do.
Maha Nassar does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Lady Godiva – an icon of protest, myth and sensual defiance – has galloped through centuries of our cultural imagination. She is most widely known for the legend of her naked horse ride, in which she supposedly rode through the city of Coventry, England, in nothing but her cascading hair.
According to the popular tale, Godiva pleaded with her husband, Lord Leofric of Mercia, to lift an oppressive tax that threatened to impoverish the people of Coventry.
Leofric issued a provocative challenge: he would only revoke the tax if she rode unclothed through the town. In a gesture of defiance and compassion, she undertook the ride.
The townspeople, in respect, shuttered their windows, except for one man named Tom, who was struck blind. This is where we get the phrase “peeping Tom”. Moved by her courage, Leofric kept his word and abolished the tax – or so the story goes.
While many historians believe this naked ride never actually took place, Godiva, the 11th century noblewoman, was real – as is her enduring influence.
Godiva has been endlessly remixed, from appearances in literature, to art, to music, to comics, and even chocolate.
Artist John Collier’s 1897 oil painting of Lady Godiva depicts her as holding her head down in shame. Wikimedia
Although Godiva has historically been objectified, her legacy is ever-evolving. Through parades and processions, political protest, and philanthropic campaigns, fans and activists alike have transformed Godiva into a symbol of resistance.
The lady behind the legend
Countess Godgyfu (meaning “God’s gift” in Old English) was born around 990 CE and died sometime after 1066. She was the only female Anglo-Saxon landowner listed as “tenant-in-chief” in the Domesday book.
According to historian Daniel Donoghue, this implies an exceptionally high noble status and independent authority, suggesting Godiva held her estate by birth, rather than through marriage.
Her will included a string of prayer beads – an early reference to the rosary.
Fanning herstory
The legend of the naked horse ride draws from older mythological traditions.
In his book The White Goddess (1948), English writer Robert Graves interprets Godiva as a medieval manifestation of a pagan goddess. Her symbolic nudity and ritualistic ride echo fertility rites and goddess worship.
Like many medieval legends of pagan or folkloric origin, it was transformed into a Christian narrative over time, intertwined with the real history of the philanthropic Countess Godgyfu.
Fandom offers a compelling lens through which to view Godiva, and the ways her story continues to resonate in contemporary culture.
A Lady Godiva-themes clock in Broadgate, Coventry. A ‘peeping Tom’ looks at her from the window. Wikimedia, CC BY-SA
In the 2016 book I’m Buffy and You’re History, author Patricia Pender explores how fandom enables playful and subversive representations of femininity. For instance, Buffy – a female character who nonchalantly slayed vampires, rather than running screaming – subverted expectations. By riding naked, Godiva, too, subverts expectations.
At the same time, feminist scholars have critiqued representations of nude women in culture and the arts as catering to the male gaze, rather than being subversive. Researcher Melisa Yilmaz argues Godiva has been moulded into a passive symbol of erotic spectacle, rather than female empowerment.
Godiva’s image is also commodified globally, most notably by the Godiva chocolatier.
Yet, reinterpretations of her legend through centuries of fandom offer a counter-narrative.
She gained renewed popularity through women writers, activists and suffragists. For instance, in the 1870s, British political activist Harriet Martineau told women who feared exposure and condemnation for taking up controversial causes to “think of the Lady Godiva”.
Once such cause at the time was the campaign against the Contagious Diseases Act. This act, which applied only to women, meant police could arrest women assumed to be prostitutes and have them medically examined.
Similarly, social reformist Josephine Butler entitled her 1888 political play The New Godiva. In it, she wrote about the need for a female campaigner to
compare her[self] to Godiva, stripping herself bare of the very vesture of her soul […] exposing herself to something worse than physical torture.
Radical reclamation
Lady Godiva is widely referenced in film and TV. She was the subject of the historical 1955 film Lady Godiva of Coventry, starring Hollywood starlet Maureen O’Hara, and has appeared as a character in shows such as Charmed (1998–2006) and Fantasy Island (1977–84).
Irish-American actress Maureen O’Hara portrayed Lady Godiva in the 1955 film Lady Godiva of Coventry. Wikimedia
Contemporary women authors have also offered up various twists of Godiva’s tale.
In Judith Halberstam’s young adult novel Blue Sky Freedom (1990), for example, Godiva is the name given to an anti-apartheid resistance leader.
In the DC Comics, the character Godiva is a beautiful woman with powerful hair she can control to her advantage.
She shows up in music, too. The cover of Beyonce’s 2022 album, Renaissance, shows the singer astride a holographic horse in a seemingly Godiva-inspired pose – boldly facing the camera.
In Queen’s song Don’t Stop Me Now, Lady Godiva is likened to a racing car:
I’m a racing car, passing by like Lady Godiva
I’m gonna go, go, go, there’s no stopping me.
Coventry city has had an official Lady Godiva, Pru Porretta, for more than three decades. Porretta’s role involves a range of community and philanthropic work.
Elizabeth Reid Boyd does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
In the 1990s, I was a rock journalist striving to assert myself as a young woman, working at the heart of the United Kingdom’s male-dominated music press. I loved my job. I met and interviewed all my favourite bands, and spent my twenties and early thirties in a whirl of parties, clubs, gigs and all-expenses trips to America and Europe.
I began my career through a combination of ignorance, bloody-mindedness, and good timing. With no idea about the protocol of editorial commissions, I was annoyed when a music paper failed to publish my unsolicited live review of a friend’s band. Determined to succeed, I followed a tipoff from an artist who lived in a squat with a media contact (this was London in the 1980s), and soon found myself writing for a bi-monthly heavy metal magazine.
Review: Men Of A Certain Age: My Encounters with Rock Royalty – Kate Mossman; Maybe I’m Amazed: A Story of Love and Connection in Ten Songs – John Harris (John Murray)
The editor, Chris Welch, was a softly spoken, conservatively dressed man in his late forties whose office walls were lined with photos of himself hanging out with Marc Bolan, Led Zeppelin’s Jimmy Page and Eric Clapton, in his days as a young reporter. I rarely saw him during my year at the magazine, but I’ve never forgotten his gentle demeanour and the trust he placed in my inexperienced, 22-year-old self. Without his support, my life may have taken a very different turn.
Chris was one of a kind. Other than him, respectful, benevolent older men did not figure in my work for the music press.
Kate Mossman’s debut is ‘a meditation on the powerful archetype of the ageing rock star’. Bonnier
By contrast, Kate Mossman is a British arts and music writer whose debut book is presented as “a meditation on the powerful archetype of the ageing rock star”. Her fixation with rock’s fading old guard provides a compelling premise for Men Of A Certain Age: My Encounters with Rock Royalty, but the blurb is a little misleading. This is essentially a collection of republished interviews and personal reflections, rather than an in-depth analysis.
That said, Mossman has produced a thoughtful and entertaining retrospective. Her conversations with the likes of Wilko Johnson, Terence Trent D’Arby, Ray Davies (The Kinks), Jeff Beck and Kevin Ayers are humorous, perceptive and beautifully composed.
She describes the Happy Mondays’ and Black Grape’s Shaun Ryder as resembling “a Russian Mafia boss in the corner, whisky in hand, arms elevated by the pressure of a thick leather jacket”. She chats with Paul Stanley of KISS while he applies his makeup before a show.
“Here is my clown white,” he says softly, picking up a pot of the thick, sweat-resistant foundation he discovered in the ‘70s. “And here are my puffs.”
These encounters afford the reader a certain insight into Mossman’s idiosyncratic predilection for wrinkly rock stars twice her age. Yet while the book affectionately probes her strange, decidedly gendered interest, it avoids the glaring issue of structural misogyny that contaminates the music industry.
It’s not as if Mossman is unaware of the sexual politics at play. She positively delights in the “exciting father-daughter energy” of the older man-younger woman dynamic, intentionally exaggerating her youth and assumed innocence in the presence of ageing rockers. She knows men like Tom Jones and Gene Simmons will respond openly to her coltish, unthreatening persona, because what could be safer than “just a pretty lady”? It’s a clever and effective strategy.
I fully appreciate the quality of Mossman’s profiles, but her attempts to lean into the patronising attitudes of rock’s elders land uncomfortably with me. And having once had my own tender skin in the game, I can’t help seeing the book’s negation of sexism as a missed opportunity.
When I was a rock journalist, I never felt advantaged by my gender or energised by the older male rocker’s entrenched misogyny. Quite the opposite.
At Jarvis Cocker’s house party
Twenty or so years before Mossman began pursuing her beloved senior rockers across the US, I was being reprimanded by my editor for my “unprofessional” rejection of the creepy advances of a famous middle-aged musician.
Liz Evans in a shaving cream fight with Martin McCarrick from Therapy?.
In 1989, I was a staff writer for a fortnightly rock magazine based in London’s Carnaby Street. We smoked and drank at our desks, played loud metal on the stereo, took half-day lunches on record company money and hosted a constant stream of visiting rock stars in all manner of altered states throughout the working day.
One of my regular jobs was to review the singles with a handful of guest musicians, depending on who was in town. This was often a riotous affair that occasionally descended into chaos. One time, a German drummer, old enough to be my dad, asked me to sit on his lap while we listened to the records. When I didn’t see the funny side, he sniggered at my rebuttal and asked if I was having my period. So I walked out, leaving him with his embarrassed band mate in a room shocked into silence.
A year or so later, the editor who scolded me would help bring about my eventual redundancy after I started to retaliate against a toxic male colleague. This man, previously a friend who’d tried to date me, bullied and ostracised me for the entire duration of my employment. I put on a brave face, cried in the toilets and still managed to enjoy my work. But when I eventually reacted, I was blamed for aggravating the situation, and the magazine let me go.
I spent the next eight years escalating my freelance career and writing books. I waded in the ocean with The Verve’s Richard Ashcroft, toasted a Chicago sunrise on tour with Alice in Chains, went snowboarding with a young British band in California, tripped over Jarvis Cocker at his own house party, and gratefully received a pair of secondhand John Fluevog sandals from the closet of Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon in New York. But my confidence remained dented until I published my first academic article in the early 2000s.
Liz Evans in Los Angeles to interview L7, with Dom Wills from Melody Maker. Liz Evans
Forgive me then, for baulking when Mossman describes herself as “a small girl sitting on the knee of Father Rock” at her first job for the now-defunct UK music monthly, The Word.
While I’m sure she’s attempting to describe a more supportive, paternalistic workplace environment than the one I endured, she is nevertheless referring to a situation in which she, too, was the only woman in a small team of men. In her case, a generational divide reinforced the sense of male authority which left her wondering “who I was without these men, and who I would be”.
Years before Mossman met him, one of the men she mentions reportedly claimed women were unable to write effectively about music. I once encountered him too, and found him to be smooth, charming and arrogant, with the ruthless attitude of a tabloid journalist.
Working with men like this produced some of the worst experiences of my career. Luckily, such occasions were rare, but could be significant. Bands never saw the bigger picture, of manipulated stories and doctored headlines, but their lives were directly affected by decisions made by people they’d often never met.
I remember once having a conversation with Kurt Cobain about power and the media, and telling him journalists like me could only do so much. Ultimately, we were at the mercy of our editors, which is why I tried to pick mine wisely. Musicians don’t have the choice. Under contract with record labels, they are legally obliged to engage with the media and must take what’s on offer. I’d known Nirvana before they were famous, and watching Kurt develop from a shy, goofy kid into a cynical megastar persecuted by the press was heartbreaking.
Part of the reason Mossman’s book sits uneasily with me is because it appears to ignore the hard-won heritage of female music journalists, and the struggles women like me had in the workplace. Deferring to big daddy editors and accommodating the fragile egos of doddery rock gods feels too much like turning the clock back.
More interested in her
Interestingly, at the back of her book, an intriguing detail lies almost buried in the acknowledgments. Here, Mossman says she recently learned her mother was responsible for introducing a bunch of records she thought had belonged to her dad into the family home.
This untold chapter of Mossman’s story speaks volumes about women and rock culture. Swinging like a loose thread, it threatens to unravel so much of what we have come to accept about the world of rock and the stories of its appointed gods.
Hence my other frustration with the book. While Mossman is a critically acclaimed journalist and former Mercury prize judge, nothing can fire my interest in men such as former Journey singer Steve Perry, or the insufferable Sting. I simply don’t care about them. I’m much more interested in her.
Had Mossman developed the snippets of memoir she uses to contextualise her interviews, and foregrounded herself instead of her tired old giants, I believe her book would have been much more powerful. The strongest, most illuminating passages are when she interrogates her past and mines her personal experiences for clues to her adult obsession with the old guys.
Her teenage infatuation with Queen, her discomfort with the irreverence of 1990s pop culture, her desperate need for parental approval, the peculiar sense of shame she feels in writing about people she loves. The way she listens to music through her father’s “imaginary ears”, the energy writing affords her. All of this outshines the perpetually recycled male rock-star myths, no matter how well Mossman interprets them.
Perhaps in trying to convince the reader to share her love for middle-of-the-road musicians, Bruce Hornsby and Glen Campbell, both of whom had their heyday before she was born, Mossman is still trapped in her teenage cycle of needing her parents to approve of Queen. If so, I hope she manages to shake this off and step more fully into her own story with conviction and faith. With her talent, a full-blown memoir would be a runaway bestseller.
In many ways, Mossman’s book highlights the limits of music journalism as a genre. Her long-form profiles are detailed sketches rather than complex studies, reflecting the fleeting nature of the interview format. Ultimately, even with a fascinating subject, this type of interaction will always be a superficial exercise and therefore something of a game.
For Mossman, with her obsessive fan tendencies, this may be hard to accept, but faced with Sting’s smooth professionalism, she has no choice. “There is a desire for connection that drives every interview,” she writes, “and with Sting, it was a connection I never got.”
For me, ten years of music journalism was enough. By 1998, I’d met everyone I wanted to meet and there were only five or six bands I still wanted to hang out with. I was ready to expand my writing skills and deepen my understanding of the human psyche. Funnily enough, given Mossman’s interest in Jungian theory, I retrained as a Jungian psychotherapist.
Liz Evans writes ‘ten years of journalism was enough’. Here, she’s pictured with Art Alexakis from Everclear. Liz Evans
An elitist boys’ club
I wasn’t the only one to quit music journalism after the 1990s. With magazines folding left, right and centre, many writers moved onto other careers. One of them was John Harris, now a political and arts columnist for The Guardian. We met briefly at the NME during my six-month stint as its rock correspondent, and occasionally ran into each other at Britpop gigs with mutual friends.
Now, NME is an online platform full of celebrity gossip and brimming with ads. But in the early 1990s it still held currency, for emerging bands and music fans alike. So when the editor invited me to interview Alice in Chains and Screaming Trees on tour in America, I was excited.
I arrived at the NME office fresh from the friendly clamour of Kerrang! magazine, and the first thing that struck me was the silence. Everywhere I looked, studious-looking guys with neat haircuts sat typing furiously away at their desks. There was no music, no talking – and, apart from the secretary, no women.
I soon discovered the few female writers who managed to find a way in were either resented (like me), or given “special dispensation”, whatever that meant.
It all seemed so weirdly petty, like an elitist boys’ club. I hated it.
On one occasion, I refused to disclose the location of a secret Hole gig – at the band’s request. I was punished for my disloyalty to the paper by not being allowed to review it. Another time, a couple of journalists offered to “help” me with a two-part feature on the Riot Grrrl movement, even though I’d single-handedly managed to gain the trust of some of the key women on the scene, all of whom despised the male-dominated music press.
The final straw came in the form of a commission to interview Aerosmith. Asked to “get the drug stories”, I argued for a more original angle: by then, the band was clean. But I was shut down and told to be “more humble”.
Needless to say, after spending a lovely afternoon laughing about outlandish but predictable druggy adventures with Aerosmith band members Joe Perry and Steven Tyler (who tried to steal my fake fur coat), I filed my copy and walked away from the NME with my head held as high as it would go.
Autistic and thriving with music
After freelancing for the NME, Harris went on to work for monthly music titles Q and Select. Now, he’s an award-winning journalist with a string of books to his name. His latest one, Maybe I’m Amazed: A Story of Love and Connection in Ten Songs, is his fifth, and arguably his most important work to date.
Harris’ memoir is a beautiful, heartwarming, enlightening and uplifting book that chronicles the profound impact of music on the life of an autistic child. It captures the grief and frustration of two loving parents as they struggle with the UK’s broken education system and underfunded health services, on behalf of their son. And it details the individual nature of autism and the multiple, miraculous ways an autistic person can flourish when given the right support.
As first-time parents, Harris and his partner Ginny, a former press officer with Parlophone Records, are not aware of any issues with their baby, James. He’s a little slow to speak and has some cute, characterful quirks, but nothing seems out of the ordinary until their daughter Rosa is born and the family moves from Wales to Somerset.
Slow to adapt to the new changes in his life, James begins to exhibit ritualistic behaviours that concern Harris. Three weeks after James starts attending his new nursery, Ginny is told her son might be autistic. Suddenly, she and Harris are plunged into a brutal spin of fear, anxiety, guilt, denial and fundamental uncertainty.
Together, the family embarks on a punitive round of tests and assessments as the tyranny of diagnosis takes hold. At first, supportive frameworks carry the weight of a heavy sentence. But Harris and Ginny immerse themselves in research and fact-finding missions to educate themselves about autism. After investing a significant amount of time and money, they manage to establish a viable routine to help James thrive.
It’s not an easy journey. Setbacks, personnel changes and bureaucratic complications are ever-present, but with a small team of specially trained, caring individuals, James makes progress. Meanwhile, as a lifelong music lover, Harris becomes increasingly aware of the profound relationships his son is developing with certain songs by particular bands. Kraftwerk, The Beatles and Mott the Hoople all exert a steadying influence on James, enabling him to communicate in ways he cannot through verbal language.
A visit from musician Billy Bragg, with whom Harris organises an annual talks tent for Glastonbury Festival, results in James actually making music himself. This leads to keyboard lessons and a slot at the school concert. By the time he enters his teens, James is playing bass, and looking every inch the rock star.
Structurally, Harris has produced a masterclass in memoir, seamlessly blending the past with the present. Cleverly shifting between his own life in music and his son’s, he charts his teenage years as a mod, his ill-fated band’s only performance and his forays into music journalism – all of which he now values anew in the context of parenting James.
He describes how the pair share their joy in gigs and experience the deep bond of making music together, sometimes with Rosa on drums. Watching his child come alive through rhythm and melody, Harris finds himself re-enchanted by music and uncovers the wonder of parenting through unexpected and creative channels.
The book delivers a wealth of information about the vast and complicated spectrum of autism, taking a deep dive into medical theories and the world of neurology. By weaving this complex material into his personal experience of huge emotional and practical challenges, Harris keeps it relatable. In many ways, he has forged a map, complete with a beacon of hope: albeit an individualised one. Informative, enriching and engaging, his story of love, persistence and hard-won daily miracles is music writing at its absolute best.
Wildly disparate in content, both Harris’ and Mossman’s books show how music can define us. In this way, their narratives speak to us all.
They remind me of a time when I couldn’t leave home without a Walkman and a spare set of batteries. They take me back to when I was a teenager, when music shaped my social life, determined my image and gave me the courage to withstand an emotionally abusive upbringing. And they return me to my twenties, when music powered my glamorous first career and launched me into a lifelong creative practice.
Ultimately, they remind me the pulse beneath my writing still belongs to music. And who knows? Maybe I’ll expand on that one day.
Liz Evans does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
A modern-day political inquisition is unfolding in “digital town squares” across the United States. The slain far-right activist Charlie Kirk has become a focal point for a coordinated campaign of silencing critics that chillingly echoes one of the darkest chapters in American history.
Individuals who have publicly criticised Kirk or made perceived insensitive comments regarding his death are being threatened, fired or doxed.
Journalists have also lost their jobs after making comments about Kirk’s assassination, as has the late-night television host Jimmy Kimmel.
A website called “Expose Charlie’s Murderers” had been posting the names, locations and employers of people saying critical things about Kirk before it was reportedly taken down. Vice President JD Vance has pushed for this public response, urging supporters to “call them out … hell, call their employer”.
This is far-right “cancel culture”, the likes of which the US hasn’t seen since the McCarthy era in the 1950s.
The birth of McCarthyism
The McCarthy era may well have faded in our collective memory, but it’s important to understand how it unfolded and the impact it had on America. As the philosopher George Santayana once said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
Since the 1950s, “McCarthyism” has become shorthand for the practice of making unsubstantiated accusations of disloyalty against political opponents, often through fear-mongering and public humiliation.
Joseph McCarthy. Library of Congress/Wikimedia Commons
The term gets its name from Senator Joseph McCarthy, a Republican who was the leading architect of a ruthless witch hunt in the US to root out alleged Communists and subversives across American institutions.
The campaign included both public and private persecutions from the late 1940s to early 1950s, involving hearings before the House Un-American Activities Committee and the Senate’s Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations.
Millions of federal employees had to fill out loyalty investigation forms during this time, while hundreds of employees were either fired or not hired. Hundreds of Hollywood figures were also blacklisted.
The campaign also involved the parallel targeting of the LGBTQI+ community working in government – known as the Lavender Scare.
And similar to doxing today, witnesses in government hearings were asked to provide the names of communist sympathisers, and investigators gave lists of prospective witnesses to the media. Major corporations told employees who invoked the Fifth Amendment and refused to testify they would be fired.
The greatest toll of McCarthyism was perhaps on public discourse. A deep chill settled over US politics, with people afraid to voice any opinion that could be construed as dissenting.
When the congressional records were finally unsealed in the early 2000s, the Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations said the hearings “are a part of our national past that we can neither afford to forget nor permit to reoccur”.
Another witch hunt under Trump
Today, however, a similar campaign is being waged by the Trump administration and others on the right, who are stoking fears of the “the enemy within”.
This new campaign to blacklist government critics is following a similar pattern to the McCarthy era, but is spreading much more quickly, thanks to social media, and is arguably targeting far more regular Americans.
Even before Kirk’s killing, there were worrying signs of a McCarthyist revival in the early days of the second Trump administration.
Supporters of the push to expose those criticising Kirk have framed their actions as protecting the country from “un-American”, woke ideologies. This narrative only deepens polarisation by simplifying everything into a Manichean world view: the “good people” versus the corrupt “leftist elite”.
The fact the political assassination of Democratic lawmaker Melissa Hortman did not garner the same reaction from the right reveals a gross double standard at play.
Another double standard: attempts to silence anyone criticising Kirk’s divisive ideology, while being permissive of his more odious claims. For example, he once called George Floyd, a Black man killed by police, a “scumbag”.
In the current climate, empathy is not a “made-up, new age term”, as Kirk once said, but appears to be highly selective.
This brings an increased danger, too. When neighbours become enemies and dialogue is shut down, the possibilities for conflict and violence are exacerbated.
Many are openly discussing the parallels with the rise of fascism in Germany, and even the possibility of another civil war.
A sense of decency?
The parallels between McCarthyism and Trumpism are stark and unsettling. In both eras, dissent has been conflated with disloyalty.
How far could this go? Like the McCarthy era, it partly depends on the public reaction to Trump’s tactics.
McCarthy’s influence began to wane when he charged the army with being soft on communism in 1954. The hearings, broadcast to the nation, did not go well. At one point, the army’s lawyer delivered a line that would become infamous:
Until this moment, Senator, I think I never really gauged your cruelty or your recklessness […] Have you no sense of decency?
Without concerted, collective societal pushback against this new McCarthyism and a return to democratic norms, we risk a further coarsening of public life.
The lifeblood of democracy is dialogue; its safeguard is dissent. To abandon these tenets is to pave the road towards authoritarianism.
Frank Mols received ARC funding
Gail Crimmins and Shannon Brincat do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Despite growing calls for diversity, equity and inclusion in science, a new study reveals how deep-rooted disparities continue to shape who gets to contribute to science.
We surveyed 908 environmental scientists from eight countries with varying levels of income and English proficiency. In our study, published in PLOS Biology today, we found that the gender, language and economic background of scientists significantly affect their ability to publish their work, especially in English.
The results are striking. Women publish up to 45% fewer papers in English than men. Female non-native English speakers from lower-income countries publish up to 70% fewer papers in English, compared with a male native English speaker from a high-income country.
This gap doesn’t necessarily reflect individual productivity. Evidence shows it stems from systemic barriers that limit fair participation in science.
Scientific productivity gap based on English-language peer-reviewed papers. Shown are the maximum % differences in the number of peer-reviewed papers published by female native English speakers from a high-income country (-45%), female non-native English speakers from a high-income country (-60%), and female non-native English speakers from a lower-middle income country (-70%), compared to male native English speakers from a high-income country (red flag). Tatsuya Amano, CC BY
The triple disadvantage
Scientific productivity is often measured by the researcher’s number of publications in English. But this metric overlooks the challenges faced by many researchers around the world.
When these three attributes intersect, the impact is overwhelming.
Taking English out of it
Importantly, when we looked at publications in English and in other languages combined, the productivity gap narrowed significantly.
Non-native English speakers and scientists from lower-income countries often publish more papers overall compared with their native English-speaking, high-income counterparts at the same career stage.
Scientific productivity gap narrows significantly when we look at total publications including those in non-English languages. Shown are the maximum % differences in the number of English-language and non-English-language peer-reviewed papers published by female native English speakers from a high-income country (-45%), female non-native English speakers from a high-income country (-35%), and female non-native English speakers from a lower-middle income country (-25%), compared to male native English speakers from a high-income country (red flag). Tatsuya Amano, CC BY
Levelling the playing field
The findings have serious implications for how we should measure the performance of scientists. Metrics based solely on publications in English can misrepresent the true productivity of researchers who face language and economic barriers.
This is especially problematic in hiring, promotion and funding decisions. The number of publications in English often play a dominant role in these, even in countries where English is not widely spoken.
The Declaration on Research Assessment, a worldwide initiative, advocates that research assessment should focus on what is published rather than where it is published. Including publications in languages other than English in research assessment aligns with this policy.
In fact, publications in non-English languages can provide valuable knowledge, especially in fields such as biodiversity conservation. Recognising the importance of publications in various languages would also enrich global scientific understanding and allow us to tackle global challenges more effectively.
Institutions and funders should also consider disadvantages related to linguistic and economic backgrounds in research assessments. For example, the Australian Research Council has a policy that allows researchers to declare career interruptions due to factors such as caregiving or illness.
To level the playing field, this policy should also account for the systemic disadvantages experienced by non-native English speakers and scientists from lower-income countries.
Toward a more inclusive science
Recording the numbers on these disparities is just the first step. Making a real difference in dismantling these systemic barriers will likely require a fundamental shift in how we conduct science.
For example, artificial intelligence (AI) translation is rapidly improving and becoming more widely available. Would we still need to use English as the common language of science in, say, ten years’ time? We can start envisioning a future where everyone, regardless of linguistic background, can write papers in their own language and read any paper in their own language with the help of AI translation.
Two futures for academic publishing using AI language tools. (A) In Future 1, scientific papers continue to be published in English. AI is used by those with limited English proficiency to translate information between their preferred language and English. (B) In Future 2, scientific papers are published in any language of the authors’ choice (English or Japanese in this example). AI is used by those without proficiency in the publication language (e.g., Japanese) to translate information between that language and their preferred language (e.g., English). Amano et al. (2025) PLOS Biology, CC BY
If you find yourself struggling in science as a woman, a non-native English speaker, or someone from a lower-income country, remember it’s not just you. The challenges you face often come from bigger systemic barriers in science, not personal shortcomings.
Science is fun. Everyone, no matter their background, should have an equal chance to enjoy it. But as science becomes increasingly global, embracing diversity is not just a matter of equity. It’s essential for fostering innovation and addressing the complex challenges facing our world.
Tatsuya Amano receives funding from the Australian Research Council Future Fellowship and Discovery Project.
