Robert Wyatt

To recount the varied life story of Robert Wyatt would take a book several hundred pages long. Here, instead, we want to explore a lesser-known aspect of his life, one that has only a marginal connection to music, and we'll try to do so mainly through the interviews he has given over the years, which reveal, bit by bit, small parts of his ideas, his way of thinking and his stance on politics.

First of all, it must be said that Wyatt has never been a "politician" in the strict sense of the word, and has never seen politics as a job; he has simply been an artist who, during a limited phase of his life, felt an urgent need to fight against racism, Western imperialism, rampant capitalism, and, more broadly, against the enormous injustices and social inequalities around him. This is why he joined the British Communist Party – not as a leader or a prominent figure, but as an ordinary member who enjoyed talking, exchanging opinions and delving into issues with fellow party members. But above all, for him politics was a potential tool to defend the weak, an ideal mission carried out without ever giving a thought, even for a moment, to his own personal interests.

Wyatt's passion for politics came late, and was the result of a series of events that fostered in him a very strong intolerance for every kind of injustice, especially when directed at the weakest and most defenceless layers of society. His parents took a superficial interest in politics but had their own views: "They were both liberals, I suppose, they always warned me to wash my hands after touching a copy of the Daily Express. For them the Welfare State represented the whole point of the last century, everything that had been worth fighting for in the twentieth century." In his youth Robert thought mainly about music, but his musical background was not that of a rock musician; his true passion was jazz, the music of Black Americans. Here's what he said in a 1988 interview: "The music that inspired me before anything else was jazz and sounds related to it. Nowadays people talk a lot about world music, but in my view jazz already was world music. Western popular music was completely transformed by the contribution of Black Americans, that is, African-Americans. At first, even though I had no interest in politics, I couldn't come to terms with the gap between the immense inspiration I drew from this wonderful Black American culture and the conditions of Black people in the world around me. I couldn't make sense of it, and so I took up a protective stance. And once you start defending a music, you end up taking the side of the people who make it. So if the people who have given you more pleasure in life than anyone else are treated as a problem, and you keep hearing someone say their numbers need to be reduced, well… you get angry. Not because you're good or kind, but because you're defending what you love."

The young Wyatt thus began with a simple sense of protectiveness towards the musicians he loved, who were discriminated against on racial grounds. But that was only an initial feeling; Wyatt wasn't thinking about politics at all, and in fact he left school before finishing, because, as he himself put it: "I was too busy living." His life was extremely full: he played with the Wilde Flowers, recorded the first four Soft Machine albums, two with Matching Mole and one solo album, took part in various other albums including solo records by Syd Barrett, and played live several times with Pink Floyd, who together with Soft Machine were the most famous British bands on the psychedelic scene of those years. Enter now al tour americano di Jimi Hendrix playing alongside Soft Machine as the support act. Once the tour was over, he stayed on as Hendrix's guest in America, where he met, among others, Frank Zappa, with whom he remained on excellent terms.

In 1972 he released the first album in which his political ideas came through: the wonderful second Matching Mole album, the little red record, "Little Red Record". The album – with its clearly ideological cover – shows the four musicians committed to the defence of Taiwan. "Little Red Record" is an emblematic record, one that marks the passing of the golden age of the Sixties and of the ideals of the Summer of Love, which had crashed against a wall that seemed indestructible, short of radical changes in means and proposals. It's a short step, but one that marks the end of an era: from California flowers to Robert Wyatt picking up a submachine gun.

Events followed one another, and the most tragic episode in the English musician's life took place on the first of June 1973. Wyatt fell from a fourth-floor window, but miraculously survived, left paraplegic: he would never be able to play the drums again. This could only bring about huge changes in his life. At first, giving up music seemed the obvious choice, but then, with the help of his partner Alfie and various friends, among them Nick Mason, he decided to carry on, and released his masterpiece, "Rock Bottom"; but unfortunately fate had a second trauma in store for him. The album – regarded within the Canterbury scene as a masterpiece (today it's considered one of the most important records in the history of rock) – was followed by the release of a single, a cover of a Monkees song, "I'm A Believer". It was such a hit that Robert was invited onto Top of the Pops (1974). Here's how he himself recounts the events: "I went to Top of the Pops and there was this idiot (the producer Robin Nash) who told me: 'Would you mind sitting in another chair? It's not right to show a wheelchair on a family entertainment show.' I got so angry! I felt like I was losing control of my own life. I was terrified by Top of the Pops, by the world of 45s, by that whole industry. I had survived without the charts up to that point, and as long as I had enough money for a good cup of tea and my cigarettes, I could carry on living happily."

After this absurd experience, his friends organised a concert in his honour, putting up posters in which they were all photographed in wheelchairs in solidarity with him (among them, you can spot Mike Oldfield and Nick Mason).

This episode reignited in him a strong aversion to every kind of discrimination. A few months later came another decisive event: the death of his best friend, the great trumpeter Mongezi Feza. It was an event that raised many suspicions: it really does seem very strange that a thirty-year-old man who had always enjoyed good health could die in a British hospital without any doctor noticing his serious condition. Here's what Wyatt tells us: "Mongezi's death hit me very hard. The real reason behind the tragedy lies in the fact that he had come to England to escape the tyranny of racism, and instead found there the mother and father of apartheid. He thought he was escaping the horrors of South Africa, and came to live in what we still call the 'free world'. In England, even though there's no official racism, it's very hard to fit in if you're not white. In his case, he had to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital, where he was diagnosed with a form of schizophrenia, and where he died unexpectedly of double pneumonia. It's an unheard-of thing: the death from double pneumonia of a young person who is already in hospital is anything but inevitable. Something tells me that if he had been Prince Charles he wouldn't have died; or even, simply, if he had been white. I believe that this gave a strong push to my process of politicisation."

It's 1975, and Wyatt begins to completely rethink his worldview: “Starting in the mid-Seventies, I felt deeply confused. My music seemed to me totally inadequate. I found the Sixties generation's idea that you could improve the world with mere protest songs immensely presumptuous and ridiculous. I began to take a much greater interest in serious revolutionary activity, that is, activity aimed at overthrowing power.” Wyatt decides to resume and complete the studies he had abandoned as a very young man, and these are years in which his musical activity becomes far more sporadic: from 1975 to 1982 he releases no further solo albums. “In those years I was much more interested in reading, studying, and watching those wonderful university lectures on TV by professors of history, literature or philosophy. I felt that doing so was far more useful than playing music.”

In 1979 Wyatt decides to join the British Communist Party. “People would say to me: ‘How can you possibly join a party that has about as much chance of survival as an ice cube in an oven?’ I'd reply: ‘If you were ever a free jazz fan and went to free jazz gigs, where the audience was routinely smaller than the band on stage, even when that band was just three people, then you can certainly consider joining the Communist Party.’” The truth is that Wyatt joins the Communist Party almost like an alien visitor: his ideal vision is so extreme that it goes misunderstood even within that party. His main concerns are the fight against racism and against the liberal, colonialist policies of the United States, but it's South African apartheid in particular that occupies most of his thoughts. Wyatt holds great admiration for genuine revolutionary fighters, such as South African leaders Joe Slovo and Nelson Mandela, and listens constantly to the radio, growing passionate about the various problems of the Third World. By now he's convinced that the revolutionary charge of Sixties rock has lost all credibility.

Wyatt will never become a prominent figure within the party — his shy, introverted nature won't allow it. We should picture him as a simple activist who would rather spend time with a factory worker reading Marx in his spare time than with a party leader. Regardless, he devotes particular attention to the problems of the Third World, and especially South Africa; he keeps up an extensive correspondence with political prisoners around the world, organizes and takes part in conferences — among them Art Against Racism and Fascism — as well as various demonstrations and debates in defence of the African National Congress. Wyatt donates the proceeds of two 1984 EPs to miners striking against the Thatcher government, and continues to do so with every subsequent pressing; he throws himself passionately into the cause of the bloody, US-funded war in Guatemala, and into the defence of Namibia. He sees the rich, prosperous West as the primary cause of racism and poverty in less developed countries: “I think England bears particular guilt for what's happening in South Africa, just as the French do in East Africa, and the fact that there are now many Africans living in London helps us talk to these people — that's an important cultural opportunity.” Of America he says: “I think that if it weren't for jazz, it would have been better if America had never existed. But since jazz did exist, I personally am grateful to it.”

His initiatives are countless, sometimes as the main figure, sometimes as a mere activist: Wyatt has never cared for the spotlight, and so you can find photos of him selling his party's newspaper, the Morning Star, on the street.

In the Eighties the English musician releases, on 7-inch singles, various reinterpretations of old political songs, later collected on the album “Nothing Can Stop Us”. Among the tracks is also “Arauco”, a folk song by the Chilean songwriter Violeta Parra, a cry of despair from indigenous leaders against the colonialism of Christians which, as Wyatt puts it, “has been going on for four hundred years”. “Red Flag” is an Irish traditional, later adopted as an anthem by labour parties. “Strange Fruit” is a great classic from the Thirties, and one of the first songs to openly address racism in America. “Caimanera” is a version of the Cuban “Guantanamera”, dedicated to the Cubans who chose to stay in Cuba, in contrast to the English and American politicians who praised those who emigrated to the United States. “Stalin Wasn't Stallin'” is the most ideological track of the bunch: a tribute to the Soviet regime, a reinterpretation of a 1943 song written by an author who remains unknown to this day — or at least, the man believed to be the author, Bill Johnson, denies it: “I was hugely amused to learn there was this song nobody could trace back to an author, because the man himself didn't dare admit to it, not even to collect his own royalties.” The lyrics are an over-the-top tribute to Stalin, portrayed as a great bear who seizes and kills the Beast of Berlin — that is, of course, Adolf Hitler, a sort of demonic being spawned by the devil himself. “Shipbuilding” is a song against the Falklands War, written for Wyatt by Elvis Costello. “Trade Unions” is a union anthem performed to persuade English workers to join a union. “Born Again Cretin”, the only track in the set written by Wyatt himself, sounds like a defence of his own freedom of speech. But Wyatt knows perfectly well that his right to speak freely is just one side of capitalism's coin: he can speak, while Mandela rots in prison; meanwhile the title pokes fun at America's “Born Again” Christians, who represent an ambiguous, unsettling face of a society by now adrift, one with nothing left to believe in and therefore capable of believing in anything at all.

Looking back at these years and his political songs, Wyatt comes across as an optimistic Marxist who genuinely hopes to change society. Over time, though, that hope is destined to fade. At a certain point the English musician comes to realize that his ideas are bound to collide with harsh reality. Wyatt is an idealist who firmly believes in everything he does, but the world around him is changing — and above all, the people around him are changing. A new generation of young people is coming up; it's the end of the Eighties, and a figure like Wyatt is starting to seem like an old relic to be tossed aside. So in 1987 the English musician leaves the party: “I left the Communist Party because it had by then become just a launching pad for know-it-alls on TV panels or in the press. I no longer see any difference between the positions of the Marxist-Communist party and those of the social democrats. When I joined the party, at the end of the Seventies, the people I really liked were often the old, glorious anti-fascists who had joined back in the Thirties and had seen it all. There was a plumber who, despite having the chance to move up, chose to remain a rank-and-file member and lived his ideals to the fullest. We used to go to the Morning Star fairs, and I fell hopelessly in love with the people I met there. But then I was disappointed, when a good number of much trendier people showed up — the post-Beatles generation; they'd stand around making sarcastic jokes about the old folks listening to Paul Robeson (the American singer and civil rights activist). I really didn't like those people! They treated me with apparent friendliness, but in reality had nothing in common with me: ‘Oh, we've got a musician, a feather in our cap for our image!’ I had no interest in joining in with the right-wing's mockery of old communists.”

The fall of communism is just around the corner, but Wyatt's ideas don't change. “A lot of us have turned into bird-watchers, but I haven't changed at all. I'll die with the Marxist-Leninist brand burned into my spine. It's not about what I do or say: it's how the world looks to me. I don't expect other people to follow me, but I will never recant. I still don't see any other serious analysis of the world; to me, abandoning Marxism would be like creationists suddenly following Darwin. I'm deeply grateful to Marxism — I consider it invaluable in the fight against apartheid. And I think Joe Slovo (leader of the South African Communist Party) was a true giant among men, a successful communist who knew how to look reality in the eye.”

Robert Wyatt's political history, then, will always be marked by sincerity and a fierce independence — the very same traits that have defined his musical career. Wyatt has never cared about doing things that would win him a following; he has never sought disciples, whether in music or in politics. He has always done what he believed to be right, and the competitive spirit found among musicians has never been part of his mindset.

Let's close with a passage from an interview that perfectly captures Wyatt's personality, and one that should serve as a lesson to many young musicians: “I've never been able to stand the divide between success and failure that the pop industry talks about — for them, a record is either a hit or a total flop. The world of culture I come from, the one I carry in my head, has nothing to do with any of that. It's just about people doing their job, day after day. Yet I've seen musicians panic over having sold fewer copies than a colleague of theirs. None of that concerns me. Having a lot, wealth, huge profit — none of that means anything to me. I just want enough money to live on and spend time with my friends. If someone buys a record of mine, that's very kind of them, and I'm deeply grateful. If someone likes what I do, that's wonderful. If not, well, it means they'll listen to something else instead.”

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