Pip: A Trumpet of Sedition opens with Alabama Shakes — and the question of whether a rock band's reunion can carry the weight of a collapsing ideology. freerein61 is doing something the music press mostly isn't: treating the return of a band as a symptom of something larger.
Mara: This episode covers what that reunion means against the backdrop of American political and cultural crisis — the gap between the dream and the reality, and what serious art can and can't do about it. Let's start with Alabama Shakes and what the American Dream has to do with any of this.
Alabama Shakes and the Crisis of the American Dream
Mara: The post opens with a critique of how the music press has handled the band's return — and then pivots to what a serious assessment actually requires: looking at the conditions of 2026 itself, not just the band's catalogue.
Pip: The post names those conditions directly. The setup is that the "American Dream," invoked in the band's lead single, is not just a lyrical choice — and here's the line: "Its title rejects the myth of national health and upward mobility, making it anything but a neutral artistic gesture in 2026."
Mara: So the single's title is doing political work whether the band announces it or not. The gap between what the American Dream promises and what most people actually experience is the frame through which the whole reunion gets read.
Pip: And the post is careful not to reduce that to a personal statement from Brittany Howard. The argument is structural — artists are being pulled into political conflict through the objective pressures of social life, not through Twitter feuds or stage denunciations.
Mara: That's where the cultural critic David Walsh comes in. The post quotes his observation that growing resistance to authoritarianism "is beginning to find many important expressions, including among classical and popular musicians, actors, writers and even professional athletes." Alabama Shakes fits that current without needing to headline it.
Pip: The post also makes the case that Brittany Howard's identity is itself historically loaded — a Black, queer woman from Alabama, working in soul, blues, and gospel traditions that grew directly out of histories of oppression. That's not identity politics as the post frames it; it's a material fact about what those musical forms carry.
Mara: And then the post turns to the album's emotional structure. The movement in the forthcoming record between exhaustion and wonder, despair and longing, gets read as more than an aesthetic palette — it reflects, the post argues, a society where millions sense something is deeply wrong but can't yet articulate a coherent alternative.
Pip: The music industry context lands here too. Island Records, Universal Music Group, the streaming economy — the post is clear that the reunion exists inside a system organized around risk reduction and the monetization of nostalgia. Genuine artistic intent and commercial pressure aren't separate questions.
Mara: The central question the post leaves open is whether the album will offer what it calls clarity or consolation — whether it cuts through the ideological fog or remains, however beautifully, a portrait of distress. The post calls the early signs encouraging but says the answer waits for the full release.
Pip: Which is the honest answer. Whether the work can point beyond the limits of the present — that's not something a preview can settle.
Mara: And that tension between what art can sense and what it can yet articulate runs through everything else on the site right now.
Pip: The question underneath all of this is whether cultural expression can do more than mirror a crisis — whether it can help name what's causing it.
Mara: That's the work freerein61 is doing here: holding the music and the moment together and asking what each one reveals about the other.
Alabama Shakes’ return after nearly a decade has prompted the mainstream press to respond with its usual blend of breathless anticipation and superficial speculation. Much of the coverage falls back on familiar clichés about “nostalgia,” “reunion energy,” and the band “returning to what they do best.” Repeated across the music press, these phrases say less about Alabama Shakes than about the intellectual limits of contemporary cultural criticism.
A serious assessment must begin with the conditions surrounding this reunion. In 2026, the United States is marked by deep inequality, political instability, and cultural confusion. The “American Dream,” invoked in the band’s lead single, is not simply a poetic image but a historically specific ideology whose failure is now widely recognised. The gap between the promise of upward mobility and the reality of widespread insecurity forms the backdrop to nearly all serious art today, and Alabama Shakes’ return is no exception.
Alabama Shakes, the “American Dream,” and the Cultural Opposition to Authoritarianism
The lack of any direct clash between Alabama Shakes and the current fascists in the White House — no stage denunciation, no Truth Social outburst, no headline-making confrontation — is telling. It does not suggest political neutrality, but points to a deeper feature of the present: artists are being pulled into political conflict less through personal disputes than through the objective pressures of social life. The band’s 2025–26 return comes at a moment when cultural expression can no longer be separated from the political regime. That is the context in which their new work must be understood.
Alabama Shakes fell silent in 2018, during the second year of Trump’s first term. Their 2025–26 return comes under markedly different conditions. The administration’s authoritarian course — attacks on democratic rights, incitement against political opponents, and the concentration of executive power — has created a climate in which artists, writers, and performers increasingly feel compelled to respond.
As cultural critic David Walsh noted earlier this year, this growing resistance “is beginning to find many important expressions, including among classical and popular musicians, actors, writers and even professional athletes.” Bruce Springsteen, Philip Glass, Renée Fleming, and Lucinda Williams have already taken public stands, while Trump’s rhetoric toward dissenting artists has become increasingly hostile. Alabama Shakes has not been directly involved in these confrontations, but its silence should not be confused with political absence.
The Political Weight of the Band’s Existence
The band’s significance does not depend on overt political statements. Brittany Howard — a Black, queer woman from Alabama — leads a group grounded in Black Southern musical traditions: soul, blues, gospel, and R&B. These forms grew out of histories of oppression and resistance and remain inseparable from the struggles of working-class and oppressed people in the Deep South. As a critically acclaimed, Black-led rock band from Alabama, Alabama Shakes carries political weight in a period of reactionary nationalism and racial incitement. This is not identity politics, but historical fact: American popular music, at its most authentic, has long expressed the experience of those subjected to exploitation and injustice. To work seriously within that tradition is itself a challenge to the ideological foundations of authoritarianism. The single “American Dream” sharpens this point. Its title rejects the myth of national health and upward mobility, making it anything but a neutral artistic gesture in 2026.
The Limits and Contradictions of Artistic Opposition
The limits of artistic resistance must also be acknowledged. The WSWS has repeatedly observed that, although more artists are prepared to speak out, political confusion remains the dominant tendency. Many recognise that something is deeply wrong, but lack a coherent framework for understanding its causes or how it might be overcome.
This contradiction is evident in the emotional structure of I Must Be Dreaming. Its movement between exhaustion and wonder — between despair and the search for beauty — is more than an aesthetic choice. It expresses the condition of artists who oppose authoritarianism but remain confined by the ideology of the existing social order. They reject the symptoms without yet grasping the underlying disease. This is not a criticism of Alabama Shakes, but a description of the artistic milieu’s broader political limitations.
The Real Question
The central issue is not whether Alabama Shakes will directly “take on Trump.” The more important question is whether their music can contribute, even indirectly, to a broader cultural shift in which the working class becomes conscious of its own power. Will I Must Be Dreaming remain a beautifully realised portrait of distress, capturing individuals trying to make sense of a collapsing social order? Or will it achieve something rarer: a clarity that cuts through the ideological fog and points, however tentatively, beyond the limits of the present?
The band’s history shows a capacity for seriousness, honesty, and artistic courage, though whether this will develop into more than emotional testimony remains uncertain. Their re-emergence is not simply an effort to recapture earlier success. Brittany Howard’s solo albums — Jaime (2019) and What Now (2024) — revealed a restless search for new forms, rhythms, and emotional registers. Far from side projects, they were necessary explorations that sharpened her artistic vocabulary and broadened the expressive range of her voice. The band’s decision to reunite after this development suggests not a retreat into the familiar, but a renewed effort to confront the contradictions of the present.
Producer Shawn Everett’s return underscores this development. Sound & Colour (2015) stood out among major-label releases of its era for resisting the flattened sound of commercial rock production. Everett preserved the band’s volatility — its sudden turns from quiet reflection to explosive force — without smoothing it into algorithmic uniformity. His involvement suggests a continued effort to push against the sonic limits of the streaming economy.
The Political Dimension: Mood as Symptom of Social Crisis
Reviewers have described “American Dream” as “political,” but usually in the loosest sense. Much contemporary music criticism treats politics as mood — a haze of “chaos,” “division,” or “uncertainty” — rather than as the outcome of concrete social forces. This is more than a methodological flaw; it reveals the ideological disorientation of a cultural layer that senses crisis but lacks the tools to explain it.
The album’s apparent movement between exhaustion and wonder, despair and longing, is more than an emotional palette. It reflects a society in which millions sense that something is deeply wrong but cannot yet articulate a coherent alternative. Artists, like workers, confront a system that promises opportunity while producing insecurity. In this context, the “American Dream” becomes both an object of desire and a symbol of betrayal.
Alabama Shakes are not presenting a political programme, nor should they be expected to. Their work instead captures, with unusual clarity, the emotional and ideological tensions of a society in crisis. The band’s return also reflects a music industry transformed over the past decade. Island Records, a subsidiary of Universal Music Group, operates in a system where streaming has devalued recorded music as a commodity, leaving albums to function chiefly as vehicles for touring, sync licensing, and catalogue valuation. With its critical reputation and cross-generational appeal, Alabama Shakes represents a substantial financial asset.
This does not diminish the artistic impulse behind the reunion. It does, however, place the band’s work within an industry increasingly organised around risk reduction and the monetisation of nostalgia. The tension between genuine artistic intent and commercial pressure is not unique to Alabama Shakes; it is a structural feature of cultural production under contemporary capitalism.
The Central Question: Clarity or Consolation
The question no preview can answer is whether the forthcoming album will simply combine the band’s earlier strengths — raw soul urgency and genre-crossing ambition — or reach for something harder: a clarity equal to the present moment. Can Alabama Shakes cut through the cultural fog of contemporary American life? Can they express, even indirectly, the contradictions of a society where hope endures after the collapse of the ideology that once sustained it? The early signs are encouraging, but the answer will only become clear when the full work is released.
Sources and Bibliography
Primary Sources: Music, Statements, and Industry Materials
Alabama Shakes.Sound & Colour. ATO Records, 2015.
Alabama Shakes.I Must Be Dreaming (forthcoming). Island Records / Universal Music Group, 2026.
Howard, Brittany.Jaime. ATO Records, 2019.
Howard, Brittany.What Now. Island Records, 2024.
Island Records / Universal Music Group. Corporate filings, annual reports, and investor communications (2015–2025).
RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America). “2024 Year‑End Music Industry Revenue Report.”
IFPI (International Federation of the Phonographic Industry).Global Music Report (2020–2025).
“I get angry at the cost of living rising because I know the struggle to pay for your life fractures relationships.”
Joy Crookes
“First, art is the cognition of life. Art is not the free play of fantasy, feelings, and moods: art is not the expression of merely the subjective sensations and experiences of the poet… Like science, art cognises life”
Aleksandr Voronsky
“The peculiarity of the artist lies only in the fact that he unconsciously separates and notices only the typical, and this typical is not abstract, but concrete. It is an object and exists in the form of images”.
Aleksandr Voronsky
It is unquestionably true that the need for art is not created by economic conditions. But neither is the need for food created by economics. On the contrary, the need for food and warmth creates economics.
Leon Trotsky
Joy Crookes (born 1998) is a British singer-songwriter of Bangladeshi and Irish heritage whose work blends soul, R&B, jazz, and chamber pop with sharply observed autobiographical lyrics. She emerged as a distinctive voice in the 2010s-2020s for her warm, expressive vocal delivery and songs that interweave family history, migration, class and intimate relationships. Her debut album, Skin (2021), and earlier EPs and singles established her reputation for crafting songs that make private memory speak to broader social conditions.
Her debut album, Skin, and her follow-up album, Juniper, were written while embedded in the stifling atmosphere of the capitalist cultural economy—the crisis of the music industry and streaming economics shape who survives and what reaches audiences. Crookes frequently weaves social commentary into her music, drawing on her South London upbringing and Bangladeshi and Irish heritage to explore systemic issues. Her debut album, Skin, was particularly noted for its “vibrant politics and beautiful storytelling”, as were all her previous works.
“You seem to forget you came here through a woman, show some… respect.” – was seen as a challenge to patriarchy and male-dominated capitalist political systems, and was written in response to the 2016 US election and the experiences of women in her family. Kingdom”: Written the day after the 2019 UK General Election, it critiqued the re-election of the Conservative party and the resulting “wave of anti-immigration sentiment”. “No such thing as a Kingdom When tomorrow’s done for the children.” – Suggests that the state has failed the future generations.
Joy Crookes’ second album, Juniper (2025), is a richly textured work that blends soul, R&B, jazz, and chamber pop with candid lyrics about family, class, identity, and love. Musically and lyrically, it rewards close, repeated listening: warm string and jazz-influenced arrangements sit beside spare piano ballads and beat-driven songs. At the same time, Crookes’ voice moves between intimacy and soaring intensity. The album is notable for its ability to make personal memories and family stories speak to broader social conditions.
Listeners should pay close attention to the jazz chords, strings and restrained production, which create a humane atmosphere that contrasts with the alienation Crookes describes. “Mathematics” is a beautifully crafted song and my favourite on the album. As a social document shaped by class relations and cultural forms, it works on many levels. Crookes often grounds other songs in family portraits and migration histories.
It would help the listener to transcribe the lyrics and identify concrete images, used by Crookes such as repeated motifs, numbers, calculation, measurement), and who speaks. Her mother appears in several songs, suggesting an extraordinarily close bond between mother and daughter. Her words, arrangement, tempo, and vocal tone reflect her worldview.
Crooke’s music is a confirmation that Art cannot be separated from the social forces that produce it. But she is different and an exception. Most mainstream music globally is banal and controlled by corporate entities that shape what reaches mass audiences and how artists survive the music industry’s exploitation and streaming stratification. Crookes’ Juniper stands apart in that it centres working-class life and minority experience rather than offering mere escapism.
Joy Crookes’ Juniper is more than an accomplished musical second album; it is a resource for developing working-class cultural literacy. Reading songs as documents of lived social relations trains the political imagination—turning private memory into collective understanding and, ultimately, organised action. Her album should be treated as both an artistic and pedagogical text. A socialist analysis of her work will help build a socialist consciousness and a socially equal society based on need, not profit.
“I’ve been told that no one sings the word ‘hunger’ like I do. Or the word ‘love’.”
Billie holiday
“Holiday’s voice, no matter how the Dufty/Holiday interviewing process went, is as real as rain.
David Ritz
The government has failed us; you can’t deny that. Anytime you live in the twentieth century, 1964, and you’re walking around here singing We Shall Overcome, the government has failed us. This is part of what’s wrong with you — you do too much singing. Today, it’s time to stop singing and start swinging. You can’t sing up on freedom, but you can swing up on some freedom. Cassius Clay can sing, but singing didn’t help him become the heavyweight champion of the world; swinging helped him achieve that title.
Lady Sings the Blues is a brutally honest warts-and-all autobiography of Billie Holiday, the legendary jazz singer. Holiday died on July 17, 1959, at the Metropolitan Hospital in East Harlem, New York City, due to complications of chronic drug abuse. Holiday had an unbelievably difficult childhood. Born on April 17, 1915, in Baltimore, Maryland. Her mother, Sadie Fagan, was 13 years old, and her father, Clarence “Pop” Holiday, was just 15. Her birth name was Eleonora, which she later changed to Billie.
Holiday grew up fast, surviving an abusive childhood; her mother did loads of different jobs, including prostitution. She grew up in Baltimore and Harlem brothels. It has been said that she had a limited vocal range but went on to be a unique singer with an “unsettling emotional wallop”. While it is tempting to see Holiday as a victim, that is not how she saw things. Her memoir was written with help from William Dufty, and according to David Ritz, “Holiday’s voice, no matter how the Dufty/Holiday interviewing process went, is as real as rain. She is open about her sexual abuse, her forced imprisonment, her heroin addiction, and in a minimal way, her struggles of being African American before the development of the Civil Rights Movement.
Some facts in the book have been disputed.[3] John Szwed argues in his 2015 study, Holiday, Billie Holiday: The Musician and the Myth, that most of the book is accurate; however, Holiday’s co-writer, William Dufty, was allegedly pressured to suppress material due to the threat of legal action. Writing in the New Yorker Richard Brody said “In particular, Szwed traces the stories of two important relationships that are missing from the book—with Charles Laughton, in the nineteen-thirties, and with Tallulah Bankhead, in the late nineteen-forties—and of one relationship that’s sharply diminished in the book, her affair with Orson Welles around the time of Citizen Kane.”[4]
Her untimely death at the age of just 44 ended the career of one of the most important jazz vocalists of the 20th century. While the re-release of her autobiography by Penguin in 2018 went some way in reestablishing her importance. However, the release of the 2015 film by Lee Daniels, The United States vs. Billie Holiday, was a significant misrepresentation of Holiday. According to John Andrews, writing in the World Socialist Website, the film “dishonoured” her work and was a “seriously misguided effort”.
He writes, “The film was populated with historical and entirely fictional characters, blended haphazardly with actual and fabricated historical events, replete with sloppy mistakes and anachronisms too numerous to catalogue. One prominent example from the film: methadone was not used to treat heroin addiction until some years after Holiday died.”[5]
Naturally, Holiday’s autobiography suffers from a substantial fixation on race; this is not surprising given how much racial abuse she suffered, but it is largely divorced from the social struggles of postwar America, as expressed in both the growing civil rights movement and official, state-sponsored anti-communism. Given Holidays’ limited political understanding, she cannot place her life struggle within the broader aesthetic developments of that tumultuous period, not only in jazz, but also in film, literature, and art.
“Strange Fruit”
One of those broader aesthetic developments is Holiday’s relationship with the song Strange Fruit. In her 1956 autobiography, Lady Sings the Blues, Holiday suggests that she worked on the song together with Abel Meeropol. Holiday’s economy with the truth has circulated for decades, with Holiday even claiming that the song was written for her and that she had a hand in writing it herself. Meeropol always denied this claim. David Margolick and Hilton Als, in their work Strange Fruit: The Biography of a Song, said that her account “may set a record for most misinformation per column inch”. Even stranger was Holidays’ response when challenged about the song in her ghost-written book; she said, “I ain’t never read that book.”
“Strange Fruit” is not an easy song to listen to and requires several listens to appreciate its complexity. Peter Daniels, in his article “Strange Fruit, believed it was the original protest song. “It is simple, spare, but effective poetry. At a time when political protest was not often expressed in musical form, the song depicted lynching in all of its brutality. The three short verses are all the more potent for their understated and ironic language. The juxtaposition of a beautiful landscape with the scene of lynching, the smell of magnolias with that of burning flesh, the blossoms more typically associated with the Southern climate with the “strange fruit” produced by racial oppression—this imagery conjures up the essence of racist reaction. Racism in America stands indicted and exposed by these lines, with no need at all for a more didactic or agitational message.[6]
Meeropol was a member of the American Communist Party from 1932 to 1947. When Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were executed for espionage, he and his wife adopted their two sons; both children took the surname “Meeropol” In 1937, he published “Bitter Fruit” in the New York teachers’ union journal. The song was Meeropol’s response to seeing a photo of a lynching. Like many of his generation, he was radicalised by the Russian Revolution, the threat of fascism, and the Great Depression.
Holiday cannot be faulted for not undertaking a more detailed examination of the issues surrounding “Strange Fruit”. Holiday does not even begin to understand why the poorest section of the white working class would turn their desperation into racist atrocities. The book does not probe the class roots of racism as a means of dividing the working class. Any limited gains made by the black working class were made possible by the militancy of millions of black workers in the industrial struggles of the 1930s.
Also absent from the book is Holiday’s comprehension of the role played by the American Communist Party and its Popular Front politics. The holiday does not mention that socialists and communists were on the front line of the struggle for racial equality.
As Daniels points out, “There was a tremendous contradiction inherent in the work of artists, writers and intellectuals who the CP influenced in the 1930s and ’40s. On the one hand, as part of a leftward-moving working class and intelligentsia, they were attracted by the promise of the Russian Revolution. They articulated, to one degree or another, anger at capitalist exploitation and oppression, as well as hopes for social equality and socialism. Most of this layer, however, identified the Russian Revolution with the regime in the Kremlin. Only a minority agreed with the socialist opposition to Stalinism articulated by Leon Trotsky. Meeropol was one of the majority on the left who aligned with the CP during this period. The creative work of these individuals could not help but be influenced by their blind obedience to the Soviet bureaucracy and its reactionary political stance.[7]
Since the release of the 2018 Penguin version of Lady Sings the Blues, interest in Holiday seems to have waned a little. It is hoped that, with the current protests against the fascist Trump administration, interest in the holiday and the song “Strange Fruit” will begin to take hold. There has already been a limited revival of interest in the music, as evidenced by the many more recent recordings. Her autobiography has significant weaknesses, but it is worth reading, and Holiday, after all, was one of a kind.
A Trumpet of Sedition 