Stop Shopping Tour UK (2003)

2003-06-12T15:02:00.000-07:00

Day 7 : Show Me The Way to Go Home, I'm Tired and I Want to Go to Bed

It is a gloomily rainy morning when we awake. It takes us much too long to convene and get in the bus, and everyone--Ange especially--seems cranky. The details of last night are fuzzy for those of us who went out on the town. Some of our group managed to do a bit of "nighttime networking" with some of the more comely young artists in town; your fearless reporter managed to have another three yarders of ale with the ex-guitarist from Pulp before going home to sip on Scotch and pass out. The rest--namely, the older and more responsible folk--slept soundly in their beds. Bill's bedtime, Savitri informs us, is 11:17 New York time, no matter where he is in the world. Their eyes being less puffy and bloodshot, their stomachs less twisted, their memories of yesterday considerably more indelible, they are the ones to envy this morning, especially as we are facing a three hour ride in the cramped minibus.

The mood on the way home is quiet, matching the rain. Many people retreat into headphones or newspapers, which is infinitely better than Savitri's rendition of a Christina Aguilera song (with Bill's accompaniment). Jon draws quietly in his notebook. Ange has Chris and James sort out the finances and keeps up a constant monologue, always and forever planning and organizing. I am tired of planning, want only to exist in the moment for just an hour or so. Tyler and I catch up on our personal lives, our friendship taking precedence over our working relationship for just a little while; he reaches across to open the bus window and gives me a small black eye in the process. The vibrations in the van are becoming loose and disjointed. Cabin fever is setting in.

We stop at a hidden restaurant near Scotch Beach for refreshment. Tyler and I order fish and chips at the urging of Jon, who says if we're going to eat it, we should do so here and not in London. Being a vegetarian, I don't eat much fish, but I make an exception for local custom; it's delicious. We are sitting with various shipworkers all of whom can't stop staring at us. At the table nearest us, one of them around age fifty leafs through The Daily Sport, a commonplace national tabloid. It features the normal celebrity gossip and "oops" shots with headlines like "Emma Bunton, Braless at Last!" that you see on many of the rags adorning the newsagents'. This issue in particular, however, gives me pause: the man, licking his fingers, stares idly at a two page spread featuring a twin set of blond waifs, naked from the waist up. The headline proclaims "Girls, 16, Bare It All!" I'm taken aback, first at the idea that this tabloid is seen as so commonplace that it sits alongside The Guardian and businessmen carry it on the Tube without feeling shame. Secondly at the tender age of the girls; were I to purchase this issue and attempt to bring it back with me to the U.S., would I be arrested at DFW for trafficking child pornography? The dual standards of public decency and British shame are mindboggling.

Back in Nottingham we are welcomed once again into the Sumac Centre and given a veritable feast of potato-and-leek soup, those excellent veggie burgers, and all of the cakes in the world. We gorge ourselves and relax like fattened ticks. Richard, Jon and James play a round of "Do You Have This Crap Band In America?" with us. Richard reveals his past as a movie extra, and tells us a very funny anecdote from his work as a concentration camp victim on "Band of Brothers" involving Donnie Wahlberg spitting in his cheese. We are universally bedraggled and needing of creature comforts tonight. Jon drags home to his own flat and leaves us behind with an open invitation to come by his place and watch DVDs. The rest of us head back to Ange's to recuperate, catch up on emails, and ready ourselves for London.

Tyler, James, Andrew, Chris and I head out on the town with Ange's neighbor Tour, a gregarious Viking of a man. We end up in the Broadway center again, having a few drinks, plotting an action against Diesel. It seems that Diesel has taken on protesting as a niche market these days, turning their website into a mock-up of Indymedia, complete with a "Post Your Protest" web board and mannequins bearing "funny" placards in the shop windows. It seems ripe for our own particular brand of nonsense, and before long the plan to take on London's Diesel store, the mothership as it were, begins to take shape.

Back on the streets, Tyler and Chris and I head off with Tour in search of more libation, ending up in another crowded pub with half the Broadway. It gets late and, needing food to soak up the alcohol we've ingested, we stop off in a kebob house. There Tour is approached by a large Rastafarian-type who appears to know him personally, so chummy are they towards each other. Tour points him our way. The man leans in, asking if we're interested in purchasing something. "I've got some nice Afghan," he says. "Straight from Kabul." "Okay then, " I say. After all, the Americans own Kabul now; they must have some good shit on their hands. Tyler heads outside to conduct the business, which is a mistake considering how drunk he is. After much too little deliberation he comes back in, pressing something hard into my hand. "It might be hash," he says, "but it doesn't look right." It doesn't indeed, and, after getting it home and attempting to cut it with a heated knife--and smelling the unmistakeable scent of cedar--we confirm that we have been taken for fools at 20 quid. Luckily karma is on our side: on his way home James has found a slappers' wallet full of 30 quid cash and no identification. He gives us the 20 quid back, to restore our faith in the British people.

We watch some TV with Richard and Ange's son Angus. "Top of the Pops" features a rap group who sing about "diamonds and Bentleys," with the couplet:
"We're gonna make you shop until you vomit
Make you a shopaholic."

Are these things happening for a reason? Things seem imbued with so much meaning lately. Best to rest up before London turns us inside out.

2003-06-12T14:20:00.000-07:00

Day 6 : Sailing the Seas of High Society, Three Sheets to the Wind (Part 3)

Our friends in Newcastle have directed us to the seaside, the site of a "bold new invention" in the field of contextual art. Called "Show Home," it's a mock-up of a traditional English bungalow positioned at various places around the country. In this particular showing, it is right in the middle of the harbor. Leading up to the exhibition, the team behind Show Home have placed various ads in the real estate listings, littered the city with promotional flyers, and produced a glitzy infomercial (including a complicated introductory shot that could only be achieved with a helicopter cameraman--cost: US$120,000 and up). The payoff is this thing we stand in front of now on the coastline, this simple frame home with a single door and two curtained windows, white with a conservative green trim. It appears to be an ordinary home until you take a walk around back and--whoa!--it's revealed to be nothing more than a sham, a studio mock-up held up on struts, with nothing at all behind it! Deary me, what a poignant commentary on (choose one) real estate / commercialism / art! Nearby a table staffed with participating artists (including our hosts) dressed in Show Home fleece jackets distribute thick, extravagantly produced glossy brochures that invite you to consider the piece in its context, including the expense spent on its promotion.

Here, after much consideration, is what I draw from Show Home : Britain seems to shovel an awful lot of money down the toilet when it comes to the arts. In fact, this piece--with its astronomical promotions budget and the nearby cruise ship stocked with open bar and a buffet made for its reception--seems to be a metaphor for art itself: so much money goes into its construction and conception and in surrounding it with proper yes-men and apologists, and then you take a peek behind all of the artifice and--surprise!--it's nothing but a bit of rotting lumber propped up on struts. Ha ha, joke's on you, Plebeian! Or, as Reverend Billy puts it as we head inside the cruise ship, "Fuck art! What a load of bullshit!" Amen, Reverend, amen.

Inside, we join the swarm of "artistes" chatting each other up gamely, sipping their free Chianti, milling about the spread of quiche and strange luncheon rolls. "Ooh, I think Antony Gormley is here!" one woman whispers to another, and the hive buzzes. The Stop Shoppers, slightly worn and many wary as I am of so many disingenuous folk in one ship of fools, take a table near the back. Ange gamely encourages us to network, which I do by ordering two pints at once and slipping below deck to chew up Vicodin as though they were Tic-Tacs before heading out onto the deck. The conversation--natterings that sound vaguely like "Clever clever, oh so bloody clever, we're clever, you're clever, I'm clever, aren't we clever?"--drives me out into the whipping winds overlooking this marina. Dockworkers nearby go about their business against the sunset, completely oblivious to this self-fellating cocktail party of the damned.

The sun goes down. Don, the youth worker who's been trailing us since this morning, takes up a sizeable space in the bar area, the more skittish of the art community giving wide berth to this exciteable ruffian who schools me in proper Geordie slang. He has brought along with him a young man of barely 17 from somewhere on the streets; the boy has been drinking steadily somehow while under Don's charge, and now that Don is already staggering a bit, Ange has taken it upon herself to see that the kid stays away from the bar. He stumbles twice on the stairs, reeling back and forth a bit to the horror of some of the older art patrons. I secretly hope he reels back and vomits on the buffet spread, but Ange gets him outside and settled before that can happen.

Before long we are weaving along the pier, most of us red-faced and drunk, making our way back to the Metro station. Don has me in a headlock and he is sloshing ale from the pint glass which he has lifted from the party all over my shoes as he talks. He does a passable impression of American dialect, talking up "Chad McGintley's kegger party on the south lawn, dudes," in a flat Midwestern drone. It seems to me again that the impression many Englanders have of Americans comes from movies like "American Pie," a theory which several confirm. "Nah, you're all right, you're from Austin," Don hiccups. "Fucking Alex Jones is from Austin, that guy's geet radge!" Hearing Don invoke the name of Austin's preeminent conspiracy theorist and cable access whacko is a bit more than my thudding brain can handle. The same goes for Savitri's gross-out retelling of her waitressing days and the barfly who insisted on eating his own vomit out of embarrassment. Strange things are happening all around me.

On the train, I try my best to keep up with a conversation about music with a local Newcastle girl who seems to have her eye on Andrew (their inadvertently wearing matching coats that day has proven to be an excellent icebreaker). As I struggle to maintain balance, Don hits me up for a light for his cigarette. I point to the myriad "No Smoking" signs posted around the car, which Don scoffs at. "I used to work on the trains," he says through one eye. "I know what ye can get away with." I light him up as he tosses his pint glass to another part of the car. Things feel loose and edgy, like any minute we could all be arrested. This is only compounded by a sudden commotion from the back of the car, where the 17 year-old we'd brought along and drunkened with art's finest ales has gotten into a fight with another Newcastle youth. Richard tells him to calm down and the kid leaps to his feet, yelling "Keep your opinions bloody well to yourself!" Our charge stands and punches at him with a lethargic glare, never changing expression even as the kid lands a retaliatory glance on his face. Richard, trying to intervene, takes one in the eye, though it's not serious, and the inflammatory youth is pushed out at the next stop. The doors close on him as he bangs against the plexiglass, shouting death threats and spitting great gobs of phlegm. Our young companion gloomily extends a middle finger to him as the train rolls on, and Richard leaves him then, calmly brushing himself off, his eye a bit puffy but with no real damage done.

It's been a rowdy evening, and once we are out of the station we can hardly be contained from rushing out and whooping off to our individual flats. Some of us head out into the pubs and oblivion, others crawl home to bed. It will be another early morning and a long ride home to Nottingham. The curtain comes down on Newcastle. The dust settles.

2003-06-12T13:33:00.000-07:00

Day 6 : Whirl Around the Fountain (Part 2)

Back at Blake's, flush with success from his defeat of the Christians on their own turf, the Reverend Billy removes his priest's collar and breathes in deeply. His flock, most of us familiar and a few newly converted, huddle around for further words of wisdom, but Billy says with some relief, "I've done my work for the day." He is off to change clothes and relax, something that is in order for all of us after this morning's flurry of activity. The Independent reporter and photographer hover around expectantly as he disappears and Ange rounds us up for phase two of the Newcastle actions, a Whirl-Mart in a nearby ASDA.

ASDA, as we Americans are informed, is the new British spawn of Wal-Mart, the latest tentacle to emerge from that inky black demon across the pond. Though they are relegated to the outskirts of major towns and have yet to reach the ubiquity that their American forefathers enjoy, the new encroachment of ASDA on local markets is already a worrisome one. It is our duty, therefore, to bring our homegrown tactic of fighting these superstores with controlled foolishness, which is Andrew's Whirl-Mart. For the uninitiated, Andrew explains that the purpose is to "enter the cathedral of consumption"--the store--and "invade it with our silent energy," a soft prayer manifest in a chain of "non-shoppers" pushing empty carts for an hour, or the duration of an average church service. It's a ritual that has garnered much attention in the States and spread to cities all over the world; James is responsible for starting the London chapter, and yours truly led his own coterie in Austin. The Newcastle folk eat this up gleefully. It's a silent bit of protest that doesn't harm anyone, and puts ideas on the table in a subtle way, rather than through a megaphone. All in all, 22 of us are game.

We board the Metro over to ASDA. Upon disembarking, we change there in the station into our Whirl-Mart uniforms--matching white shirts with the Whirl-Mart logo and varying slogans (mine reads "Consumption Awareness")--pulling them over our own clothes and hiding them under jackets for the walk over. Meanwhile, Richard goes on ahead, readying himself for his own action. He is dressed in a black shirt with Velcro strips adorned with interchangeable letters, today reading "The Grape Escape," his latest brainchild which is seeing its maiden flight today. During the Whirl-Mart, Richard will drop grapes (which he has purchased from the ASDA) through holes in his pants leg--hence the nod to Steve McQueen and Co. dropping pocketfuls of dirt in a similar fashion--and scatter them along the linoleum. This is a response to an infamous lawsuit, whereby a woman shopping in a U.S. Wal-Mart successfully sued the company for damages following a nasty slip on an errant grape. Richard hopes to facilitate others in their universal need to get rich quick while simultaneously bankrupting a monolithic corporation by providing the grapes. It will be an interesting test run.

The rest of us file in two by two, animals headed to the Ark of Savings. We are greeted immediately by the ominous "CCTV - You Are Being Watched" signs that seem to be everywhere in England. Being a veteran of eight Whirl-Marts I can usually sense when our demonstrations are going to be met with resistance and when they are going to be ignored; within minutes I am sure that this particular Whirl will be a circus. The employees of ASDA are a mixed lot of punky teens in day-Glo Beckham cuts and non-nonsense managers in fleece pull-ups; curiously it's the punky teens who seem to be sneering at us. The managers are actually bemused, standing by and watching, chuckling softly to themselves. They submit to a questioning by both the Independent reporter and Ange. The general manager of the store actually tells Ange, "Look, just because I work here doesn't mean that I agree with the way the company runs its business. I heard about what Wal-Mart did in America. I think it's awful." Leaning in, he asks softly, "Say, do you think I could get one of those t-shirts?"

The customers are less agreeable. Many mutter and shoot daggers as they pass. "It's some sort of crazy cult!" one woman exclaims into her phone. Mostly we hear that familiar refrain of "Fucking students!" that has dogged us all along. Another couple, desperately trying to pick out the best brand of potato crisps (thankfully foregoing the Monster Munch Vanilla Ice Cream & Roast Beef combo that turns my stomach even now, safely thousands of miles away) harrumphs, "Consumption awareness! If they were really aware of the consumer they'd let us get on!" Meanwhile a duo of snickering 13 year-old girls dolled up in Britney-esque half-shirts gallop around behind us, giggling uncontrollably every time they meet us head on. For them the impact is definitely lost, us being nothing more than a gaggle of nerdy folks doing something nerdy, no doubt.

But for the rest of the store, we are undoubtedly an anomaly in their otherwise dull shopping day. Two young boys, excited by the rebelliousness of it all, ask to join up, and we slip them shirts as they fall into rank, beaming proudly. Many stop, grinning ear to ear, to watch the parade. A smiling mother of four touches my arm as I pass, asking politely, "Say, what are you doing?" I reply as the caravan moves on, "It's what we're *not* doing." She nods as though she understands perfectly. For me, this is the nadir of my Whirl-Mart experience. At the end of the hour, I find myself leading the pack of all 22. Over my shoulder I see a perfectly formed line of twisting, rattling empty carts and their stoic white-clad drivers looking placidly back at me. I spy James, head of the London chapter, and our founder Andrew, who probably never dreamed that the "something foolish" he'd engineered two years ago in response to an Adbusters article would lead him here; we three kooks from separate coasts are united for the first time in the same Whirl, and the feeling is something approaching brotherly love. It is surreal to say the least.

Outside before we return our carts, the Independent photographer has us stage an entrance to the store, lining up our backs and pretending to enter again. The reporter jots down a few quotes from the participants. I offer a few of the choice things overheard to her, as well as my own personal take on it having been a long-time veteran of the Whirl action, and all the while she nods and smiles politely, her notebook and pen at her side. I'm being blocked out again, but this time I don't care. The sense of euphoria that comes from peacefully pushing carts around in a meditative state wins out over publicity. You can see this euphoria on the faces of the newcomers as we part ways with them, many of whom talk excitedly about making this a regular sport.

For the rest of us, it's on to enjoy ourselves out by the coast in the waning daylight. It's been a productive day. Now it's time to get drunk.

2003-05-28T15:11:00.000-07:00

Day 6 : Stuck Inside of Newcastle with the Shopping Blues Again (Part 1)

This morning I visit Blake's coffee shop--with its baffling history of R&B decor and borderline offensive Louis Armstrong statue--no less than three times. The first time is the worst, coming as it does very early on and after a night of oft-interrupted sleep. I'm staying in the front room of a flat overlooking the Bigg Market, and the various geordies and slappers performing their mating rituals until 4 a.m. have kept me up nearly until sunrise. Further to that, there is a stated purpose to my being here, which is to meet with a reporter from the Independent and walk her through the tour, but I am finding myself ignored. I have a bad feeling about this article from the beginning. It's 1700 words, a two-page spread, and yet the reporter doesn't seem all that interested in anything outside of the Reverend Billy. Ange stresses to her that Bill is merely one-tenth of the tour, and to have any articles about him now is a compromise of his planned publicity tour in the fall--a compromise he is contractually obligated to avoid.

The reporter nods and smiles politely and allows Ange to show her the PowerPoint presentations. When it comes to ReTag she leaves off and asks me to explain it to her. I spend several minutes on it and not once does she turn on the tape recorder. In fact, I seem to have hit a wall with her when I say she's not allowed to use my full name, for legal reasons. After explaining the project for perhaps three minutes she cuts me off and says if she uses any information at all, then that's more than enough. I get the feeling I'm wasting my time with her, a feeling that's compounded when she similarly ignores Tyler and ReCode, a project that's received ten times the media attention as any other on the tour. Finally, Bill arrives and her face lights up, and the tape starts rolling again. This is going to be exactly what we feared it would be: a puff-piece on Billy. I suppose it's to be expected. Most of the other projects are anonymous in their presentation, stressing a "you can do this at home" message. These are difficult to frame, much more so than Reverend Billy's admittedly captivating cult of personality.

As we wait for them to finish, I have a little time to reflect on the city. Newcastle is, as Andrew puts it, the most European city we've been to thus far. Something in the architecture is so preserved and so foreign. But this is especially evident in the people. The accents of the true "geordies" are virtually indecipherable at times. The trio of window-washers I passed this morning may as well have been speaking Russian; the only word I recognized was "fucking." There's a harshness to the language that speaks volumes about this town, still suffering from the closures of its mines and shipyards. This may be why they are so willing to engage in politically charged debate. For them, their politics are right out in front of them, the consequences of political defeat or apathy translating into a dying township.

It is time, then, to throw our hat into the ring and enter this debate. At the heart of the city, under the pacifist gaze of the Earl Grey statue, many locals are gathered around, locked in a daily argument with an envoy of American Christians. They have set up a microphone on the ground and in front of them as well, and invite people with questions to come up and give them, and they will tell them what Jesus thinks. It's a typically Christian presumption that all of the answers are right there in front of you, and just by letting him into your heart you achieve a gnosis that is worthy of solving all the problems you can throw at it. That's why they stage these "debates" in such public forums all over the world; step right up, Newcastle, and let's play "Stump the Lord."

But things are different today. There's a new preacher in town, and before the Christians can turn up the gain on their tiny amp, the Reverend Billy is right next to them and his megaphone peals across the square like church bells:

"I'd like to present an alternative viewpoint if I may," he says, and the crowd is suddenly silent. "Because Jesus was NOT a Christian. He was never in a church. He never had a religion. He threw the moneylenders out of the temple. Christianity, on the other hand, is a franchise. And it's the franchise that brought us this war."

Within seconds, he has the crowd in the palm of his hands. They cheer wildly. The Christian group slinks off to the side, knowing they have been outdone, having no rebuttal, perhaps believing that it is time to turn the other cheek. Strange, because ostensibly they were here for a debate, and the Reverend Billy has likely raised the most salient points of the day. Instead of replying, however, they gather together in a group hug and perform a long group prayer. I sidle up to the side of them and overhear this:

"Lord, protect us from false prophets."

But false or not, the prophet has already won his disciples over. "Can you hear us coming, children of Starbucks?" he says, leading the crowd further down the street. A trio of fire engines sits outside as though waiting for him, but Billy is unperturbed. He heads directly onto the Starbucks patio, and schools all of the customers there in the plight of the Guatemalan bean picker. He has drawn a crowd of about 50-75 people behind him, and the customers likely feel they're on stage.

One elderly woman I ask for her opinion is extremely tight-lipped and conservative with her answer: "I'll probably go home and read about what he's saying and form my own opinion."

Her even more elderly mother hisses at her: "Don't give an opinion! You don't have an opinion!"

"I'm sorry," says the first lady. "I don't have an opinion."

A nearby table of schoolgirls think Billy is "mint" (as in goood) but protest that they don't actually buy anything from Starbucks, but routinely meet there just to abuse the patio, never buying anything. "And what's with not buying anything?" one of them says. "Do I have to give up my jacket? I love my jacket. What else do I have to get rid of?"

It's a good question, but the circus has moved on. An Italian girl tugs at my sleeve, wanting to know what's going on. I ask her where she came from, and she says she was miserable out there by the statue listening to the Christians when suddenly Billy arrived.

"I'm anticapitalist as well," she says, rolling a cigarette. "I don't believe in anything, especially religion. But I do believe in something he's saying."

This is a sentiment shared by Don, a youth worker we've picked up in a similar fashion. He was out there in the middle of a debate with the Christians when suddenly Billy appeared and "spoke right to him." Don will be with us for the rest of our time in Newcastle, which is a testament to the Reverend's powers of conversion.

Down the street, Billy stops in front of a McDonald's. He begins to shake and shimmy in a James Brown soul revival style: "Ha! Huh! Because it feels good! Huh! It feels so gooood to stop buying crap from transnational corporations! Hoo-ah! Devil clown, I cast thee OUT!"

Much to our surprise a McDonald's worker comes out and opens the door, but rather than shooing us away, she smiles, and extends her hand in a thumbs-up gesture. She is listening and she likes what she hears. "You don't have to work there!" Billy says. "We are not condemning you! Come and join us and we will find you work that is more fulfilling!" But she doesn't take him up on his offer.

Shortly, a rather irate man stuffed into a conservative suit approaches. He is joined by three hard-scrabble geordie youths, walking the streets at this fine hour in the a.m. carrying a bottle of wine. They are piss-drunk and belligerent. The businessman, on the other hand, is sober and deadset on proving Billy wrong.

"Do you like Jesus?" the businessman says.

"I like the ideas and teachings of Jesus but I don't like Christianity," Billy says.

"Hey! Is that hairspray?" one of the geordies asks of Billy's pompadour.

"Yeah, you need to dye your hair again! It's all gone gray on the sides!" his friend adds.

"So McDonald's is bad, so what's good then?" the businessman asks.

"Well, I like the gift economy," says Billy. "Things like McDonald's create so much corporate wealth, they don't do anything for the towns they're in."

"Hey, you! This guy uses hair dye!" the geordies say again.

"But what you're saying is not doing anything," the businessman opines. "It's not gonna change opinions. These corporations are still going to make money. It proves nothing. Saying McDonald's is bad isn't going to change anything. And the fact is, it's British beef from Britain, and that helps Britain's economy. You can change McDonald's without stopping them from being multinational. Being multinational doesn't stop them from being good."

"You're obviously not living in the real world," says Don.

At this point it turns into a livelier informed debate and I am trying to stay with it, when suddenly the three geordie youths surround me.

"Hey, he's fucking irrelevant is what he is," one of them says. "What's the point of this?"

"Ah, it's not so bad," his friend replies. "I appreciate anyone who kicks off with a megaphone."

"Does it matter what they're kicking off about? Or is it just enough he has a megaphone?"

The third boy is still staring at Billy, taking a long pull off the wine bottle. "Hey!" he says. "That guy's a hoodlum! He's disturbing the peace! He's gonna get lifted!"

"Hey, is he some sort of preacher?" the first one asks me.

"He's a preacher in the Church of Stop Shopping," I say.

"The Church of Stop Shopping, ay? What a load of bollocks. Can I just start my own religion then? Does it work like that?"

"As far as I know," I say.

"All right, I'm Jesus!" he screams to the throng. "I'm the Third Coming! Listen to me!"

"No really," his friend says, getting closer. "What's his point? That big corporations start war? If he doesn't like big corporations he can take whatever he wants! You can justify taking anything from a big company."

"You can justify taking anything from anybody," says his friend, snatching my pen momentarily before laughing and giving it back.

"No really," says the boy with the Christ complex. "It's like you'll pay 5 times more for any car in this country than you would anywhere else, especially on taxes. It's awful! It's never been the same since they shut down the boatyards. All the mines were privatized and ever since then it shut down the city."

"Yeah!" his friend says. "So use sticks! Go and set the government on fire! I'd burn everything down and then make those two over there"--he points to a nearby Anne Summers display of two scantily-clad women--"strip and put their tities together for me and have a kiss."

He is then lost in reverie and, captivated as I am by this chance to be the mouthpiece for these obviously salt-of-the-earth creatures, I am trying to get back into the much more grown-up debate, which by this time has become quite heated as the businessman and another man I've never seen before yell these seeming non-sequitirs at each other:

"Your kind ended the party!"
"No, a white man ended the party!"
"You've got to let people into your protest and he doesn't appreciate that!"
"Hey, black people shut it down! This whole fucking city--all cities!"
"Eh, well you don't know anything about South Africa!"
"Nelson Mandela was a faggot idiot! He's not even recognized for ending apartheid!"
"Is too!"
"Is not!"
"Is too!"
"Is not!"

It is several minutes of furious scribbling before I look up and realize that Reverend Billy--and all of the Stop Shoppers--are several blocks away, already planning our next move. I give up on trying to frame these scintillating points of view in any sort of context and run to meet them.

2003-05-28T14:03:00.000-07:00

Day 5 : 250 Plastered Geordies As You've Never Seen Them Before

After a long night's rest in our comfortable, IKEA-decked hotel rooms (thanks Jackie and Michael), we again load up the bus and head over to Newcastle. We're a bit worried as to how people in this town will receive us. We've heard that people in Newcastle tend to be working class and a bit rough around the edges, coal miners with no more coal mines, callous people who wear no jackets as a source of pride despite it being miserably cold all the time, hard northerners resentful of soft southerners--oh, and possibly unforgiving of us and our breed of artsy vandalism, because it puts a burden on the people in the lower rungs of the companies we're fighting. So we have to try harder to connect. "Good sense of humor, though" says James as he tries to reassure us. The heated debates of yesterday have taken away some of the playfulness usually inherent in our perfomances, and there is a new sense of us being student-y and exclusive that perhaps we have yet to address.

To relax, our driver Ange cranks up the radio on "Grooves in the Heart" and Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror." Just because we have strong political and artistic convictions doesn't necessarily mean we have discriminating taste in music.

On the way there I am struck by an article in the Guardian, on new designer sensation Johnnie Boden. "Boden is selling more than a new casual look," the article states. "He is selling a middle class dream." Further on, Boden himself weighs in: "You can't put a mirror up to your customer. You cannot photograph them on a school run or in the supermarket. You have to remind them of nice things they can experience without it being a total fantasy."

From whence the "lack"?

We are met at the Waygood Gallery and given our space to set up. The space we are presenting to is a much more spartan design than we've been used to (our projections go on a bare wall behind us), and the audience is only 11 people. It's much more informal than yesterday; everyone seems relaxed and jovial, perhaps owing to the mini-fridge full of free beer. Rather than spend time answering questions directly after each project--a format that left us bogged down in the dead center yesterday and running out of time--we will hold questions until the end, and hopefully keep the discussions going for much longer this way.

First up is Ange, offering her stories of spelling out ominous messages in Duane Reade receipts. This gets several laughs. Similarly, James' "Prayers to Products" is a winner with the audience. Both are excellent examples of innocently invading the systems and then manipulating them, through meticulously crafted shopping in Ange's case, or by taking our product-worshiping culture to its extremely unnatural conclusion, as James does by loudly thanking Estee Lauder for making his girlfriend so dead sexy. Richard's philosophy--as demonstrated in his letters of love to multinational corporations, many of which were "met with more hostility than a protest would be"--of being a "cog and spanner in the works" is actually a good unifying philosophy as a whole for our English colleagues.

And then it's time for us typical American extremists, firstly ReTag, which is about as subtle as a brick through a window, even if that brick has a clever limerick tied to it. We screen the ReTag video for the first time, and it's the first time I've seen it since the last How+Why?. I realize quickly that it's redundant to speak for five minutes about the project and then show the video, and so we won't repeat it. The ReCode project goes over very well, getting laughs and some impressed eyebrows. Perhaps the most successful project on our tour, in terms of the public sitting up and taking notice, it's no wonder it raises such feelings of "Why didn't I think of that?"

The Reverend Billy is just Bill today, and rather than a sermon or an explanation, we get a glimpse of his glitzy special, complete with gospel choir and full band, shot in New York last year. In the pews you can spot Ange looking very excited. The special is hyped up with lots of video effects and razzmatazz. Bill mentions how it runs on cable access and other free TV outlets in New York and elsewhere, and how he often thinks of the person accidentally happening across it late at night, completely bewildered. Without dressing up the language, it's a trip to see the Reverend in his proper setting, epitomizing the contrast of what Bill calls "Right wing costume, progressive language."

During all of this, Jon sits in the corner doing stop-motion animation with the help of Andrew's computer skills. (An example of the animation can be seen on the tour website.) He's been very productive today, and I'm verrry proud of him! Kudos to Jon!

After the presentation, we get lots of questions, many of them similar to the questions we received in Liverpool.

"Where does this fit in politically?" one woman asks.

"I'm interrupting a process that is routine," Savitri says. "I'll do anything I can to do that."

"This is about public property," James says. "It's an opportunity to go into a store and say 'No, you don't actually own this space.'"

"We, as a group, share some assumptions that the consumerizing world is spreading to the horizon," Bill says. "So you might as well go in and perform by the cash register. Because it's a dull world."

Natalie, a local artist who's been jotting notes the entire time, asks "What about the issue of guilt? If I buy a product, am I supposed to feel guilty?"

"No," Andrew quips. "Because we forgive you."

"Do you have any plans on a corporate level?" another woman asks. "That's the problem with the activism part of your message. Don't you ever plan to take it beyond the shop floor?"

"The job that I have is as a part of a large number of activists interlocking that needs to stay in touch," Bill says. "Reverend Billy's job is to be in the local Starbucks. Not there in the face of the corporate buyer that buys shares and keeps up their business practices. I can go into the Starbucks and get people to leave and give them research. But it's only because of the network of activists that the message gets anywhere."

"It sends a signal to the corporate levels when there's a front page story on Bill," Savitri adds. "It's his skill. And it works within the symbiotic relationship with other activists."

For the first time, we are truly answering questions as a group, and this symbiotic relationship is evident. Though our approaches may range from the subtle premonitions of Ange's receipts to ReTag's "clever" vandalism to ReCode's "facilitating of theft and fraud" (quote © Wal-Mart Industries) to Richard's cheeky corporate love to Whirl-Mart's silent energy, we all have one thing in common: we are disenfranchised from the franchise. Discovering our personal role in reclaiming civilization from its choking grasp has become our life's work. After an hour of this sort of discussion, the people of Newcastle--and we ourselves--finally begin to appreciate that.

After the discussion we are sent off in teams to stay with various artists in town, all of whom I would like to extend personal thanks to for their hospitality. This comes only after 45 minutes of directing Ange in driving out of a narrow alley, an alley with which we are all intimately familiar with by the end of the night. It is hands-down the highlight of the trip thus far. Really.

2003-05-15T04:23:00.000-07:00

Day 4 : Just the FACT

An early morning start as we loaded up our rented minibus and set out for Liverpool. Talk on the way is animated; we’re excited to be taking our message to the North. Much of the conversation borders on the absurd; talk of drooping eyelids, biscuits, and Lutherans with financial sense. On the way we take in the grandeur of the English motorway system, in search of the cleanest loo in the countryside.

How+Why? alumni Jackie Passmore and Michael Connor graciously set us up with an afternoon presentation at the FACT Centre. We arrive in town under the watchful eye of the Mona Lennon. Our other expatriated friend Oblong A arrives to handle our projections. After a quick lunch and once the people begin filing in, we begin our presentations.

It's an unusual format and one that perhaps doesn't work as well as we'd hoped. Each presentation by the individual artist is followed by a Q&A session, meaning it's easy for us to get bogged down in debate before having to cut things short before moving on to the next project. The ReTag and Re-Code projects prove to be very controversial with the audience, particularly amongst those who feel it's an example of the American propensity for extremism. One audience member is concerned with the "lack" that the average person feels, and whether this is created by advertising companies--as we seem to be arguing--or that the advertising is simply addressing. We are also singled out for our supposed ambivalence about whether we are artists or activists, whether we have or even want any political significance, and even, shockingly, whether we have any ambition at all. Our refutation, as always, is that we are activists and artists both, and that our idiosyncratic and individual approaches to the problems we're addressing is significant in itself, being a new approach to activism, a new form of protest. This doesn't sit well with some audience members, one of whom walks out in a huff. Still, we convince quite a few to join us afterward and perform our "Invisible Dance" at a nearby John Lewis, a four-part series of motions mocking the shopping procedure itself. Within ten minutes we are surrounded by police, simply for silently staging a choreographed and rather innocuous motion in unison, and asked to leave the store. It's been a very effective day.

2003-05-13T10:42:00.000-07:00

Day 3 : The Eye of the Storm

Today was a day for rest and recuperation. We slept off our jetlag and the events of the past two days. In the afternoon we took a walk around what used to be Sherwood Forest, past a cemetery interred with victims of the bubonic plague. Graffiti on a nearby wall reads like a call to arms, especially to artists like us:

“I think that’s a great idea. When are you going to start?”

The answer, readers, is today.

Overnight someone spraypainted local billboards with “Stop Shopping Tour UK 2003.” Obviously our presence has not gone unnoticed.

At night we gather at The Social, a local nightclub with a good working relationship with artists in residency. The Degree Show, a celebration of graduating artists, is a chance to network with some of the rising visionaries in town. There is a communal spirit unlike many cities, where competition and disagreements over aesthetics often lead to self-defeating stalemates. Instead they talk of creating a living , working model for artists working and living together in Nottingham, to encourage them to stay and make Nottingham a cultural center. The band Aunty Nazi performs their unique brand of folk-derived deconstructionist music. In the end, spirits are high. We get home in plenty of time to rest up and prepare for tomorrow’s journey into Liverpool.

2003-05-12T17:11:00.000-07:00

Day Two : The Sunday Sermon

"It's a dark time. It's a good time to be a fool." - Reverend Billy.

The newly converted and the curious came to the Broadway, anxious for a glimpse of the Reverend Billy during his Sunday Sermon. Once inside, the flock instead got an apologetic Ange, who broke the news of yesterday's arrest. The film taken was screened to the house by way of explanation, and in lieu of the Reverend's sermon, an improvisational interpretive dance courtesy of Richard and Savitri was introduced. "The Impenetrability of Derby's One Way System," Richard said, "lasting approximately 45 minutes." It was surprisingly well received for the actual 5 minutes that it lasted.

But as with any certainty, this was to be distrusted. Suddenly, Billy appeared in the aisles and announced "They let me out of prison!" to rapturous applause. The congregation was electrified instanteneously. Within minutes they were ready to confess their shopping sins, hallelujah. And so he began, accompanied by Brother Dave on organ, who provided inspirational and ominous undertones alike.

"We ask you to carry us in the next hour above all cultural referencing, out of post-modern irony, above the swooshes, the Mickeys, all the logos, all the swastikas, the crosses, the signs," Billy says. And it did: the sermon lifted us up beyond the signifiers and societal boxes imposed on us by all authoritarians, be they corporate, governmental or (especially) inate. "When ten million protestors in 900 countries are dismissed as a 'focus group' by the president of the United States, you feel powerless, "Billy says."And so it is a dark time. It's a good time to be a fool."

Between his fire-and-brimstone talks about Disney and Bush, Jr., he brought up Ronnie and Patrick--"two true saints"--the organizers of Veggies, a progessive and wholly brilliant vegetarian enterprise. Patrick reminded the audience of a cold February morning of 1985 in the English countryside, a 6 a.m. showdown with the U.S. Marines, who threatened to bring through cruise missiles."In six feet of snow, with no person in sight, we were asking, 'Should we pack up and say there's no point in trying to save this world?" he said. "But no, the faithful came over the hill. They came and kicked the asses of the Americans and those cruise missles never came through. And I know sometimes we think we're still standing in that snow. But the faithful are here today, and we will prevail."

In closing, the Reverend Billy sings to us. His smooth and clean gospel voice, like a young Jimmy Swaggart with credibility, sings us a hymn about feeling like a Disneyless child, lulls us with a song of not wanting to blow up children anymore. The congregation has become just that, shouting "Hallelujah" and "Amen" at will. They are stirred to confess aloud that they have "Ikea-itis." They are stirred to tear up their credit cards in the aisles. They are stirred out of their chairs and into the streets of Nottingham, where the Reverend preaches on to another swelling flock.

The message is coming, city by city. And the people rejoiced.

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2003-05-12T15:26:00.000-07:00

Day One, Nottingham : The Arrest of the Rev

It's the morning of May 10th, a spring Saturday in Nottingham, and the intervention is ready to begin. Today we will go to Derby and--as on any day of this campaign--the mission is to seek out the consumers there, those pleasant folk making weekend rounds in the shopping districts. We will set out talk to them, and attempt to throw back the curtain, and unlock the outrage we know is lying dormant in them. Because we are united by one belief: that it's important to make people distrust things they take for granted, if we're ever going to progress as a civilization.

So with this in mind, the cast of characters gather themselves, being:
Reverend Billy
Ange Taggart
Savitri Durkee
James the Vacuum Cleaner
WhirlMart
members of Conglomco and the How+Why?
the press
the unsuspecting public

As we ready the cars, Reverend Billy emerges in his white coat and preacher's tunic, looking every bit the fiery Southern preacher, in a full zealot's costume. He turns away the cameramen, telling them he doesn't want to think about the recording, or the publicity. "We're starting a movement and I'm not concerned with the cameras. This is a movement, not a movie. Don't distract me with talk of cameras."

This is the point of the Stop Shopping Tour: we have a sense of purpose that can't be distracted with publicity. Though publicity is essential to movements, it is not the point of them. This is understandably a poignant area for our documentarians. As Steve the filmmaker says, "It's difficult to pitch this properly. To put it in the context of a generic audience--to explain things to people rather than to intimidate them."

But therein lies the philosophy of and the force behind the Stop Shopping Tour. We are setting out to explain things so directly that they're never quite the same for everyone who bears witness. "My concern is starting a revolution, and it will not be televised" as the Reverend says. But it will be broadcast to you, dear readers. And like the actions it's not so much about the process; this is a fully participatory event where even documentarians and the audience are in the context.

..::...
In the backdrop of Derby Cathedral sits the Q-Arts gallery. Here these artists (listed above)--whose work in anti-consumerist merging of art and activism have brought them from Texas, from New York, from London, and all points in the United Kingdom--have been on display for the last four weeks. In the gallery, videos of WhirlMart, ReCode, Retag, and My Dad's Strip Club sit on kiosks. On one wall, James the Vacuum Cleaner runs his namesake over a store display, "cleaning up capitalism." In the entry is Jon Burgerman's "Desktop Icons," an entire computer robbed of functionality, making it a pure work of art.

On a street nearby, Reverend Billy warms up, channeling his voice of truth. He is a prophet in times when our doomsday involves not rivers overflowing with blood but our waters choking with over-consumption. He aims to propel people into having a mass crisis of conscience, when they're reminded the Mickey Mouse watch they're fondling was handcrafted by a 13 year-old girl making 14 pence an hour.

"Trying to get artists to do something together is like herding cats," he says, but nonetheless plans are made for the nearby Disney store, our first target of Day One.

James is concerned about aggression. To which Reverend Billy says, "You brought me across the ocean to break through British politeness. Their definition of polite serves the product only. I will startle a child if it also upsets and challenges these people who are bred as consumers. "

But ominous overtones aside--and as always--the approach of these artists is a blend of politeness and impoliteness, based on improvisation. This, as stated, is an intervention.

The streets of Derby were lined with your typical of array of Saturday shoppers: tourists, teenagers clad in the latest American street gear, families with complacent smiles. Nothing stood in the way of their consumption, a habit of overspending as natural as a stroll along the pier once was, in the days before shopping became the preferred international pastime. Very few were thinking of where their booty had come from, this readymade buffet of goods and trends lining the streets for their taking, choosing instead to think of how far their next pound would take them.

Then, as though a voice from on high, came the crackle of a megaphone: “Children, we can and will stop shopping!” The burning bush in question was none other than the Reverend Billy, a charismatic evangelist whose gospel is that of anti-consumerism, of putting an end to the pestilence of needless consumption, whose mission it is to strike a new covenant with his people: Thou shalt not shop. It’s a difficult message for the streets of Derby, but an intriguing one. Several stopped to gawk at this Faulknerian preacher clad in virginal white, hair and eyes wild, megaphone in hand, urging them to put all impure and covetous thoughts away and embrace a world without product roll-outs and niche marketing. His intention:unveiling an ugly truth of sweatshops and child labor.

As the procession continued through the streets of Derby, the good Reverend, the Pied Piper of Progressive Thinking, attracted a congregation, both loyal and morbidly fascinated. His destination: the Disney store, whose quest for capitalist domination had led them to this prime piece of land in the once beautiful and untainted English country town. Where once local markets had thrived, now customer service representatives in starchy company-issued polos were overcharging Mums and Dads for plastic molds of Mickey Mouse worth mere pennies—with the hours of backbreaking labor for third-world children safely out of sight and mind.
As though angels appearing to foretell of the Second Coming, the Reverend was preceded by the ‘Cellphone Symphony,’ a group of performers equipped with cellphones holding one-sided conversations out loud on the qualities of whatever goods they happened upon. Picking up plastic Little Mermaids, for example, and remarking to their imaginary companion on the other end how they couldn’t believe it was made in Taiwanese sweatshops for 10p an hour, and here it was being sold to the ignorant consumer for a healthy £7.95—all well within earshot of the other customers. Though this caused more than a few confused glances, which grew more and more prevalent as the Cellphone Symphony grew in number, it was merely a prelude, the warning lightning to the storm that was to come.

And come he did, as a sudden voice rang out, “Children, stop having sex with these products! They do not and cannot love, and you should not love them!” All eyes were instantly fixed on this man in white, holding court among a display of Little Nemo acrylics. Reverend Billy delivered a fiery sermon about the fourteen year old girls whose hands had shaped these trinkets several continents away, the blood and misfortune that went into them, and the moral price each shopper has paid for wanting to add them to their collection. The store erupted in applause, a spontaneous reaction from the very people he was condemning. Having given their inner conflict a voice, they felt liberated from their desires, if only in theory, and held rapt at the possibility of their redemption. Were they being delivered from sin? Was this the final judgement, where their name could at last be added to the Book of Life, and saving them from being cast into the Pit of Eternal Shopping?

But alas, as with all prophets, Reverend Billy was doubted. Not only doubted, but crucified, by the very Romans that he was trying to save. Soon the sound of sirens could be heard, and despite the fact that the Reverend had already been drowned out by the staff (who turned the in-store television sets to full capacity and attempted to quell him with “Toy Story” in twenty decibels—which drove out more innocent shoppers than the Reverend’s sermon had, ironically) it was apparently necessary to subdue him with three uniformed police officers. They pushed him flat against a display of plush Winnie the Poohs and handcuffed him, while he continued to preach despite their admonitions. The charge? A breach of the peace, disturbing a staid Saturday afternoon, disrupting the shopping ritual.

On the streets he was greeted with cheers and even more perplexed onlookers--none hostile or even particularly disturbed--most shouting “Why are you arresting him?” He managed to wind down the police car window, screaming, “Don’t buy Disney!” before they drove him away. Within minutes he had an entirely new group of apostles, some of whom rocked the police car in protest. Later, standing in the rain outside the Derby police station, his most fervent followers awaited his release, holding signs reading “Free Billy” and “Kill the Mouse.” And so, crucified and buried, on the third hour (his release scheduled to coincide with the closing of the shops), he rose triumphantly again, ready to fight on.

Not however, in the Disney store of Derby, where he is effectively banned for life. Which, incidentally, is not an uncommon thing for Reverend Billy.
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