The politics of power
Individual feeling of helplessness gives groups unnecessary control
The AFM is out to get me.
The American Federation of
Musicians, that is. It’s out to get me
as a musician looking for jobs with
out being part of the AFM. Because
of this union, the job scene is stacked
against me wherever I look for jobs
as a professional musician. Part of
this disadvantage stems from the fact
that AFM keeps a list of local musi
cians easily accessible by local
employers, a list that I certainly have
no right to be on.
However, the union, through its
all-pervading power and influence, is
able to instruct larger, more estab
lished potential employers that they
shouldn’t hire non-union labor, such
as myself. Both the Lincoln
Orchestra Association (LOA) and the
Omaha Symphony have suggested
that “it would be easier” if I just
joined a union. Why? Because if they
hired me on a regular basis, they’d
get in hot water.
Granted, unions have provided a
good amount of guidelines regarding
the length and number of rehearsals
among other things, which I can take
advantage of whether or not I’m part
of the union. But the mere fact that
potential employers can be forced to
exclude me by this closed, private
collection of interests, based not oh
my talent but on my non-member
ship, is ludicrous. In a so-called free
society, people should be able to hire
me, or I them, mdependent of group
affiliation. If the LOA wants to hire
me, why should it be disallowed?
Further, if I want to work for the
LOA for a fee slightly lower than that
of union members, in an ideally free
market it doesn’t make sense to say
that I can’t. My labor is for sale -
unions rob me of the ability to nego
tiate my price and conditions based
on my own personal desires and
needs.
The continuing dependence on
the AFM by musicians, and on other
unions by other contingents of the
labor force, and the perceived need
for such organizations indicate that
people don’t understand the way
power works:
I’m referring to power as the
ability to move the actions of others.
Whether we do action X depends
completely on our own minds and
our own thinking. If we do what we
are told, we are doing so for a reason,
which may or may not be a good rea
son, but the fact is that there is no
such thing as being powerless.
One might argue that being phys
ically restrained or coerced is a
means of removing one’s power.
One’s actions, for example, might be
driven by threat of physical violence,
as in armed robbery. But even in
such situations, you have the choice
of whether or not you will cooperate;
and while such a decision would
seem trivial to most people, the fact
that such a choice remains makes the
situation fundamentally equivalent tc
whether you’ll sell your body to
Harris Labs or not. It’s a comparison
of values, what you gain and what
you lose.
No matter what else happens, we
have the power of choice over our
own actions.
But most people don’t think they
Jacob Glazeski is a senior music and math major and a Daily Nebraskan columnist
do - the only way to effect change in
the workplace, they reason, is
through union negotiations. So if
members of AFM don’t like the way
a particular music program is man
aging its employees, they bring then
problems to the attention of the
union instead of attempting negotia
tions directly.
AFM’s function can be filled by
any reasonably organized, smaller
contingent of musicians - more
cheaply, too, considering AFM’s
membership dues.
Really, any talented musician can
threaten to walk at a strategic time to
effect change that he or she feels
should be made. Any talented musi
cian could organize other musicians
to do the same.
So why do we need unions any
way? The reason lies in the perceived
powerlessness of the individual in
American society. We don’t think we
can do anything on our own, so we
enlist the help of amplified loud
mouths who speak sweet nothings to
us about our fUture comfort.
This powerlessness manifests
itself not just in unions but also in
political party machinery. In an
attempt to make change happen,
American politics has evolved into
two schools of thought - Democrat
and Republican. While parties are a
fine way to shape society generally,
they are too large and dogmatic to be
able to deal with the subtleties of
real-life policy making.
For example, take McCain’s pres
idential campaign. Because of the
powers that be, McCain had to,
appeal to a broad base of
Republicans, many of whom ardent
ly disagree with some of his policies.
McCain’s real support transcended
the boundaries of political parties -
drawing on independents and
Our real power lies in our choice to
attend this university. If enough of us
are genuinely pissed with the
university; we can just leave and
withdraw our tuition.
Democrats, especially in the pri
maries that he won.
Suppose that McCain could draw
a majority of votes in a general elec
tion, taking all votes from all parties
into account, but not a majority of
any one party. Is it not right to sug
gest that he should be president?
Yet our political machinery
would rob us of our choice because
of the rules that define the way can
didates are chosen. Without a majori
ty in any party, without the support
of a single party, McCain was cast by
the wayside.
So, as in the case of the union,
conclusions that make more sense
are precluded by broad-based policy,
and the reason such policy exists is
that we don’t have enough confi
dence in our own abilities as individ
uals to make policy-like decisions
ourselves.
Instead of supporting the
Republican platform in all of its
intricacies (which very few people
genuinely do), one ought to support
individual policies and vote accord
ingly, no matter where that vote
would lead.
We can observe the same things
in microcosm here at the university.
Every year UNL raises tuition, fees
and housing rates. Every year, stu
dents whine and complain, appealing
to the Association of Students of the
University of Nebraska, asking for it
to speak for them. But ASUN is
essentially powerless - it exists more
as a platitude than anything else.
Our real power lies in our choice
to attend this university. If enough of
us are genuinely pissed with the uni
versity, we can just leave and with
draw our tuition. Certainly, the uni
versity may have no reason to change
its policy and may simply recruit
some of the students it had previous
ly rejected (ha, ha), but that is a fact
of power. If we don’t have something
the university needs, we can’t expect
the university to change when we
want it to change.
The same happens with the gov
ernment and unions. I could threaten
to walk from a good orchestra job,
and chances are that it could fill the
space quickly after my vacancy. That
doesn’t mean that I need unions, but
it does mean I don’t have enough of
what my employer wants to change
policy to keep me. Power is a trading
game.
Unions, political parties and
ASUN are based on the assumption
that power is a game of force, of
sheer magnitude, that the loudest
voice wins. This is an illusion that
allows large policy-making groups to
make plenty of special rules and to
exist in a realm of near fantasy.
In other words, they’re a bunch of
thugs who have convinced us that we
have no power. But we do have what
ever power we choose to assert.
That’s just the way power works. —
More than a feeling
Family ties make musical efforts worth it
I own a guitar. I bought it during
an emotional and creative high last
summer. Dreams and aspirations of
grabbing a rhythm and carrying it
through life led me into Lincoln. And
they dotted the “i”s in my middle
name on the check that I handed the
beret-clad, commission-hungry man
at Dietze Music House Inc. He was
very persuading.
I practiced hard. I callused my
fingers and played four or five chords
over and over again. I learned all the
three-chord songs that I could think
of until I hated them. I knocked on
heaven’s.door until St. Peter turned
me away, and I fell freely until I real
ized that I wasn’t wearing a para
chute. Thud.
I fear that what proceeded to hap
pen to my guitar has happened much
too often to guitars and aspirations
alike.
It sat.
It sat hard. It sat and sunk and
tried to break its own strings. It wait
ed to die.
The thought of my initial invest
ment was all that reminded me of its
presence. However, even my cheap
skate attitude wasn’t enough to lure
me back. I was convinced that it was
too hard, that I wasn’t good enough.
My guitar didn’t weep gently, or at all
for that matter. It was out of tears
from the beginning.
With a drastic shift, the light that
initially illuminated my guitar was
now somewhere else, giving another
dream or hobby a ghost of a chance.
It was written somewhere that
only one thing could reinstate the
passion I knew always had been
somewhere with me. That one thing
was Gut-Bucket Rock and Roll.
Along with everyone else, I’d
never heard of the term “Gut-Bucket
Rock and Roll.” That is, until about
two weeks ago. Gut-Bucket Rock and
Roll was the term my dad’s band,
Nineteen Inside, used to describe
their style of music. Their publicity
manager (the lead singer’s wife)
coined the phrase and included it on
concert posters.
Nineteen Inside formed about a
year ago. Consisting of two farmers,
the owner of a construction company
and my high school band teacher, the
band’s original purpose was to play at
the post-prom party during my senior
year of high school.
At the time, the general feeling
among my inebriated classmates was
that they “kicked ass.”
“Free Bird!!!” screamed three or
four lighter-wielding guys from the
Skoal section of the gymnasium.
Luckily, they weren’t heard, and
the song sets were limited to what I
considered to be timeless rock ’n’ roll
covers.
“You guys rock!!!” screamed a
kid on his way to vomit in a comer of
the gym. I agreed.
Nineteen Inside’s members must
have been pleased by their initial per
formance as well. After taking a 10
month hiatus to harvest com, side
buildings and teach new students to
play the chromatic scale, they decid
ed to reassemble for another gig. The
gig was to be a Feb. 22 show at Good
Times tavern in Louisville.
My dad kept me updated about
their practice sessions and the new
songs they had implemented into
their extended sets. He also told me
that he’d purchased new drum sticks
for the first time in 20 years, a sure
sign he was beginning to become
serious about having another chance
to play.
My dad’s experience as a drum
mer always had impressed and
intrigued me. From the time that he
was 15, he’d been playing in bars.
You may remember him from his
involvement in bands such as White
Lightning and The Other Guys, but I
doubt it.
Regardless, the rhythm I had been
searching for by purchasing my gui
tar always had been in his blood.
That’s why I was so excited as I head
ed to Louisville two weekends ago: I
was ready to rock.
My two friends and I pulled into
Louisville’s rolling hills about three
hours before show time. I had
promised my dad that I would bring a
couple of able bodies to help set up
their amplifiers.
After checking out the bar’s
atmosphere (dingy) and setting up all
of Nineteen Inside’s equipment, we
still had a couple of hours before the
concert. We passed the time by play
ing darts and talking about what life
as one of the band’s roadies would be
like.
I suddenly remembered my six-string
and visualized the finger placement of
the chords that I had once practiced
religiously. My cup of inspiration was
overflowing.
“You’d probably get a lot of ass,”
my friend remarked.
“Yeah, but it’d be from all of the
ugly chicks,” I added.
Before we knew it, people were
piling in. I nodded at my dad, giving
him the “it’s go time” look. He
returned the gesture. Scanning the
room, I noticed a huge grin on the bar
owner’s face as a combination of
patrons from Murdock, Elmwood
and Louisville flooded the bar. That
grin stayed on his face for the rest of
the night.
By the time Nineteen Inside
began playing, most of those in atten
dance were ready to cheer for any
thing. And cheer they did. And dance.
And drink. And drink. And drink.
Had it not been for marks on my
hands and the attendance of virtually
every single one of my family’s close
friends, I’m sure that I would have
enjoyed in the reveling as well.
However, I think I had just as good a
time listening to them sober. They
were damn good.
By the time the evening had
wound itself down to nothing and the
last call for alcohol had been given, I
felt something strange touch me. At
first I thought that it might have been
one of the drunken, ugly roadie
women who we had been talking
about, looking to score. Then I real
ized what it actually was.
The feeling of musical inspiration
was with me again. I suddenly
remembered my six-string and visu
alized the finger placement of the
chords that I had once practiced reli
giously. My cup of inspiration was
overflowing. When I came back to
consciousness, I looked up to see the
band finishing the night with Bob
Seger’s “Night Moves.”
With that, I made my way to the
door with a wide smile scrawled
across my face. On my way out, one
of my dad’s friends staggered into me
and grabbed my shoulder.
“Hey man, how’s it goin’?” he
hiccuped.
“It’s going good,” I told him, fully
aware of his state of drunkenness.
“Man, I’m not gonna lie to you,”
he began. “I’m pretty drunk. But you
know something, I had a really great
time tonight.
“Hey, by the way,” he went on,
“The next time you see your old man,
tell him that he still knows how to
rock.”
My smile widened. “He sure
can,” I said, fading out the door. “He
sure can.”
Lucas Christian Stock is a freshman English major and a Daily Nebraskan columnist