“Hey Siri, play Walls Come Tumbling Down by The Style Council on Spotify”
“Okay, playing Walls Come Tumbling Down by The Style Council”
“You don’t have to take this crap, you don’t have to sit back and relax”
The Style Council, and more specifically Paul Weller is one of my all-time ‘pinup boys’, definitely not in the “oh hell isn’t the Modfather so dreamy on that Vespa” kind of way but in the incredible sense that even while listening in 2026 through a portable speaker, in a completely different universe to the one Weller was writing in, the music still makes me want to rebel against oppression, free the nip, dive even deeper into my feminist library and crash out over how the state is ruining “it” for future generations.
As I muddle through playlist after playlist trying to work out the right mood, it dawns on me how incredible the way we listen to music has changed, that I can listen quite easily to fifty songs from fifty different albums as easily as hitting “shuffle” – and how this was never how these tunes were designed to be listened to.
It’s the playlistification of music consumption.
Playlist culture has weakened the conditions that once allowed political albums, scenes and movements to create sustained collective political identities.
Music as a manifestation of collective perspectives has the power to transcend the confines of language and articulation beyond the perils of simple prose, and throughout the second half of the 20th century this power was galvanised by groups to create communities and reach audiences through the immense creativity of the concept album.
Recently, through the rise of streaming services and the digitalisation of the contemporary age music, audience music consumption has evolved from vinyl, CD and cassette to digital playlists. Spotify and Apple Music being the main culprits of this evolution. While a convenience, it has distorted the beauty and craft of the album, the reverence previously afforded to artists as they perfected their body of work has been annihilated. While streaming has made music more accessible than ever, it has weakened the context in which political music can develop into a sustained collective identity, separating individual songs from the albums, movements and subcultures that once surrounded them.
The public response to Thatcher’s government is considered one of the greatest musical revolts of the 20th century and had a significant impact on the role of music as a tool for political protest. Many bands wrote hits directly targeting Margaret Thatcher, including ‘I’m in Love with Margaret Thatcher’ by The Notsensibles (1978), ‘Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!’ by The Larks (1985) and ‘Kick out the Tories’ by Newtown Neurotics (1985).
Music was used as a political tool for both the liberation and popularisation of socio-political issues in response to the neo-liberal attitudes of the Conservative Thatcher government. The reaction to Margaret Thatcher’s government generated one of the greatest period of political oppositional popular music, as the conservative government sought to reject post-war welfarism, the effects of which remain a devastation.
Thatcher protest music was not simply individual artists complaining about politics. It existed within movements: Trade unions, miners’ strikes, anti-racist organising, working-class youth cultures, 2 Tone, Rock Against Racism and benefit records gave songs a physical political ecosystem. Whereas in our current music landscape, Spotify gives audiences extraordinary access to those songs, but the very abundance and individualisation of streaming can detach from that collective context.
Billy Bragg’s anthemic song ‘There Is Power in a Union’ echoed the beliefs and philosophies surrounding the importance of protecting Britain’s trade unions during a period in which Margaret Thatcher’s government introduced a series of increasingly restrictive anti-union laws.
Against this political backdrop, Bragg’s song became a forceful defence of collective action, solidarity and the continued power of organised labour.
By 1979, 2 Tone’ Records reflected the increased social and political despair, powerlessness and division at the prospect of the loss of employment and union protection. Songs featured on the ‘2 Tone’ label were aimed at social issues: racism, sexism, violence and unemployment.
In December 1984, ‘Council Collective’ a charity spin-off consisting of members: Paul Weller, Mick Talbot and Junior Giscombe among others.
The group released the song “Soul Deep” which peaked at number 24 in the UK Charts and raised funds for the ‘Women Against Pit Closures’ just before Christmas. The concept developed by Paul Weller and Junior Giscombe was, “kids should be able to turn the record over and listen to the miner’s plight”.
Soul Deep commented on the threat of the withdrawal of ‘welfare payments’ to families of striking miners. In this instance the political meaning was therefore embedded not merely within the lyrics of the album but within the architecture of the record itself.
The A-side mobilised emotion and solidarity; the B-side supplied testimony and political context.
In the playlist era, where the individual track rather than the record increasingly becomes the primary unit of consumption, this relationship between music, context and political education becomes easier to sever.
The question is therefore not whether political music disappeared, it is whether the infrastructure through which music once transformed political sentiment into collective identity has changed.
It stands to reason that in a society that favours convenience, AI and doomscrolling, the world of 2026 has neglected the immense power music had for expressing political upset. While I possess no true musical prowess, I look at the world and see so much material, from the gloom of impending “mano-sphere” attitudes, Pauline Hanson rearing her ugly (red) head, the ongoing threat of Trump administration, OpenAI taking mainstream flight and Justin Bieber still in Australia’s top 40.
I blame the playlistification of music consumption. And I rest my case.
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