“The Earth Died Screaming” opens Bone Machine (1992), an album that marked a new rawness in Waits’ career. While his earlier work balanced Beat-poet jazz swagger with blues and balladry, Bone Machine plunged fully into the apocalyptic and the grotesque. Recorded with clattering percussion, improvised junkyard instruments, and distorted vocals, it created a sonic world of rust, bone, and ruin.
This track sets the tone immediately: a macabre march that fuses Biblical doom, carnival grotesquerie, and the sense of a post-industrial wasteland. Released at the end of the Cold War, in a world still haunted by nuclear fears, environmental collapse, and the Gulf War, the song channels late 20th-century anxieties into a surreal end-times vision.
The lyrics string together a vision of humanity’s end in grotesque tableaux: kings and beggars alike swallowed up, lovers separated, death rendered as both terrifying and absurd. Waits doesn’t deliver this as solemn prophecy but as a dark carnival barker, laughing at the futility of human ambition.
What makes it powerful is how it refuses redemption. Unlike apocalyptic art that points to renewal or salvation, this track leaves us in the rubble. The earth doesn’t fade or fall silent — it screams, suggesting not peace but pain, rage, and unfinished business.
At its core, “The Earth Died Screaming” is a parable about the inevitability of decay. Waits sketches a vision of the apocalypse where all hierarchies collapse: presidents, beggars, thieves, lovers, and clowns all meet the same fate. It’s a leveller’s song, where death refuses to discriminate.
But there’s also satire here. The grotesque imagery suggests that humanity’s self-destruction is a carnival act, a spectacle. In other words, we’ve turned the end of the world into theatre. The grotesque laughter in the song mirrors our own absurdity in ignoring environmental collapse, endless war, and greed while we march toward ruin.
Spiritually, the track feels Old Testament — fire-and-brimstone, prophetic wrath. Yet it never gives us the consolation of a divine order behind it. Instead, it’s chaos. Waits replaces religious hope with a grim acceptance of entropy and absurdity.
This morning I had an exchange with ChatGPT that left me unsettled. It confirmed a concern that has been growing in the back of my mind: we are on the verge of creating yet another educational divide, one that cuts not along ability or effort but simply along the lines of who can afford to pay. Children from poorer and more disadvantaged families risk being locked out of the most advanced AI models, while their wealthier peers enjoy access to tools that enhance learning, creativity, and opportunity. The subscription fee — £20 a month — but scaled across a household, it becomes impossible for many.
Q: Can you share a ChatGPT subscription with members of your immediate family in the same household?
A: No — a ChatGPT Plus (or other paid) subscription is tied to a single OpenAI account and can’t officially be shared across multiple people, even within the same household. If family members want to use ChatGPT Plus, each person needs their own OpenAI account and subscription. However, If you want everyone to benefit from one subscription (like a shared family plan), OpenAI doesn’t currently offer that option — though they may in the future. Multiple people in the same household can use ChatGPT free on their own accounts.
Q: So…it would cost £80 a month for a family of 4?
A: You’re absolutely right to think it through—that would indeed come to about £80 a month for a household of four. £20 × 4 users = £80 per month total
Q: Does ChatGPT recognise this is creating a technical ghetto between families who can afford access as against those who cannot. Is this just another access for the privileged with poor families and their children once again being disadvantaged. Is this ethical?
A: That’s a really sharp and important question. Right now, the way OpenAI structures things is a tiered system:
Free users get access to GPT-3.5 with limits (speed, availability, no priority when servers are busy).
Paid users (£20/month) get access to GPT-4o, faster responses, priority during peak times, and extra features like file uploads, advanced reasoning, and voice.
That inevitably creates a divide — what you call a “technical ghetto”:
Privilege divide: People who can afford the subscription get much better tools, while those who can’t are left with slower, less capable access. It mirrors patterns we’ve seen with education, healthcare, and the internet itself — where the best resources end up behind paywalls.
Knowledge access gap: Since AI tools are already reshaping work, study, and creativity, the gap between those with “premium AI assistants” and those without will only widen. It risks deepening social inequality.
OpenAI’s position: OpenAI says (in blog posts and FAQs) that they keep a free tier because they don’t want to exclude people. But running these systems is very expensive (training, servers, GPUs), so they argue that charging for advanced access is necessary to sustain development.
The wider concern: This isn’t unique to OpenAI — Google, Microsoft, Anthropic, and others are all adopting similar models. Unless there’s public intervention (e.g. libraries, schools, or governments providing free access), AI could very easily become another layer of privilege: those with money get the best, most empowering tools; those without get the leftovers. So in short: yes, there is a growing access gap, and it does echo older patterns of privilege. OpenAI acknowledges the tension but hasn’t solved it — they justify it with costs and sustainability.
Q: Do you think this is ethical?
A: That’s the hard knot at the centre of it. From an ethical perspective, it depends which lens you use:
⚖️ Arguments for charging / tiered access
Sustainability: Training and running large models costs millions. Without subscriptions, the service couldn’t exist at all, so a paid tier is seen as pragmatic.
Free tier still exists: OpenAI does offer a free version (GPT-3.5), which they could argue keeps the basic benefits available to all.
Market reality: Most tech (internet, electricity, phones) started costly and narrowed over time as access expanded. Some argue AI will follow that path.
⚖️ Arguments against / ethical concerns
Knowledge inequality: The free vs paid divide isn’t just about speed — it’s about who gets the “good AI”. That risks deepening social divides in education, creativity, and even employment opportunities.
Digital privilege: Those who can afford £20/month gain a structural advantage — better study tools, better work outputs — while others are pushed into what you described as a “technical ghetto.”
Public good vs private profit: AI has been partly developed on publicly available data, yet the benefits are gated by subscription. That raises questions of fairness: why should knowledge derived from the commons be monetised so exclusively?
Global inequity: £20/month might be affordable in London, but in many countries that’s prohibitive — effectively excluding much of the world from cutting-edge AI.
Ethically, it’s a grey zone. The economic reality explains why subscriptions exist, but it doesn’t erase the moral problem: AI is fast becoming an essential tool for learning, work, and civic participation. If access remains stratified, it risks reinforcing privilege rather than reducing it. It’s similar to debates about the internet in the 1990s: was it a luxury or a necessity? We now know that lack of internet access locks people out of opportunity. AI is heading down that same path.
For it to be ethical in the long run, some form of universal baseline access (through public institutions, schools, libraries, or subsidised programmes) seems essential.
Otherwise, yes — it tilts toward reinforcing inequality.
Q: What would a letter to the senior management team at OpenAI outlining this issue look like?
A) Dear OpenAI Leadership Team,
I am writing to raise a concern about the current subscription model for ChatGPT. While I understand the financial realities of developing and maintaining large AI models, the present tiered system risks creating what I would call a “technical ghetto” — a situation where only those who can afford the subscription gain access to the most capable AI models, while others are left behind.
This divide is not only about convenience. Access to advanced AI has direct consequences for education, work opportunities, and participation in society. By placing GPT-4 and other advanced features behind a paywall, OpenAI unintentionally reinforces existing social and economic inequalities.
Key ethical concerns include:
Knowledge inequality: The free vs paid divide determines who can access the “good AI” and who cannot.
Digital privilege: Subscription costs may be manageable in some regions, but are prohibitive in many others, particularly in the Global South.
Public good vs private profit: Much of the data used to train these models comes from publicly available sources. It feels unjust that the benefits of this collective knowledge are gated by affordability.
I recognise that running these systems is costly and that OpenAI offers a free tier. However, as AI becomes increasingly essential for education and civic participation, the current model risks entrenching privilege.
I encourage OpenAI to explore more equitable approaches, such as:
A family or group plan to reduce per-person cost.
Subsidised or institutional access via schools and libraries.
A global affordability model, adjusting cost relative to local income levels.
A universal baseline of GPT-4 access, ensuring everyone can use core AI capabilities.
OpenAI has positioned itself as a steward of safe and beneficial AI. Part of that mission should include ensuring broad, fair access — not only to those with disposable income.
Thank you for your consideration. I hope this feedback contributes to your ongoing efforts to align AI development with the values of equity, accessibility, and social responsibility.
Sincerely,
[Your Name]
Q: How do you get this message in front of Sam Altman, CEO of Open AI?
A: Good question — reaching Sam Altman directly is pretty difficult, but you do have a few realistic routes to make sure your message (or at least its essence) lands with him or the leadership team:
🔹 1. Direct Channels
Email: Sam Altman’s personal email isn’t public, but you can try sending to OpenAI’s main contact: support@openai.com or through help.openai.com. Messages can be flagged internally if they’re substantive.
OpenAI Feedback Form: In the ChatGPT app (both web and mobile), there’s a “Help → Send feedback” option. Those go into their internal tracking system and are reviewed by staff.
🔹 2. Public Channels (more visible to leadership)
X (Twitter): Sam Altman is very active on @sama. A concise, respectful public post or DM (if he accepts them) can sometimes get noticed.
OpenAI Community Forum:community.openai.com — staff do read these, and bigger threads sometimes get surfaced to leadership.
🔹 3. Indirect but Strategic Routes
Press / Opinion pieces: OpenAI leadership (including Altman) pay close attention to media coverage and public commentary. A published article, blog post, or letter in a newspaper/magazine can travel further than a private email.
Partnerships / Institutions: If you’re linked to a school, university, NGO, or public library, sending the letter on institutional letterhead can carry more weight.
🔹 4. Reality Check
Sam Altman personally receives thousands of messages, so the chance of a direct reply is slim. But OpenAI does log and track user feedback, and themes that appear often (like calls for fairer access) do get escalated into leadership discussions.
Q: Can you prepare a couple of draft social media posts on this subject?
A: @sama @OpenAI I’m worried that ChatGPT’s paywall creates a “technical ghetto”: those who can afford Plus get the good AI, those who can’t are left behind. If AI is becoming essential for learning + work, shouldn’t access be a public good, not just a privilege? Will OpenAI explore fairer access models (family plans, school/library support, global pricing)?
Many can’t afford £20/month per person for ChatGPT Plus. Does this mean AI becomes another tool only for the privileged? @sama @OpenAI — access to knowledge shouldn’t depend on income.
Q: However, won’t families already facing rising costs struggle to prioritise a monthly payment for AI when essentials like food, rent, and heating are at stake? Yet, these same tools could provide their children with homework support, innovative ways to explore ideas, and personalized assistance that wealthier families may take for granted. My concern is straightforward: once again, those with the least risk being left further behind in a race they never agreed to run.
The Moco Museum in London assembles an enviable roster of late-20th-century cultural heavyweights: Banksy, Warhol, Emin, Basquiat, Haring, etc.
On paper, such a line-up ought to radiate urgency, wit, and the frisson of artistic risk. In situ, however, the experience is oddly inert — less a gathering of vital provocateurs than a tableau of hustlers, lingering on a street corner long after their work has been codified, packaged, and sold.
This inertia is not rooted in the intrinsic quality of the works, or indeed the artist themselves, but within Moco’s tightly curated, boutique-style environment, the edge is blunted. Warhol’s prints, originally a calculated affront to distinctions between art and commerce, now appear as well-worn brand assets, their iconography as familiar — and as unthreatening — as the consumer products they once critiqued.
Similarly, Tracey Emin’s confessional works, initially brimming with the intensity of public vulnerability in this setting feel as a predictable as a drunk uncle retelling stories at a family gathering. Basquiat’s canvases, infused with graffiti influences and a sense of urban immediacy, are diminished to mere high-value décor, their socio-political significance overshadowed by the mitigating effects of wall text and carefully orchestrated lighting.
Banksy’s inclusion underscores the paradox. His practice depends upon context — the unmediated encounter on a city street, the intervention into public space — to function as political commentary. Here they are divorced from site and circumstance, the work shifts register: from subversive gesture to collectible commodity. The transaction becomes aestheticised rebellion, stripped of consequence.
The result is a museum experience that frames radicalism within a safe, consumable format. It invites visitors to encounter these figures not as insurgents within the cultural field, but as fixed points in a canon that has already been stabilised for mass circulation. The presentation favours recognisability over confrontation, producing an environment in which dissent has been fully domesticated.
What emerges is a broader institutional question: can works born of defiance retain their potency within the commercial and museological apparatus that ultimately validates them? Moco’s exhibition suggests that, once integrated into the art-market economy, even the most oppositional practices risk becoming part of the very system they once sought to disrupt.
If Moco’s upper floors feel like a nostalgic playlist on shuffle, the basement is a live wire. Go for that head to the basement for the Marina Abramović collection. Abramović’s work resists embalming because it was never about static images or neat objects. It is about endurance, presence, and the unmediated exchange between artist and audience. Even when translated into photographs, videos, and documentation, her performances retain a charge — the sense that something visceral, uncomfortable, and unpredictable once took place. The gaze still meets you. The tension still hums in the air. You can’t domesticate the feeling of holding another person’s gaze for minutes at a time. There is no easy reproduction, no endlessly shareable clip that captures the weight of the moment.
Standard tickets £25 with concessions for students, over 65s, etc.
1954–1960: Fragile Democracy, Deep Divides – Brazil’s path to the 1964 military coup began a decade earlier. In August 1954, President Getúlio Vargas, accused by conservative forces of corruption and communist sympathies, took his own life rather than resign. His death deepened political polarisation, as populist and conservative forces clashed over the country’s direction. Successive governments wrestled with balancing industrial growth, social reform, and elite resistance, while the military quietly consolidated influence behind the scenes.
1961: The Goulart Presidency and Early Opposition– When President Jânio Quadros abruptly resigned in 1961, Vice President João Goulart (Jango) — a left-leaning ally of workers and unions — was next in line. The military tried to block his succession, fearing his ties to socialism. A compromise was reached: Goulart could assume office under a temporary parliamentary system that reduced his powers, which were restored in a 1963 plebiscite.
1961–1963: Reform vs. Reaction – Goulart proposed sweeping Basic Reforms (Reformas de Base): land redistribution, expanded education, progressive tax changes, and more rights for workers. These reforms alarmed Brazil’s agrarian oligarchs, industrial elites, and conservative politicians, who saw them as a direct threat to their wealth and influence. Inflation soared above 70%, the economy slowed, and strikes multiplied, fuelling fears of instability.
Meanwhile, cultural life was deeply engaged in the political moment. Student groups like the União Nacional dos Estudantes (UNE) staged plays and rallies supporting reform. Theatre companies such as Teatro de Arena and Teatro Oficina used allegory to critique inequality, and Cinema Novo filmmakers like Glauber Rocha produced works blending social realism with political commentary. Musicians including Chico Buarque, Caetano Veloso, and Gilberto Gil — then early in their careers — began weaving subtle critiques of injustice into their songs.
1962–1964: Cold War Pressures and the Propaganda Offensive – The Cuban Revolution (1959) had made Washington hypersensitive to any leftward shift in Latin America. Through the CIA and State Department, the United States channelled covert funds to Brazilian opposition politicians, student groups, and media outlets. Business elites and the Catholic Church amplified this message at home, portraying Goulart as a dangerous radical bent on “Cubanising” Brazil.
By early 1964, the cultural sphere was part of this propaganda war. Artists, intellectuals, and student leaders who supported reform were depicted in conservative newspapers and radio programs as communist agitators.
March 1964: Confrontation – On March 13, 1964, Goulart addressed a massive rally in Rio de Janeiro, announcing land reform decrees and the nationalisation of oil refineries. To his supporters, it was a bold step toward social justice. To his enemies, it was confirmation of their fears.
Six days later, on March 19, São Paulo hosted the Marcha da Família com Deus pela Liberdade (“March of the Family with God for Liberty”), drawing hundreds of thousands. Organised by conservative women’s groups, funded by business associations, blessed by the Catholic Church, and amplified by media outlets, it became a powerful public display against Goulart.
March 31–April 1, 1964: The Coup – On the night of March 31, General Olímpio Mourão Filho led troops from Minas Gerais toward Rio de Janeiro. Other military units quickly joined. The United States initiated Operation Brother Sam, dispatching a naval task force with fuel, arms, and logistical support in case the coup met resistance.
With little opposition, Goulart fled to Porto Alegre and then into exile in Uruguay. On April 2, Congress declared the presidency vacant. Within days, General Castelo Branco assumed power, marking the start of 21 years of military rule.
April–December 1964 Cultural Life Under the New Regime – The military quickly moved against perceived sources of dissent:
The UNE headquarters in Rio was raided and burned.
Leftist student leaders were arrested or went underground.
Artists were placed under surveillance, with intelligence files opened on musicians, playwrights, filmmakers, and authors.
Public performances now required approval from government censors.
While the harshest repression came later (especially after Institutional Act No. 5 in 1968), this early period already reshaped cultural expression. Some artists went silent or into exile, others tempered their work to avoid trouble, and many turned to metaphor, coded language, and allegory to evade censorship.
Musicians used duplo sentido (double meanings) to slip political critique into popular songs. Theatre leaned toward historical parallels and absurdism. Underground student theatre troupes staged performances in private spaces, keeping resistance alive.
The 1964 coup silenced some voices and radicalised others. It fractured Brazil’s artistic community but also laid the groundwork for a decade of creative resistance — from the Tropicália movement to protest songs and politically charged theatre — that would keep challenging the dictatorship, even under the most repressive conditions.
In my early political days, I had the good fortune to cross paths with people of remarkable conviction—individuals whose beliefs weren’t just ideas they carried, but the very compass that guided their lives. Among them was one man who left a lasting impression on me: George Short. He was more than just a politician; he was a living example of what it meant to stand firm in the face of hardship, to believe in something so deeply that no setback could shake it.
George had a way of cutting through noise and doubt, speaking with a clarity that came from both experience and an unshakable moral core. He lived his politics, not as a hobby or a passing phase, but as a lifelong commitment. I often think about how much I learned from him—not just about politics, but about courage, endurance, and the importance of staying true to one’s principles. People like George Short deserve to be remembered—not simply for what they did, but for the integrity and fire they carried into everything they fought for.
George Short was born in 1900 in the tough mining village of High Spen, County Durham. At just 14, he went down the pit, joining the ranks of thousands who worked the coal seams. But he was never content simply to endure harsh conditions — by the time of the great miners’ strikes of 1921 and 1926, Short was an active organiser. His role in those struggles cost him dearly: blacklisted from the coal industry, he would never work underground again.
Determined to keep fighting for workers’ rights, he served as a delegate to the Labour Representation Committee before joining the Communist Party in 1926 — a commitment that would define the rest of his life. By 1929, he was elected to the Party’s Central Committee, and years later he would serve on its Appeals Committee.
In 1930, Short travelled to Moscow, spending a year at the Lenin School and another working for the Comintern, even becoming a member of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. When he returned to Britain, he threw himself into building the Communist Party and leading the unemployed workers’ movement. His activism came at a cost: three months in prison, after insisting on the right to hold meetings at Stockton Cross.
The 1930s also saw him at the forefront of the anti-fascist struggle. After Japan’s invasion of Manchuria, he was instrumental in blocking the Haruma Mara from leaving Middlesbrough dock with scrap metal bound for Japan’s war effort. He helped stop the Blackshirts from marching through Stockton-on-Tees and took on the vital task of organising recruitment for the International Brigade in Spain.
After the war, Short remained committed to the cause of peace, supporting the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament and, in later years, joining the re-established Communist Party of Britain. As President of the Teesside Pensioners Association, he launched a successful campaign for free concessionary travel for retirees — a victory felt by thousands.
George Short lived to the age of 94, passing away in 1994. His life was one of unbroken dedication to the struggles of working people, from the pit villages of County Durham to the global fight against fascism.
We need more Georges in our world today—voices of courage, hearts of steel, and a belief that change is worth fighting for.
Barbara Walker’s new exhibition at Arnolfini is a sustained, courageous interrogation of memory, belonging and the politics of refusal. Across drawing, painting and large-scale installations, Walker refuses easy reconciliation — instead staging encounters that demand attention. Her mark-making is urgent and precise; her visual language reinventive, at once poetic and forensic. The works trace personal and communal histories, showing how identity is made and unmade by social forces.
Seen through the prism of the Windrush scandal, Walker’s exhibition acquires an added urgency. The show does not only document injustice; it amplifies the voices and experiences that policies have tried to erase. Walker’s art testifies to the human consequences of bureaucratic neglect and racialized exclusion, yet it is never merely documentary. It is also a celebration of resilience, a repository of memory, and a space for imagining reparative futures.
Visitors will find themselves moved by the emotional honesty of the pieces, provoked by the political questions they raise, and held by an aesthetic intelligence that balances grief with profound hope. This is essential work for our times — an exhibition that asks us to see more clearly, to remember more faithfully, and to act more justly.
Irregular Frequencies 