Born in Barking in 1957, Billy Bragg is a musician, writer and campaigner. After an aborted stint training for the Royal Armoured Corps, he wrote his debut album, Life’s a Riot with Spy vs Spy. It launched his career as a grassroots activist, protest singer and author, a stance he has maintained throughout his 40-year career, most notably with his benefit gigs for the 1984 miners’ strikes and the formation of the leftwing music collective Red Wedge in 1985. The Roaring Forty – a box set celebrating his 12-album career – is out now, and he is on tour until 7 December. Bragg has a son called Jack with his partner, Juliet Wills.
I was schlepping from my flat in west London to the north of England with a guitar, an amp and a bag when this photograph was taken. My first album had been released, John Peel had played one of my sessions, and I was starting to build a fanbase. It was a hit-and-run type of tour where I’d play and then get straight on a train to the next place, opening for the Icicle Works and New Model Army, and occasionally doing a solo show. I couldn’t carry much stuff and wasn’t thinking about my clothes; I’m a content over style type of geezer, so I only needed my DMs, jeans and a jacket.
Music made a massive impact on my identity. It reinvented me from an anxious teenager called Stephen, to a songwriter called Billy Bragg. Growing up wasn’t always easy – there was a period in my late school years where there was too much violence around me in Barking. Even just going down to the pub involved confronting a lot of testosterone. That being said, testosterone can come in handy if used in the right way – it was the thing that got me in the army, and then got me up on stage to take on an audience.
I also had a vulnerable side that I wanted to express. That balance between hardcore politics, electric guitar solos and emotional vulnerability was unique. Nobody was doing it at the time – it was the era of the New Romantics – but it didn’t stop me. My thinking was that if everyone is zigging and you’re zagging, you’re going to find your people. At first I spent a lot of time playing to a room full of people who’d come to see the band that was on after, but I’d end up winning over the crowd. Nicking an audience became my speciality.
I started writing songs when I was 13, but I couldn’t play any instruments, so it was just a way of expressing myself. Writing poetry was too. I wasn’t very academic at school – I failed all my O-levels except English language, because I was madly in love with a girl and spent all my time writing her poems. I didn’t care: if you’re going to be a songwriter, you don’t really need an A* in biology. But I did learn that if you want to get the girl you’ve got to work a little bit harder than a few poems. A book of poetry may do it, but probably not.
My friend Wiggy taught me how to play the guitar when I was 16. But it was punk rock and discovering the Clash that showed me I could become a musician. They told me music could change the world. In 1984, I found myself at a miners’ strike protest and realised I had an opportunity to find out if it could or not. [Bragg played a series of shows in some of the UK’s most affected communities.] As it transpired, music couldn’t change that particular issue. So I thought: “What next?” In 1985, Margaret Thatcher was still in power, so we built Red Wedge as a vehicle to inspire people to vote. Labour didn’t win the 1987 election. From that experience I realised that while music has no agency, what it can do is focus people’s solidarity. It brings people together and makes them feel they’re not the only person on the planet who cares about a particular cause.
In the early 80s I played a lot with leftwing skinheads the Redskins, members of the Socialist Workers party. They were dogmatic in their politics. They basically lectured people between their songs, and I used to say to them, “Guys, lighten up!” You can’t give the room the impression that you think you’ve got all the answers. That’s failure. I can’t compete with Taylor Swift. I haven’t got the dancers or the videos, but I have got a gift for talking to an audience. Having a connection with the crowd helps to recharge my activism. To see young people today with their fists in the air when I sing There Is Power in a Union is amazing. But I’ve realised it’s about channelling what’s happening now which is germane – for example, in the last couple of years I have been talking about trans rights. I even stopped playing my song Between the Wars in the early part of the century because I got the impression that my audience were getting nostalgic for Margaret Thatcher and the miners’ strike. That sucks. It’s not what I’m here for. If you want to feel misty-eyed about the 80s, there’s a Nik Kershaw tour going on. I don’t want to be that guy.
The thing about being a touring musician is the lifestyle encourages you to be a for ever teenager, which doesn’t quite work after a certain age. Fortunately, when I got together with my partner, Juliet, 31 years ago I had to grow up and settle down. I stopped living in a tiny flat with a fold-down bed. It helps that she has worked in the industry for longer than I have – she used to manage the Selecter. She manages me now, and I’m pretty sure she has a better idea of who Billy Bragg is than I do. She’s seen and done way more than me, so when I’m away on tour, she’s got no thoughts about what an ostentatious time I’m having.
My mum never quite got the concept of me playing music for a living though. She was really happy when I joined the army – I don’t know why, as I’d gone off to learn to kill people. When I left and told her I wanted to do music, she found it difficult. In fact she never reconciled herself to the fact that I didn’t have a proper job. She always used to say to me: “I’ll worry that when you get married, you’ll have to live with your in-laws, like me and your dad did.” Even years later when I had a big house on the beach in Dorset, she still didn’t understand it. She was happy that I was successful, but she just couldn’t understand how I made money.
What is weird is turning 65. The numbers I am confronting are slightly overwhelming. Next year it is going to be 50 years since I left school. Soon it’ll be 50 years since my father died. I’ve been doing a lot of stepping back and reassessing. How many more US tours have I got? How many more trips to Australia? As for writing protest songs, there’s not a huge bunch of people out there hanging on my every word like in the 80s. I don’t need to make records every year like I used to. That’s passed, but if the flare goes up: “Bill! We need a protest song!” then I think: “Yeah! I’m still here!”
I recently did Later … With Jools Holland. There were all these incredible musicians on the show, all these great bands and amazing singers – young, young artists. And there’s me, still playing my guitar. I thought: “No, this is all right, this is cool. This is who I am. This is what Billy Bragg is. Don’t worry about what they’re doing. They’re all zigging, I’m still zagging.”
