A dog called Paul
Popular culture, I am by no means the first to point out, has become so atomised that the term is now an oxymoron. I’ve never seen your unmissable binge-watch. You can’t name a single song by my favourite new band. The last film you loved at the cinema completely passed me by. The book I’m currently captivated by would bore you stupid.
The other day, on a Teams call, a cherished colleague suggested that, for Esquire’s next cover, we should photograph the rapper Dave. I gave her one of my small but, I like to think, devastating selection of disapproving looks: Withering Incredulity, I call this one. “Dave?” I said. “No, we won’t be doing Dave.” I may even have waved my hand in front of my face, as if swatting a fruit fly.
It’s not that I haven’t heard of him. But the only thing I know about Dave is his stage name, which, in classic Annoying Dad style, I obviously find hilarious. What happened to rappers called Snoop Dogg or Ol’ Dirty Bastard? Dave? Really? Who else is in his crew? DJ Reg? MC Brian? The Notorious Kev? When we first heard of Dave, my son and I were reminded of a dog we often see in our local park. All the other spoilt pooches have cute doggy names. There’s Skylar the Australian Shepherd. Rosco the German Shorthaired Pointer. Hera the Rhodesian Ridgeback. Duke the Labrador. Woody the Whippet. (That’s our one.) And there’s a beautiful and quite terrifying-looking Dobermann Pinscher. “What’s his name?” I asked the Dobermann’s owner, when we first met. “Paul,” he said.
When he was safely out of earshot — I don’t want to offend anyone, least of all a man holding a fearsome beast on a chain — my boy and I had a good laugh about that, while trying to come up with names for our next hound: Wayne, Phil, Gary…
Dave the rapper on the cover? What an idea! Then, later that day, feeling a bit guilty about dismissing out of hand my cherished colleague’s suggestion, I Googled Dave. And, of course, she’s right: he’s a massive star, handsome and talented and cool, and we should be so lucky to have him on the cover. But would that appeal to you, the Esquire reader? Are you a fan of Dave? Or would you, like me, have to Google him in order to decide?
As I write this, my house shakes to the sound of Guts, the brilliant new album by the freshly minted American pop sensation Olivia Rodrigo. I think Olivia Rodrigo is terrific, and so does my daughter, who is responsible for the racket coming from upstairs. That’s two of us here who would love to see Olivia Rodrigo on the cover of Esquire, pronto. But, again, others will suggest that a 20-year-old pop star whose chief constituency is teenage girls would be an odd fit for a magazine aimed principally at grown-ass men who are, in many cases (like mine), old enough to be her father.
In 2023, we’ve published four issues of this magazine. Of the cover stars, I think only one can be said to be a confirmed household name with broad mainstream appeal: Idris Elba. You may not have strong feelings about him, either way. But few would deny he’s a major figure, with a substantial body of work. The others: Elvis Costello, a cult hero to those of my background and vintage but, you could equally argue, possibly no longer quite at the cutting edge of contemporary pop culture; Paul Mescal, a rising star of stage and screen, catnip to the ladies, perhaps you’ve
seen him in something on TV? (the cherished colleague approved of that one, with almost disturbing enthusiasm); and now, Keir Starmer.
On reflection, I think my ungenerous response to the Dave suggestion was a defensive overreaction to what I took to be a sly critique. I felt that what the cherished colleague was implying, by promoting Dave, was: Keir Starmer, really? Shouldn’t we be spotlighting hip young creatives, rather than middle-aged politicians? Is this a style magazine, or what?
Such is the conundrum faced by the magazine editor in 2023. (Or, at least, by this one.) You can’t please all the people any of the time. You can only please specific people some of the time. Keir Starmer is a fan of Arsenal Football Club and the music of 1980s indie pioneers Orange Juice. Perhaps, if he were to edit an issue of Esquire, he might put the scintillating Gunners winger Bukayo Saka on the cover, and, for inside, organise an interview with Edwyn Collins. I’d be thrilled with that. (Especially as I wouldn’t have to do any work.) Spurs fans and those born after 1980, perhaps less so.
Point is, like Olivia Rodrigo, you have to go with your gut. Sometimes you’ll succeed. Other times, not so much. The aim should be to surprise and delight, educate and entertain. You don’t want to be predictable — at least I don’t. You want to offer something unexpected, something non-generic. And, crucially, your individual taste should not be your guide. (My current personal obsessions are Ian Penman’s magnificent new book about Rainer Werner Fassbinder, and a recent collection of 1980s club classics called Box of Sin. But I’m not going to put a fat, dead, West German druggie on the cover, nor a photo of Bronski Beat. I mean, it would tickle me something rotten to do it. But I’d get sacked.)
My interest in Keir Starmer is simple: everyone I know has heard of him, plenty have an opinion, but few of them seem to know much about him. Given the fact that, by this time next year, he may well be our prime minister, might it not be interesting to find out? Granted, he’s no Dave in the street-cred stakes. But like I say, you can’t have everything — and neither can the cherished colleague. In any case, whatever your opinion of the man and his politics, I hope you’ll find something enlightening in the interview.
There are others in this issue you will have heard of, whether you like them or not.
While I was in Dagenham, talking to Sir Keir, Craig McLean was en route to Nevada to watch U2 attempt to redefine the rock concert, not for the first time, with their residency inside a giant virtual disco ball on the Vegas Strip. U2 are as divisive a band as ever filled a stadium (I have seen them play live several times, and remain a fan, but I recognise that that has not always been a fashionable position to take) and their latest wheeze will doubtless confound as many as it compels. Either way, as Craig writes, it raises interesting questions about the future of live music, and even the spectre of the end of the world tour — which might be a good name for U2 to use, if and when they ever go out on the road again.
More music. Fifty years ago, Bob Marley and the Wailers released Catch a Fire, the album that made them superstars. (Again, you may be familiar with their work.) In January, Marley becomes the latest music icon to receive the dubious honour of having a Hollywood biopic — that most degraded of genres — dedicated to him. Before that, the photographer Kate Simon republishes Rebel Music, her remarkable document of Marley’s life and times, and of the reggae movement in 1970s Jamaica. We’re lucky to be able to extract that book in this issue.
Best of all, though, is Miranda Collinge’s profile of Jeymes Samuel, a man of whom you may not have heard. I hadn’t, either. (Atomisation of popular culture, etc.) But, whether I was being particularly receptive to ideas the day Miranda pitched her story (unlikely, she’ll tell you) or I was simply not paying attention (that’ll be it), I must have nodded it through at some point. I’m glad I did. The piece is a doozy.
Among other things, Jeymes Samuel is a film director. He directed The Harder They Fall, the 2021 Netflix hit, with Idris leading a strong ensemble cast. (If you haven’t seen it — again, I hadn’t — you should.) He has now made a follow-up, The Book of Clarence, starring LaKeith Stanfield and Benedict Cumberbatch, which is set to do for the swords’n’sandals epic what its predecessor did for the Western: put the Black back in it.
The reason you should read the story is that, like its subject, it leaps off the page. Samuel is funny, compelling and vivid, and so is Miranda’s writing. It’s a British success story, about a boy who grew up on a tough London council estate and has risen to the top of the entertainment industry on a combination of imagination, energy and determination. He deserves to be celebrated.
There’s a lesson there, I think. Now, please excuse me while I go off and develop a deep appreciation for the music of Dave, while taking time to apologise to the owner of Paul for sniggering at his dog — and also to the cherished colleague for my high-handed tone. I look forward to hearing her opinion of my magnum opus on Keir Starmer. I may be waiting some time.
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