#where work is subsumed and made as natural as water flowing

[arysthaeniru]

"This language of work was by no means the private language of a single-minded maniac who had lived too long under the volcano. To the contrary, Hill’s ideas were on the leading edge of the terrain where biological science and social science intersected. In particular, the concept of the calorie, as a measure of both energy consumed and work done, emerged in connection with the steam-engine-based economics of work in mid-nineteenth century Europe. By the turn of the twentieth century, the calorie had developed into a unit of equivalency between what people ate and how much work they could generate, what they needed to consume and what they were capable of producing—effectively recasting the body as a measurable machine.Whether or not Hill had a formal grasp of the field of expert knowledge cohering around the calorie and its implications for labor management and social policy, he did understand it implicitly, for he paid his employees in food. He used the way of seeing the relation of food and work that gained expression in the science of the calorie in his campaign to reduce the people who worked on his plantations to mechanisms of value production—to make them his."

Augustine Sedgewick - Against Flows

(emphasis mine)

[jasongthompson365]

24 Hours

I woke up in the dark, cocooned by cardboard boxes. I sent signals to my toes to wiggle, as I breathed in deeply. My arms were across my chest, vampire-like, not for any effect, but out of need within the cramped space. My combat boots were by my feet, removed to prevent sweating and rot. I had propped my head up the night before with my duffel bag, full of clothes, and had fallen asleep with a knife in my hand, but it had since dropped by my left side. For warmth I had my leather jacket, and the garbage bags lining the cardboard boxes that I had fitted together, like a kid would connect straws, forcing one end inside of another. I grabbed my knife before I crawled out of the boxes, slithering and jerking to free myself, seeing the gray light of morning and feeling the fresh, crisp air on my nostrils and in my lungs. I stood slowly, stretching out the stiffness, a by product of sleeping on the hard surface, and then grabbed the boxes, shaking my boots loose and onto the rooftop. I had a very simple philosophy when it came to homelessness; disappear. Rooftops, storm drains, abandoned buildings. Any place where people tend not to rest their gaze, or even consider. I stayed away from the shelters because of the thieves and violence. I kept clear of the tent cities, as I liked my privacy. I had been squatting with a couple of other people in an abandoned building, but everyone had moved on, so the solo methods kicked in. Not that I minded. I needed some alone time to clear my head, to revert to a more natural, animalistic state, where the only concern was survive. Any other thoughts were subsumed by a primal directive-be invisible as much as possible. I put on my jacket and the boots, then broke the boxes down. I had the boxes the night before, from the Subway sandwich shop on P Street. They kept them behind a gate in the alley that I had to climb over to get to, but I was fairly agile, and light. I had scaled more than one rooftop, shimmying up pipes and ladders. After I had thrown the boxes over the gate, I raided the trash cans, looking for fairly clean garbage bags. The garbage bags kept the heat in, and the rain out. I had used a dumpster to climb onto the roof with the boxes and bags, then assembled my makeshift hotel. Now I had to reverse the process. Leave no trace. Become the Nowhere Man. After I had surveyed the ground around the roof I jumped down to the dumpster, then the hard concrete of the alley. I was not a great jumper, and always felt the jarring impact. I threw the boxes back over the gate, and shoved the garbage bags into the dumpster. I was ready to start the day now. I walked out of the alleyway, looking for signs from the traffic to tell the time of day. The sun was creeping slowly, illuminating the top floors of the buildings more than the streets, and the traffic was intermittent. I knew the flood of the morning commute would come quickly, bringing the attendant foot traffic. I had successfully grown in tune with the environment, waking in time to get what I needed. I had a couple of minutes to get across Dupont Circle and start panhandling. Dupont was slowly coming to life, with a few cars making their way and a couple of walkers, spread out and moving in different directions. I stepped across the circle in a matter of moments, heading to my favorite corner in front of Vesuvio’s Pizza. The foot traffic was becoming fuller, so I waited. A commuter bought a paper and I asked him if I could grab one before the door locked shut on the box. He said sure, and as he walked off, I grabbed all of the papers, intending to sell them for less. As the street filled, I began to panhandle. “Spare change? I’m tryin’ ta get somethin’ to eat.” If they said no, or ignored me, I’d offer, “Newspaper! 10 cents!” A couple of the working stiffs laughed at that, but only a couple bought them. I had tested the market and found it lacking, so decided never to do that again. After the streets had quieted again, outside of the steady motor traffic, I had made about 15 bucks. Not bad for 45 minutes of work, but not as lucrative as the day before. I was happy to disengage, to end interaction with a different world than my own. To them, I was an anomaly, a misplaced piece of gravel, rough and broken, on a pristine walkway. To me, they were a horde, in pressed shirts, with the alcohol smell of mouthwash covering their base nature. I didn’t hate them. I didn’t like them. They were one of several currents in the flowing river of the city, useful for fishing out a few dollars in the morning. I needed a shower. The heat of the day before, plus the natural oils my body produced in the evening had left me with that not so fresh feeling. My working friends who would let me shower and often crash, were out earning the money that gave them the ability to afford such things as showers, and shelter. I needed something more immediate. The hotel. Getting in required waiting for the lobby to clear. There was a single bathroom behind the front desk,  near the restaurant, that I had used before. The odds of getting caught were high, which I didn’t like, but I didn’t want to compound the stench I was developing throughout the day, plus I had to brush my teeth. The lobby cleared, and I walked quickly through the glass door, and made a bee line for the bathroom. I opened the wooden door for the toilet, then closed and locked it behind me. I had to move quickly. I ruffled through my bag to find my toothbrush, and a set of clean clothes. I stripped naked and shoved my dirty clothes into a plastic grocery bag before putting them into the duffel. I had to keep them separate so the odor would not transfer. They would be washed in a bath tub or a laundry mat later. I ran the toothbrush under the water, then the soap dispenser, and shoved it into my mouth. I scrubbed my teeth vigorously.  I put the toothbrush back into the ziploc, and tossed it into the duffel. My heart rate was elevated, so I took a deep breath. “Move precisely, but calmly.” I told myself, forcing my heart and mind to slow down. I took a step toward the paper towel dispenser.  It was full of the stiff, brown paper, in a single roll. I started hitting the lever over and over, creating a long trail of paper. I took the paper and ripped it into several pieces, which I balled up. I grabbed one of them and got it wet in the faucet, then put it under the soap dispenser. I rubbed the soap into the wad, then washed myself. I had to repeat the process several times to get everything, then had to do it again sans soap, to wash the soap off. The final step was cleanup. Leave no trace. The whole process probably took 10-15 minutes. Before I could get dressed someone knocked on the door. “Who’s in there?” “I’ll be done in a minute.” I said, as calmly as possible. I had almost made it, and didn’t like the intrusion. I started dressing quickly, happy to at least have gotten clean before being discovered. “Open the door! You don’t belong in there!” “Hold on.” I said as I put my boots on. I knew I had to open the door, and didn’t know who I was going to face. I laced my boots up, listening to the voice on the other side of the door become more angry and demanding. I stood up, took a breath, let it out, and opened the door. The man on the other side stared awkwardly. I stood there, in my boots and leather jacket, with my bag over my shoulder, staring back at him, every sense alive. He was blocking the doorway. “You don’t belong in here!” I walked toward him, silently, without hesitation. He stepped back, not sure what to do, which created the space I needed to walk past him. I could feel his presence as I brushed by, and it was inconsequential. He wasn’t going to do anything. I headed for the door, my momentum carrying me into another moment devoid of the encounter. The man screamed at my back, but his words had no meaning. I hit the bright street, full of sunshine, and made my way to Habib’s. I can’t remember if the store was actually called Habib’s, but Habib ran it, and he never carded any of us. He also sold the cheapest vodka in town. I bought a pint for later, and hid it in my leather jacket, the inside pocket. I had some vodka at Johnny’s, but I needed a pint bottle, and 2 bucks was nothing. Next was breakfast. I walked over to the McDonald’s and grabbed a couple of biscuits, and water. The spot in front of the grocery store across the street was a good panhandling spot, if you didn’t get booted. I could make 30-40 bucks in a couple of the afternoon hours, but I had what I needed. I wandered the city for a few hours, making my way down to the record shop. I flipped through the CD’s, records, and books, staring at the things I would never buy. Back on the street, I stared at faces that had their own stories, or non-stories. Vacant eyes and lives. I couldn’t fathom being them. I headed downtown, hoping to hit the food truck. I was now in full public territory. None of my friends were close by. This wasn’t my neighborhood. The bums and assorted crazies were out in force, so I knew I had to watch my back. Years ago, I felt more at home on this side of town. I had been running with a crowd of around ten homeless kids. I say “around” because people would come and go. As a pack, we were unstoppable. The other homeless weren’t organized, so weren’t a threat. The crazies were always a threat, but ten beats one. Tourists were harmless, and we would either find ways to amuse ourselves by tormenting them, ignore them, or we would panhandle. One of our favorite methods for getting money from them was to charge them for pictures. If we caught one taking our picture we would turn our backs to them. If they persisted in trying to photograph us we would surround them and tell them they didn’t have our permission to take our pictures. This was a lie. They didn’t legally need our permission, but they were usually compliant when we told them it would cost them a dollar. One nice guy actually bought us lunch, and we sat eating with his family. Now, here I was alone, surveying the congregation, waiting for the food truck to deliver the life sustaining Eucharist. The disheveled masses, dirty and unwashed. A veritable Babylon of humanity, muttering to each other and themselves, all hoping for more than the normal sandwich. If we scored a cup of soup we were lucky. The sandwiches were anemic at best, and tasted better dipped in the soup. The problem with the soup was if they ran out. The guy in line when that would happen would inevitably raise hell. I didn’t give a shit. It wasn’t like I was paying. I got in line. A dirty  rasta guy got in behind me. He started talking shit almost immediately, and my hackles raised. I turned my head to him, only to discover that his vitriol was directed at my jacket. He was having a conversation with the words on my coat. “BLITZ. THE FINAL SOLUTION. RAZORS IN THE NIGHT.” Blitz was an Oi! band from England. The other words were titles of songs. I decided to ignore him, but stayed on the alert in case he decided my coat was shit talking his mother. I finally got my food. It consisted of a flimsy peanut butter sandwich, and the treasured cup of soup. I walked away from the group, wanting to distance myself, not just from the potential issues, but the smell. I wanted to eat without gagging on the air around me, so I chose an isolated spot in the grass.     It wasn’t isolated for long. A native American guy sat down to the right of me, which piqued my interest, as I’d always been fascinated by American Indian cultures.  He was shirtless, long hair, mid 20’s, from what I could tell. He had a tattoo that read, “DOG SOLDIER.” I knew the Dog Soldiers were a warrior band, but I didn’t know which nation they belonged to, so I asked. “Cheyenne.” he answered, focused on eating. He was soon followed by a black man, who sat to his right. Things looked like they might get interesting. I was looking forward to whatever conversation followed. It didn’t happen. We were interrupted by a large black man screaming. “You ain’t homeless, cracka! You just takin’ from us!” We all looked at him, as he stared at me. Shit. “Why you muthafuckas sittin’ wit’ that white boy?” The black man who had sat with us told him to shut the fuck the up. I started to devour my food. “Lookit him eatin’ our food!” The black man near us got up. “I told you to shut the fuck up!” As they started fighting, the Cheyenne and I got up, and left in different directions, with me shoveling food into my face. I watched the fight as I left. It wasn’t too serious. The interloper was afraid of the man who had sat near us, and kept backing up, out of distance. Either way, I didn’t want police attention, so just kept walking back toward Dupont Circle. I appreciated the man standing up, but it seemed that they knew each other, and a lot of it had to do with him being tired of hearing his shit. I didn’t need the complications or chaos. Once back, I lazily panhandled, more to occupy my time until John came home. When he did, I walked over to his apartment. I drank some of the vodka and orange juice I had left there, until I felt loose and warm. Our evening plans were simple, a regular routine. Hit the club two blocks away and drink the night away. This meant listening to shitty industrial music all night, probably played by DJ Mohawk Adam. There was a dirth of punk clubs in the early 90’s, and very few punks living in the city. Most of the clubs played industrial. The goth and industrial folks were nice enough, and some of them were cool, including Adam, but I hated that fucking music. I had watched a live video of Ministry’s, and liked it well enough. It was a good show. My problem was the problem all people have with the music that follows theirs, it seems like it all sounds the same. Either way, open bar was open bar, and people usually bought me drinks afterward. The bartender would throw some free ones my way, plus I had my pint of vodka in my pocket. I had no fear of being searched by the bouncers, and usually got in on the guest list. I was going to drink my mind away. We spent the night glued to the bar. When open bar ended I ordered some water, chugged it, then went into the bathroom and filled the glass with my vodka. When that was depleted, I had some drinks sent my way from various people, and finished the night earlier than usual, tired of the noise, and physically drained from walking all day, and a poor diet. On my way out, someone told me about the Rodney King verdict. Rodney King was a criminal, and had led the police on a chase, before being apprehended and thoroughly beaten on the street by them. The police were acquitted, which set off rioting in L.A., and apparently there were roving bands of blacks causing mayhem all over D.C. “Be careful.” Red Steve said as I left. I was only going a block over to my rooftop, so wasn’t too concerned. I hit the street and breathed in the night air. It wasn’t fresh. The smell of smoke lingered, and a helicopter was flying low nearby. My senses came alive. I was instantly sober. I passed one alley and saw a group of about 5 black males on the other side of the block. One of them yelled, “We gonna fuck up some white folks tonight!” The proclamation was met with shouts of approval. I hurried past the alley before they could see me, and ran down the street to the alley where I slept, where I accessed the roof. I jumped the cage and gathered my boxes, stopping periodically to listen for trouble. The helicopter was closer. I knew I couldn’t get trapped in the cage and had to get to the roof. I climbed back out, grabbed some garbage bags, without the care for cleanliness that I normally used. I threw everything on top of the dumpster, climbed up, then threw it all on the roof. I assembled everything quickly. My bag was at John’s, so I used my jacket for my pillow. For added warmth, I tucked my arms into my shirt. I listened to the noise of city; the traffic, the shouting. I closed my eyes, and let the sound of the helicopters rotors sing me into a fitful sleep.

I woke the next morning, hung over, and in need of water. I was exhausted from not sleeping well. I crawled out from the boxes, and sat there for a moment, restoring needed oxygen to my body. I stared at the gray light, slowly brightening, looked at the sky, and wondered what was waiting for me today.

[thesunlounge]

Reviews 266: Gigi Masin & Jonny Nash

For the 2017 Venice Art Biennale, visual artist Xavier Veilhan was given opportunity to transform the historical exhibition’s French pavilion and alongside curators Christian Marclay and Lionel Bovier, he reworked the space into Studio Venezia, an immersive installation inspired by Kurt Schwitters Merzbau, as well as the experiments of the Black Mountain College and Doug Aitken’s nomadic happening, Station to Station. The result is a sculptured structure where unfamiliar wooden geometries bend, collide, and refract around a fully functioning recording studio, one replete with piano, clavinet, modular synthesis, Buchla, vibraphone, percussion, and more exotic instruments such as sound sculptures from the Association Structures Sonores Baschet. During the Biennale, the space hosted many musicians, allowing them free reign and full ownership of anything produced while also inviting in visitors to experience not only the incredible constructions of the space, but also real-time musical creation and the inner workings of a professional studio. Among the musicians asked to participate were frequent collaborators Gigi Masin and Jonny Nash, a duo whose deep artistic connection has been explored across Clouds and The Distance, two albums made in conjunction with Young Marco as Gaussian Curve. Within Veilhan’s studio-sculpture, Masin and Nash primarily stuck to the instruments of their souls, with the former on piano and the latter on guitar. And at times, Baschet sourced drones, plucked string vibrations, and dreamy mallet instrumentation made their way into the duo’s improvisations.

In 2018, Nash was approached by design agency Commission to collaborate on a vinyl LP, which led to him editing down the Venice recordings into Postcards from Nowhere for eventual release on Melody as Truth. Musically, two interconnected minds work together through realms of ambient jazz, pastoral psychedelia, minimalist shimmer, and idiophonic noir and though Nash’s recent work has seen his guitar spread ever further out into esoteric fourth world experimentation, there are times here where the playing erupts into classical space rock majesty, with touches of the HIllage, Gilmour, Rother, and Göttsching-indebted echoguitar brilliance found on Land of Light, Phantom Actors, and Exit Strategies. And just as Veilhan’s installation was an interdisciplinary experience, so is Postcards from Nowhere, which surrounds the music with photography from Luke Evans and the printwork of Paris-based atelier Imprimerie du Marais. It’s an incredible visual presentation, as Evans’ floral photographs appear as if melted onto the record sleeve, with the folds and distortions of the image sticking out three dimensionally. The inner sleeve features a white on white variant of the melting photograph technique as well as an embossing of the project’s mission statement…all on textured cotton paper…and going even further, the liner notes have been hot foil printed around the edge of the album, the interior of the outer jacket is fluorescent pink, and the whole thing comes in a jet black mailer sourced from recycled coffee cups and embossed with the same collaborative mission statement found on the inner sleeve.

Gigi Masin & Jonny Nash - Postcards from Nowhere (Melody as Truth, 2019) Swells like wisps of wind begin “Butterfly’s Tale,” with Nash’s blurred guitar impressionisms interspersed with scattered picking sounds and crystalline echowaves. Masin’s bucolic piano meaderings touch upon pastoral jazz and warming new age, as atonal chord clusters drift into pearlescent strands. It’s cozy and inviting, evoking the titular butterfly as it flits flower to flower under a bright summer sun. At the other end of the A-side sits “Astro,” which features mallet instruments drifting like leaves on a stream and accompanied by the otherworldly Baschet creations. Clattering noises flow in the background, all shuffles, scrapes, steps leading nowhere, and unidentifiable string plucks that could be some one playing the piano’s interior, or perhaps some strange instrument built into the very body of Xavier Veilhan’s immersive creation. The sculptural instruments and their metallic structures bend, waver, and sing like ghosts as everything drifts within a dopamine dreamscape and contemplative silences are just as important to the song as the barely defined melodic development. Towards the end, resonances grow in strength and a vibraphone dances through shadowy noir motions as bowed arcs of feedback generated from strange pieces of metal wrap around unidentifiable percussive detritus.

Between “Butteryfly’s Tale” and “Astro” sits the epic “Interstellar”, where Masin establishes a three note bass riff on piano while slowly working in spiraling leads and waterfalls cascades. It’s ambient bebop floating on clouds, with Nash slowly evolving from scraped textures and metallic shimmer into bluesy space psychedelia. As the dreamy piano patterns hold down a semblance of a groove, ivory keys and steel strings explore the cosmos, with the whole thing evoking nothing so much as the breathtaking interplay between Daniel Fichelscher and Florian Fricke in Popol Vuh. Masin alternates between gentle chord strokes and majestic runs that stretch the full length of the keyboard and Nash’s guitar is smothered in slapback echo, with notes moving like beads of light on turbulent waters, growing louder…more intense…even chaotic at times…as the delay and fast motion picking creating fractal structures. At some point it all seems to vaporize, leaving just the three note piano refrain to sit below Nash’s guitar, which is now reduced to a fragile whisper. Footsteps, breaths, and creaking stools are heard amidst the hushed ambiance and there’s a feeling of intimate immersion…like being right next to Masin and Nash as they improvise together through outerspace dreamworlds. And later, Nash switches to e-bow, with infinite sustain and blissed out saturation joining soloing piano for a slow burn float towards the center of the cosmos. 

The centerpiece of the B-side is “Girl With No Name,” starting with guitar curlicues and piano dancing through the shadows. Layers of feedback and droning resonance drift like a dark fog as Masin moves up high, with his notes twinkling like starlight. Sometimes guitar and piano drift apart, as chords and solos flow out in all directions only to merge again. Other times the two play off of one another in spiritual synchronization, with Masin spontaneously alighting on some heavenly journey only to be miraculously tracked by Nash, or with Nash erupting into spiraling solo magic as Masin backs down into a supportive chordscape. Near the middle, the piano drifts into a breathtakingly beautiful progression and it all seems destined for some majestic climax as the heart is swept towards paradise skies. But it never arrives, for the duo simmer instead into near silence. Masin disappears completely while Nash uses his lower strings to wander through ethereal desert landscapes, with bass drones and subsonic resonances floating in the depths. When Masin returns, his piano is locked into pure minimalist magic while generating shimmering tapestries of ivory incandescence…like an infinitely oscillating web of jewels. Eventually, Nash also joins the gemstone weavings, creating thrilling moments where guitar and piano blur into indistinction…as if the mix is completely subsumed by pulsating echo bursts and prismatic celestial vibrations.

Surrounding “Girl With No Name” are “The Sea in Your Eyes” and “Postcards from Nowhere,” with the former reveling in the kind of oceanic piano dreamscapes that could only come from Masin. Imagine moonlight rippling against the gentle motions of a paradise lagoon while the heart floats forever at peace…a serene environment into which Nash’s guitar fades, shambling at first, with moments of improvisational strangeness as six-string clusters and piano leads overlap. But before long, their playing develops into a bewitching conversation, with Masin’s chords reasserting the flow as Nash alights on gorgeous and glassy solo adventures…perhaps the closest the duo come here to the meditative balearica of Gaussian Curve. Then in “Postcards from Nowhere,” there is further e-bow, though at first vaporous and distant. Much of the album has seen the guitar foregrounded, but here Masin takes over, with his piano closed mic’d and warm as bass waves and high notes sing towards the sun. Natural distortions blur the edges of everything and strange scrapes and pulses float in the background as atonal string vibrations evoke tamburas from an alien planet. Nash sometimes fades away completely, only to re-emerge on a shooting start of gently sustaining bliss. And his playing grows in volume as the song progresses, eventually breaking free of the shadows to bathe in the light alongside Masin’s spiritual piano ambiance.

(images from my personal copy)

[hounslowmomentum-blog]

McDonnell’s Swedish lesson: flat-packed socialism?

By Vivak Soni

A brief primer on Labour's latest economic policy, as outlined by the shadow chancellor John McDonnell at Labour Party conference in Liverpool on Monday 24th September. Coverage of shadow chancellor John McDonnell’s shared ownership plans were subsumed by Brexit. Odd, given this may have been the most far-reaching element coming out of the event.

If McDonnell gets into Number 11 Downing Street, these proposals will be transformative. So we thought it would be useful to look at them, and also those of the Meidner plan, a similar plan from the Swedish labour movement in the 1970s.

What we know so far

At September’s TUC conference, McDonnell first introduced the proposal that all private companies employing more than 250 people would have to set up “ownership funds,” giving workers financial stakes in their companies and increasing powers to influence how they are run. At Labour conference these plans were further fleshed out. Here’s what we know so far:

·     Companies with over 250 members of staff are required to transfer at least 1% of their ownership into an inclusive ownership fund (IOF) each year, up to a maximum 10%. IOF funds will be managed collectively, and shares will not be available for trade or sale.

·     Employees therefore become part-owners of the companies they work for, receiving a yearly flat-rate dividend of up to £500.

·     Dividends that remain after individual worker payouts go to a national fund, which is then used to invest in public infrastructure and services.

·     The levy on private businesses is estimated to be £2.1 billion per year.

·     An initial 40% of the private sector workforce stands to benefit from these changes.

Taking inspiration from the Meidner plan

Details on these proposals are still scant (so much so that we don’t have a collective policy name yet). However, there are common links between Labour’s new plans and the earlier Swedish one. Named after Swedish Landsorganisationen (LO) economist Rudolph Meidner, the plan had two main aims:

Equal work should be equally paid, regardless of the profitability of the firm, the size or location of the workplace. What matters is the kind and nature of work, and the skills which are needed to perform it.

 Wage differentials should be equalised, but not totally eliminated. Different wages should be paid for different kinds of work.

There are several excellent in-depth analyses of the Meidner plan (including here, here, and this analysis by Rudolph Meidner himself in 1993, available as pdf here). This is a (hopefully) helpful summary. The general outline is summarised in the chart below:

The conflict between full employment and price stability is simply that rising employment pushes wages up, in turn driving inflation. To prevent unchecked inflation, the Meidner plan posited that wage demands were to be restrained. This ‘Solidarity in Wages’ successfully raised the wages of the lowest waged workers, thereby increasing equality whilst maintaining full employment and keeping inflation low. Equality was pursued not only by wage solidarity, but also by a system of universal welfare by a large public sector.

The full implementation of the plan would result in the creation of wage-earner funds, financed through profits made by firms (sounding familiar yet?). The eventual goal was for these funds to become majority owners in these firms as profits continued to flow in.

The legacy of the Meidner plan and it’s relevance for Labour’s new policy

The Meidner plan was never implemented in full: a corporate backlash resulted in a much-watered down version of the wage-earner funds being introduced in 1984. Shares were never issued, with funding instead coming through a profits tax. Without worker funds invested in firms, the ‘Solidarity in Wages’ policy backfired. Whilst inflation was kept in check by wage restraint, businesses gained huge excess profits with no increase in outlay, and no benefits for workers in the form of shares.

What lessons can Labour take from the Swedish experience? As the LO discovered, corporate interests will be keen to water the policy down to an unrecognisable state. Labour will also face enmity from within as members of the PLP who aim to prevent such changes from even getting off the ground (alas for open selection). This point could prove crucial. When the Meidner plan was introduced, Sweden had a long legacy of social democracy stretching back to the 1920s (though high growth rates and full employment in the post-WW2 economy muted talk of nationalisation). In contrast the UK has continued to embrace the free market and the privatisation of state infrastructure since the Thatcher years. The argument has been reframed to such an extent that talk of expanding the social sphere is deemed radical. You can imagine how IOF part-ownership of companies will be received!

The director of the Confederation of British Indsutry (CBI) Carolyn Fairbairn gave us a taste of the backlash to come:

“Their diktat on employee share ownership will only encourage investors to pack their bags and will harm those who can least afford it.  If investment falls, so does productivity and pay.”

There’s a strong argument for why she’s wrong. Firstly, these are socialist policies operating within a free market system, and as such are an accommodation as opposed to an upheaval. As such not only are they likely to appease unrest amongst workers, but workers are far more likely to support pro-business policies when they are in their own interest. Secondly, having worker knowledge of the labour process involved in decision making is likely to improve productivity and go some way to soothing the disconnect between workers and management.

These accommodations to business are likely to frustrate many on the left. Rather than attempting an upheaval of a broken system, McDonnell’s plans are set at a more pragmatic level and may well provide a platform for the redistribution of wealth and the resuscitation of our ailing public infrastructure. Tempting though it is, we won’t venture down the Social Democracy vs Marxim wormhole in this particular piece.

Labour’s plans are not a carbon copy of the Meidner plan, however. Where the LO envisioned worker-funds to become majority owners in these firms as profits continued to flow in, McDonnell has stated that the IOFs will cap at 10% ownership, with any excess going towards public services. This could prove a shrewd move as it prevents the IOFs acting in direct competition with firms (starting as they would be from a position of weakness), though a 10% stake in many firms is still likely to make these worker funds the largest shareholders with a substantial voice to influence business policy.

The framing of these proposals is also worth noting here. Whilst these are not huge systemic changes they are presented as exactly that. From a left perspective this is encouraging to hear, with hopes that the 10% is a stepping stone towards even more radical transformation (something big businesses will be aware of too, and the reason why attempts to shut it down before it ever finds its feet will be inevitable). This is not radical politics, but it may be the first tentative step down that road.

For further information links to three articles are provided in the main text. All are recommended, though particularly Meidner’s own analysis from the 1993 Socialist Register.