For aspiring leaders of the Next Economy, the anger, energy and DIY ethos of punk rock is a vital resource, writes Oliver Pelling.
I was 14 when Bad Religion arrived in my life. I was gifted their 2002 album, ‘The Process of Belief’, by my aunt (she was a cool aunt). The record, all breakneck drums and supersonic guitars, featured songs that dismantled materialism, consumerism, capitalism, corporations and corporate-interest politics.
One track, the frenzied Kyoto Now!, beamed the urgency of our climate predicament directly into my brain while I sat, headphones-on, hormones raging, in the backseat of my parents’ car. Even now, 20 years on, the lyrics of Kyoto Now! cut to the quick: “The media-paraded, disjointed politics / Founded on petro-chemical plunder, and we’re its hostages,” vocalist Greg Graffin intoned during the intro. It was a lot. And it was the first time I’d encountered music with a message.
Bad Religion reconstructed my worldview brick-by-brick. Their lyrics shattered any ideas I had about how the world worked. Obsessed and terrified, I delved deeper into their back catalogue, studying lyric sheets as if I was learning a new language. In many ways, I was. “The business man whose master plan controls the world each day, is blind to indications of his species' slow decay,” Graffin barked on Suffer, released in 1988, the year I was born. Phewf.
The punk bands I loved the most were angry, political and smart. I had no idea those three things could even co-exist. Like all teenagers, I was searching desperately for some kind of belief system to cling on to and in punk rock, I’d found it. I got knocked over in mosh pits only to be pulled to my feet by perfect strangers. I put my arms around those same strangers and sang – badly – as loud as my lungs would last. I clambered on stages and howled encores with Irish punk bands from Boston. I shook hands with my idols as we stood side-by-side to watch the support act. All my friends came along for the ride, and together we found an exhilarating new way to move through the world.
Punk rejected authority, which was a pretty attractive concept for a bunch of shit-kicking 16-year-olds. But it wasn’t just speaking truth to power, or chaos for the sake of it, it was a response to the systems that sought to control us. “Authority is supposedly grounded in wisdom, but I could see from a very early age that authority was only a system of control and it didn't have any inherent wisdom,” said the late, great Joe Strummer, frontman of The Clash. “I quickly realised that you either became a power…or you were crushed.”
The music of Bad Religion and others like them led me the likes of Michael Moore and Noam Chomsky and Benjamin Zephaniah and Billy Bragg; establishment outsiders who communicated important social and political ideas simply (or beautifully, or both). But being from small-town England, I had no power of my own, no agency, and no model for how to act on any of this new information. My naive assumption was that the adults – with all their cities, jobs, resources, money and influence – would figure it all out. (Newsflash! The adults are yet to figure it out!)
So despite having my worldview blown to smithereens by all these new ideas, I just went about my life, like so many of us do. I scraped into university, met a girl, moved to Australia, worked in retail, worked in bars and cafes, got a job, got another job, and so it went. All that ideology and rage and potential still in there somewhere, buried just deep enough so as not to rock the boat.
But through the increasing chaos wrought by (and among other things) Trump, Morrison, Brexit and the climate crisis, those ideas, planted all those years prior, finally began to sprout.
“Beyond the overhauling of my political consciousness, a few core tenets of the punk rock philosophy had apparently also wedged themselves into my psyche: the idea of questioning authority and making your own decisions, and the inherent value of authenticity, non-conformity and community.”
— Oliver Pelling
The whole punk subculture was born out of frustration at how inaccessible and bloated and commercialised and expensive music had become. Punk was making music accessible again, about getting to the heart of things, and about handing the microphone to anyone who had something to say. It was about creating viable alternatives from limited resources, strengthening your position from the ground-up and seeking ways to redistribute power when you got it.
Many of the bands I grew up listening to ignored interest from major labels in favour of setting up their own labels, putting out their own music, and supporting other artists – lest their art be compromised by corporate interests. These bands were small, savvy and successful independent businesses, that were responding to a problem they saw in the world. These bands became my blueprint.
I was 31 when I founded my company – a small content and communications agency. I had been working freelance for the five years prior, and had never wanted to start a ‘company’. But my partner was pregnant with our second child as the smoke from the 2019 bushfires blanketed Melbourne and seeped into our home, and I decided to pour what limited skills and resources I had into building a company that could have a positive impact beyond myself.
By the time I started my company, I was well-versed the B Corp movement, having worked with a bunch of them over the years. That knowledge was critical, but my main source of daily energy and inspiration was the punk music I grew up listening to. The bands I loved and the books I read as a teenager became my business coaches. (I’ll take Ian MacKaye – look him up – over Gary Vee any day of the week).
The plan was that we’d only work with organisations or NGOs that put people and planet first, and we’d donate a percentage of revenue (currently around 5%) to a selection of grassroots and global non-profits. We’d pay staff well, we’d treat clients like friends, focus on long-term relationships, and value our mental and physical health above all else. We’d also remain intentionally small, prioritising meaningful growth over growth at all costs.
Our current crises of climate and energy and geopolitics and community and collective consciousness are fierce and far-reaching, and they demand a fierce and far-reaching response. I still listen to my punk records (on Spotify, obvs) most mornings, and instead of feeling the dissonance I used to feel when I’d listen to the same records as I walked through the school gates, they fill me with optimism and ideas. They give me energy, and in many ways underpin every decision I make.
Perhaps more than anything else, the DIY mentality of punk is what’s needed most now. We can’t wait for permission to respond to the multiple crises before us. In business, how many millions of world-changing ideas never get made because someone, somewhere was waiting for the green light, for seed funding, for a promotion, for the board to sign off, or for the conditions to be just right? Perfection isn’t the goal. The goal is progress towards a liveable future. And every failure, imperfection and setback help us move a little closer to it. We’ve precious little time to waste. “Play before you get good,” so said Joey Ramone, frontman of the Ramones and (until-now) undiscovered business guru. “Because by the time you get good, you're too old to play.”
“You know what else punk rock is? The most fun you’ve ever had.”
— Oliver Pelling
A few weeks back, someone told me that if we’re going to stand a chance against the systems we seek to overturn, we’re going to have to throw better parties than the other side. Consider this the case for making punk rock our soundtrack.
This article was originally published in the final edition of Dumbo Feather, issue #72 exploring “Leadership for a Hopeful Future”. Purchase a copy of the magazine to read this article alongside conversations with extraordinary people from across the globe.
