Music Is Free Speech

I’ve been thinking about the power of music and cultural movements a lot lately, not least because I just interviewed the Oklahoma City alt-pop musician Lincka, whose song “Chinga La Migra” is quickly becoming an anthem for anti-ICE protests, and whose music in general soothes me (in an upbeat, dancey way). It feels disorienting and often terrifying to witness the real-time collapse of institutions and peace both in the U.S. and abroad, not to mention the way free speech is being chilled in democracies around the world.

I think of the terror charge that London’s Metropolitan Police brought against Liam Óg Ó hAnnaidh, a member of the Irish trio Kneecap, for holding up a Hezbollah flag thrown onto their stage in November 2024; while it was perhaps an impulsive move, no one in their right mind would accuse these madcap rappers of being agents of a Lebanese paramilitary group. (Kneecap released a statement to that effect as well, condemning “all attacks on civilians, always” and saying they “do not, and have never, supported Hezbollah or Hamas.”) The Met’s terror charge came in May—just a month after certain media, celebrities, and politicians lost their shit over Kneecap’s vocal support for Palestine at Coachella, where the group led their fans in a “Free Palestine” chant. Ó hAnnaidh was released on unconditional bail in London earlier this week and is due to return to the court August 20. 

I’ve also been admiring the musicians and fans staging an active boycott of several renowned European music festivals and institutions like Sónar, Boiler Room, and Field Day in protest of their ownership—the private equity firm KKR, which holds large investments in arms manufacturers, Israeli surveillance, and the Coastal GasLink pipeline. By refusing to perform and generate income for entities whose investments they disagree with, these musicians are withholding their labor and exercising their right to free speech. 

In the U.S., free speech is important enough that it’s the first amendment to the Constitution, though that right is increasingly being denied. Kehlani has lost gigs due to their vocal support for Palestine, including a Pride performance in Central Park that was cancelled after the office of the scandal-roiled sitting NYC mayor interfered. Noname’s Juneteenth show in Central Park was cancelled a week later (it was her choice to do so, according to promoters), and the Danish singer-songwriter Astrid Sonne pulled out of her show there in solidarity. The classical world is getting involved, too: In May, over 600 classical musicians signed an open letter condemning the Trump Administration’s attacks on free speech. “Every single one of us,” says the letter, “knows multiple people across different sectors of American society who have lost jobs or face life-altering insecurity due to censorship or retaliatory measures over the past three months.”

While I’m not so naive to think music can change the world on its own, particularly when the world is so fucked up, I know for sure that it can provide fuel and nourishment for those joining the fight. It can do this by delivering powerful, motivating messages, or simply by offering much-needed reprieve and solace.

This week, I’ve been transfixed by a silky acoustic country-folk track by Googlyeyes, Joy Oladokun, and Allison Ponthier called “Jesus and John Wayne.” The singer-songwriters’ bear down like a beam of light as they express their forlorn disappointment in the hypocrisy of American culture and politics. “God felt my heart splinter and break,” goes one line. “You can have both of ’em—Jesus and John Wayne.” The song, which is from an All Things Go benefit album for LGBTQI+ youth, is about disillusionment with the way the Bible is twisted and warped to justify horrific things—like banning trans people from obtaining life-saving health care—and shares its title with a 2020 book by the history professor Kristen Kobes Du Mez: Jesus and John Wayne: How White Evangelicals Corrupted a Faith and Fractured a Nation. “I’ve never felt like god ever asked me to choose between faith and queerness,” wrote Oladokun in a press release. “People did that.” 

But the song also has so much hope, in the way the trio sound like literal angels harmonizing wispily from the sky—shout to those mic effects—more powerful in their unified voices. When everything seems overwhelming, “Jesus and John Wayne” feels like a much-needed hug.