This is the most recent song I have written about so far, but it's roots stretch way back, not just to the late 60s but beyond. To me, this is the last protest song, the end of an era in popular music.
For those unfamiliar with Richard Thompson, he was the guitarist for Fairport Convention in the 1960s and he has continued making incredible music ever since—though he’s rarely troubled the pop charts.
Fairport Convention was at the forefront of the late-60s folk revival, particularly in the development of British folk rock. The 1960s were a time of musical transformation: The Beatles, The Kinks, and The Beach Boys expanded what a pop song could be, while The Who and Jimi Hendrix revolutionised rock. Bob Dylan went electric, and so did Miles Davis. James Brown shifted the emphasis to the upbeat and created funk. English folk music experienced a similar evolution, with Fairport Convention leading the charge.
It’s easy to dismiss the English folk revival as a hippie reaction to the excesses of ’60s rock, but its roots ran deeper. Two generations earlier, Cecil Sharp traveled across England collecting folk songs, inspiring composers like Arnold Bax and Ralph Vaughan Williams, as well as designer William Morris. Fairport Convention did something similar—reviving not just old tunes, but the radical spirit of England that stretched back to William Blake, the Diggers, and beyond.
Early Fairport Convention & Richard Thompson’s Role
Thompson was a founding member. Their debut album Fairport Convention (1968) was produced by Joe Boyd for Witchseason Productions, the same producer behind Nick Drake, John Martyn, and the Incredible String Band. Boyd positioned them as an English version of Jefferson Airplane, with tight guitar work and vocals shared by Judy Dyble and Ian Matthews.
Reno, Nevada showcases this early sound:
Thompson’s distinctive guitar work is evident even on the earliest recordings. Incredibly, Fairport Convention released three albums in 1969.
On What We Did On Our Holidays, Judy Dyble was replaced by Sandy Denny, and the band moved toward writing their own material, developing their classic folk-rock sound. Meet on the Ledge was the first Richard Thompson original they recorded, and it still sounds beautiful today:
Their next album, Unhalfbricking, featured Sandy Denny’s masterpiece Who Knows Where the Time Goes and their only minor chart hit, Si Tu Dois Partir—an eccentric French-language cover of Bob Dylan’s If You Gotta Go.
Tragically, shortly before Unhalfbricking’s release, a crash on the M1 motorway killed drummer Martin Lamble and Jeannie Franklyn, Thompson’s girlfriend. In response, the band retired much of their earlier material and turned fully to British folk music for their final album of 1969, Liege & Lief. Most consider it their definitive statement and the defining moment in English folk rock. BBC Radio even named it the Most Influential Folk Album of All Time.
A standout track is Thompson’s Crazy Man Michael:
Beyond Fairport: Richard Thompson’s Solo Career
After Liege & Lief, Fairport’s folk influences began to overshadow their songwriting, and Sandy Denny left the band. She continued to write and record some incredible songs:
She also the only guest vocalist to appear on a Led Zeppelin record when she sang on Battle of Evermore:
Thompson stayed for Full House (1970) before going solo. By then, the English folk revival had influenced wider culture, including the film industry, with The Wicker Man soundtrack echoing early Fairport Convention albums. The film itself delved into folklore’s darker side.
(Warning: Features a nude Britt Ekland.)
Thompson’s first solo album, I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight (1974), was recorded as a duo with his wife, Linda Thompson.
Shortly after recording, both Richard and Linda converted to Sufi Islam, which Thompson continues to practice today.
Richard Thompson has remained prolific through the decades. My personal highlights include: 1952 Vincent Black Lightning from Rumor and Sigh (1991)
Songwriting doesn’t get much better than 1952 Vincent Black Lightning
Dad’s Gonna Kill Me (2007) – A Rare Modern Anti-War Song
From the 2007 album Sweet Warrior, Dad’s Gonna Kill Me at first seems like another Thompson song about a protagonist dealing with a dysfunctional family. But as the song unfolds, it becomes clear this is something else entirely.
The narrator is a British Army officer, and the “family” he’s trying to keep together is his platoon, struggling to make it back to Baghdad through a landscape of IEDs and death. Written in B minor, the song captures his increasing desperation. The chorus evolves from:
“Nobody wants me here, nobody loves me here”
To the chilling:
“And who’s that stranger walking in my dreams? And who’s that stranger cast a shadow ‘cross my heart? And who’s that stranger, I dare not speak his name? Must be old Death a-walking.”
The “dad” that’s going to kill him is Baghdad.
This makes it a rarity: a modern anti-war song about the Gulf War.
Why Did Pop Music Stop Protesting War?
The Vietnam War inspired countless protest songs. The first anti-war songs came from the folk scene:
Dylan's Master's of War is based on the traditional English folk son Nottamun Town, also recorded by Fairport.
From there anti-war songs spread throughout 60s pop, inspiring such classics as:
- Backlash Blues – Nina Simone
- Fortunate Son – Creedence Clearwater Revival
- War - Edwin Starr
By contrast, the Gulf War and Iraq War saw little artistic resistance. The only major pop star to address it was George Michael with Shoot the Dog.
Mainstream pop lost its appetite for political engagement. Instead of challenging politicians, musicians became props for political campaigns. They were happy to swap confrontation to being co-opted into a political establishment. It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment this all changed, but Cool Britannia is a good starting point. 
In the ’60s and ’70s, folk music was at the heart of political protest. For a long time the whole concept of the protest song was synonymous with folk.
George Michael was unique in being central to the pop mainstream yet detached enough to speak his mind. My admiration for him grows every year. But it makes sense that one of the few critiques of the Iraq War came from folk rather than pop or rock.
War, Pop Music, and Public Memory
But maybe there is more to the decline in political engagement by pop stars.
Since World War II, British Army combat deaths have peaked twice: the late ’40s and ’50s (Korea, Malaysia) and the ’70s (Northern Ireland).
Deaths in combat have become rarer over time—part of a broader global decline in violence. But media portrayals of war are more intense than ever.
During Vietnam, young Americans were drafted. Pop stars had friends who fought, and some fought themselves. Today’s pop stars have no such reference points. Instead, their activism focuses on safe topics like climate change, avoiding confrontations over war, class, or poverty.
The Iraq War protests reflected this shift. “Not in My Name” was more about personal moralising than effective resistance—no wonder it achieved nothing.
The world daily becomes more authoritarian, less free, less welcoming to anyone who doesn't toe the line. We live in a whirl of social media noise, politicians flood the zone with chaos, making it impossible to tell truth from lies, reality from fantasy. At times like this art and music have a particular power - the ability to find a word of truth, a moment of defiance, to articulate the indescribable changes around us. And yet at this moment pop music stays silent. Musicians happy to appear at glossy campaign rallies can't find the words to tell us what we all know deep down - that things are changing, profoundly and for the very worst.
This is more than just the growing distance from death and despair, more than the bland tyranny of Spotify's algorithm. This is lazy and cowardly, finding the words is too hard, too risky. It's hard to imagine who could break the silence, find the bravery to write something that engages with the terror of reality. Even hip-hop no longer challenges, instead rappers find that their bling and bitches messages resonates with regimes rather than confront them.
The first song of Richard Thompson's that I quote in this blog starts with the lines:
We used to sayThat come the dayWe'd all be making songsOr finding better wordsThese ideas never lasted long
The telling of uncomfortable truths are an anathema to the new autocrats in Washington, and elsewhere around the world. But the retreat from confrontation didn't start with Trump's second or even first inauguration. In a world with lots of things to talk about popular music has nothing to say.
Dad’s Gonna Kill Me doesn’t make overt political statements (aside from a jab at Fox News), but it tackles subjects pop has abandoned. And Thompson delivers its message with breathtaking musicianship—his fingers seem to move in a time and space of their own.