Comment: The tension between rock stars and the taxman Published on: 8 November 2017 Writing for The Conversation, Dr Adam Behr explains how the paradise papers revelations shed new light on the hostility between musicians and tax authorities. , 鈥淚t鈥檚 one for you, 19 for me鈥 ran George Harrison鈥檚 scabrous jibe at the 鈥淭axman鈥 in 1966, a bitter riposte to the that Prime Minister Harold Wilson鈥檚 Labour government had imposed on the very wealthy. Although top rates of tax are now substantially lower across the developed world (under 50% in the UK and Australia), it鈥檚 hardly surprising that the latest international tax avoidance scandal 鈥 鈥 should feature rock stars in its cast. The leaked papers reveal Michael Hutchence鈥檚 鈥 to the possible exclusion of his surviving family. U2鈥檚 Bono has also been found to have used a firm in Malta to . Read more: While they鈥檙e far from the only such cases, what distinguishes them in the public mind is the disjunction between public image and private affairs. These expos茅s throw into sharp relief the inconsistencies in romanticising rock. Free-sprited creativity is seen working hand-in-glove with the 鈥渟uits鈥. Sex and drugs and rock and roll, following , might seem like a natural fit. Corporate-style tax avoidance and rock and roll less so. Rock has long railed against 鈥淭he Man鈥 on stage, but the current cases reveal a well-established and more specific hostility between stars and the taxman. Tax Exile on Main Street The grubby, druggy aesthetic of the Rolling Stones鈥 classic Exile on Main Street, recorded on the French Riviera, belied the fact that the eponymous banishment was in fact the band fleeing a tax bill and liabilities as residents in the UK. : We owed money to the Inland Revenue. There was no way could make enough money to get ourselves out of trouble, we鈥檇 be paying like 93% tax and there was no way we could earn enough to pay back what we owed. This decision was informed by the band鈥檚 business manager, Prince Rupert Loewenstein. , not least through careful choices of touring, rehearsal and recording locations to minimise tax bills. If these stratagems seem to cut across the 鈥渄evil may care鈥 rebellion or heartfelt sincerity of rock, they also reveal a paradox at its core as a mass-produced, commercial form of music that inherited an anti-establishment ideology from the folk movements of the 1940s and 鈥50s. With the Beatles鈥 and Stones鈥 upending of previous commercial and aesthetic norms aligned with a generational shift, it was, , 鈥渆asy enough for 1960s rock fans 鈥 to claim that even if their music was commercial, it nevertheless symbolised a community鈥. This tension between 鈥渁rt鈥 and 鈥渃ommerce鈥 is woven throughout popular music. The brightest stars of the musical firmament have battalions of lawyers, managers and accountants to conduct their affairs. The skills needed to negotiate the complexities of multi-million-dollar enterprises are, after all, rather different to those for recording and performing hits. It鈥檚 perhaps to be expected, , that some musicians have less-than-granular knowledge of how their often internecine concerns are set up. There鈥檚 a long and ignominious history of musicians falling prey to their business associates. Read more: , for instance, lost 拢4.8 million (A$8.25m) on investments that included restaurants in Australia and plans to adapt Russian military planes into passenger liners. , likewise, lost millions on failed investments, and gave out loans of over US$2.5m (A$3.26m) to real estate and horse breeding enterprises. All without their clients鈥 knowledge. Bono has been caught in this paradox. Keen to put distance between himself and the mechanics of U2鈥檚 business interests when challenged in 2015, he 鈥渏ust some smart people we have 鈥 trying to be sensible about the way we鈥檙e taxed鈥. More recently, he expressed distress at the possibility that his investments have been 鈥溾. The business of authenticity Given that such stars鈥 appeal 鈥 and therefore partly their commercial success 鈥 resides in a sense of something beyond the sharp-edged logistics of the corporate world, it shouldn鈥檛 be a shock that accusations of hypocrisy follow a whiff of chicanery around their business dealings. Pop and rock, though, have been thoroughly tied up in the intricacies of international trade for decades, and the creative industries are . The issue runs deeper than wealthy artists who make a play on their gritty roots, like the Arctic Monkeys being propelled to fame via trenchant observations of Sheffield street life and then taken to task over , which also included George Michael and Katie Melua. They were all found to have invested in a scheme called , recently shut down by the UK government. The scheme was set up offshore via a company created in the Cayman Islands, which they then used to avoid taxes on other income. The Arctic Monkeys were propelled to fame via trenchant observations of Sheffield street life but were later taken to task over their tax affairs. The perception of authenticity at the heart of international stardom is rooted in the commonality that, at the end of the day, taxes exist to support. But sustaining it commercially involves traversing a . If these contradictions have been built into rock from the outset, perhaps a sense of betrayal was inevitable. The current travails over superstar taxes are unlikely to be the last. Ultimately, it will take concerted action 鈥 and co-operative at that 鈥 to make tax loads at the upper end of the economic ladder more than a matter of conscience. This won鈥檛 solve rock鈥檚 art-commerce dichotomy but, to shortly before their own fiscal entanglements, it might help to balance the other equation of people getting what they want against what they need. , Lecturer in Popular and Contemporary Music, This article was originally published on . Read the . 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