My professional life revolves around the academic study of song lyrics. So it may seem like a strange move to write about how some of the most powerful and emotive vocal moments in popular music have come when singers reject words. But it’s impossible to ignore that sometimes a song needs something more universal, more innate and more guttural than language.

Some vocalists have eschewed words entirely in their songs, like Ella Fitzgerald scatting throughout Flying Home (1945), or David Crosby da da dumming his way through Song With No Words (1971). More frequently, though, these wordless singalong moments appear as hooks.

Think the “la la la las” of Elton John’s Crocodile Rock (1972); the “duh duh duh duhs” in The Fratellis’ Chelsea Dagger (2006); the “ooh-aah-aaahs” of Fun’s Some Nights (2012) and Coldplay’s Viva La Vida (2008); or the ear worm “eh, eheu, eheus” of Bastille’s Pompeii (2013).

To paraphrase Ronan Keating (for the first and probably last time), sometimes singers say it best when they say nothing at all. And here are my four favourite examples of where they do just that.

1. The Great Gig in the Sky by Pink Floyd (1973)

When Richard Wright brought his song The Great Gig in the Sky to the studio during Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of The Moon recording sessions, the band felt something was missing. They wanted a “foreground element to make it really transcend”, and versatile session vocalist Clare Torry was brought in to provide it.

Receiving little musical direction from the band apart from that they wanted the vocal to be wordless, she ad-libbed a few different ideas before leaving the studio, fully expecting nothing more to come of it. To Torry’s surprise, her vocal not only made it onto the finished record, but arguably became a pinnacle not just of the album, but of Floyd’s entire canon.

With a jaw-dropping wail that elevated the track to near-celestial heights, Torry managed to express the full range of human emotion without relying on words. Her contribution was eventually recognised with a co-authorship credit alongside Wright.

2. Anywhere by Rita Ora

If my championing of non-lexical sounds in songs is to dabble in unfamiliar waters, then praising anything by Rita Ora is to sail into “here there be monsters” territory. And yet the hook of her 2017 song Anywhere is just so dang good that it demanded to be include here.

Heavily-treated and chopped-up by producers Alesso, Andrew Watt and Sir Nolan, Ora’s vocal flirts with decipherability as the occasional word emerges from the wonderful confusion, but then veers joyously off into digitised gibberish again.

It’s a prime example of what a crucial role production can play in a song’s success. Such is the manipulation of her original take, even Ora herself admits that she has no idea what she’s singing. Sadly, public and media pressures eventually led her to reveal what the lyrics were before they were “chopped up”.

If you really want to know, watch this Live Lounge performance. For me, though, the power of the song lies beyond language, so, in this case, ignorance is indeed bliss.

3. Blue Moon by Elvis Presley (1956)

There have been some great falsetto singers over the decades, with the likes of Frankie Valli, Brian Wilson, The Bee Gees, Smokey Robinson and Prince all true masters of the craft. My favourite ever example, though, comes from Elvis’s eponymous 1956 album and his cover of Blue Moon.

After spending the first two minutes of the track in the trademark croon of his lower register, Elvis then soars into wordless falsetto at various points in the last 30 or so seconds. It’s unexpected. It’s delicate yet somehow strong. And it’s musical heaven.

4. Gimme Shelter by The Rolling Stones (1969)

Similarly to The Great Gig in the Sky, The Rolling Stones wanted something that would transform their new song Gimme Shelter from good into great. The solution was soul and gospel singer Merry Clayton, who was brought in to sing the heavy, dark chorus, first alongside Mick Jagger, then solo. The rest, as they say, is history.

I can’t include Clayton’s vocal itself in this list, seeing as it contains words, but I can include a by-product of it, which, for me, is one of the greatest, most natural moments ever caught on record: Mick Jagger’s reaction.

At 3m 02s, when the intensity of Clayton’s third go-around of the line “rape, murder, it’s just a shot away” has caused her voice to crack under the strain, we hear Jagger whooping in the background, unable to contain his amazement and joy at what he was witnessing.

Gimme Shelter’ has become one of the Stones’ most enduring tracks and is a staple of their live shows, which include some great performances of Merry’s section from Lisa Fischer and Chanel Haynes, and a not-so-great one from Lady Gaga. As with so many things, though, nothing will ever come close to the original.

Glenn Fosbraey, Associate Dean of Humanities and Social Sciences, University of Winchester

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Impressionism is the world’s favourite art movement.

Impressionist paintings create an oasis of beauty into which a viewer can escape from a sometimes dark and troubling world, or simply from the mundane boredom of urban living.

The Impressionist master, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, once famously observed:

To my mind, a picture should be something pleasant, cheerful, and pretty. Yes, pretty! There are too many unpleasant things in life as it is without creating still more of them.

The new Impressionism exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria brings together over a 100 of these pleasant, cheerful and pretty paintings and graphics. It features some of the greatest names in French Impressionism, including Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Edgar Degas, Camille Pissarro, Édouard Manet, Mary Cassatt, Berthe Morisot, Paul Signac and Alfred Sisley.

For the first time in Australia

Initially, the Impressionist painters had difficulty in selling their work amid the torrent of negative criticism.

But then their Parisian art dealer Paul Durand-Ruel established a gallery in New York City, and the American artist Mary Cassatt – who worked with the Impressionists in Paris – found increasing popularity. By the 1880s and 1890s, American collectors started to buy Impressionist paintings by many of the top French artists.

This explains why the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston possesses such an outstanding collection of Impressionist paintings. Yet, unlike the museums in New York, the Boston museum is less well known and Australians are seeing many of these paintings for the first time.

To say that most works in this exhibition have never been previously seen in Australia is only partially true. Four years ago, just before Melbourne was locked down for COVID, the NGV launched a similar show. Apart from a handful of art lovers posing as media, that show expired under lockdown and was packed up and returned to Boston without being widely exposed to Australian audiences.

The new reiteration is supplemented with six additional paintings, including the early and deeply moving painting by Degas of Degas’s Father Listening to Lorenzo Pagans Playing the Guitar (1869–72).

The whole exhibition has been totally reimagined as part of an immersive interior design. It moves far away from the clinical white cube of a modern exhibition space and closer to the 19th century posh domestic interiors in which the paintings first appeared.

An extensive and in-depth exhibition

Chronologically, the exhibition charts the development of French Impressionism from the mid-19th century and the so-called Barbizon school and realism, through to late Impressionism in the early 20th century.

It includes the great paintings by Cézanne and Manet, and memorable paintings from early to late Impressionism. There is an abundance of important works by the main Impressionist masters including Monet (16 of his canvases in one room), Degas, Sisley, Renoir, Pissarro, Cassatt and Morisot, and a few unexpected gems by van Gogh and Signac.

It is an extensive and in-depth exhibition.

The depth of the Boston collection enables rare insights. For example, when we see Édouard Manet’s Street Singer (1862), we may be aware that he employed his favourite model Victorine Meurent. Apart from being a model, Meurent was also an artist in her own right and in the same exhibition there is a self-portrait of her from 1876.

Strictly speaking, perhaps neither painting can be described as “Impressionist”. But it is a wonderful encounter of a woman being observed and, in the same exhibition, this woman looking out of the picture space and doing the observing. The self-portrait is one of those additions that was not in the original show.

If we glance at a handful of some of the outstanding paintings in the show – including Monet’s Grainstack (snow effect) (1891), The water lily pond (1900), or Water lilies (1905); Renoir’s Dance at Bougival (1883) or The Seine at Chatou (1881); Pissarro’s Spring pasture (1889); Degas’s Racehorses at Longchamp (1871/1874); and Morisot’s Embroidery (1889) – we have all of the beloved features of French Impressionism.

Light and bright

While the French Impressionists were not a monolithic group, their art was generally characterised by three things.

Firstly, a lighter and brighter palette with a conscious move to the ultraviolet end of the colour spectrum.

Secondly, a divisionist application of colour with juxtaposed dabs of pigment allowing for colour to blend in the eye rather than on a mirror-smooth surface of the canvas.

Finally, a move to a more democratic subject matter with landscapes, gardens, drinking parties, picnics and street scenes easily outnumbering images of pagan gods in complicated embraces.

Australian audiences never seem to tire of French Impressionism. This exhibition brings a fresh crop of rarely seen major paintings and graphics of the highest order.

If you love Impressionism, French Impressionism from the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, is a must-see exhibition. This new exhibition will change the history of Australian art exhibitions from Australia’s greatest Impressionist show that no one had seen, to Australia’s greatest Impressionist exhibition that everyone has seen.

French Impressionism from the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, is at the National Gallery of Victoria until October 5.

Sasha Grishin, Adjunct Professor of Art History, Australian National University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Ah, the 90s. A decade when the future seemed bright, technological modernity was pregnant with promise, and Britannia was revelling in a rediscovered sense of cool. The pop-culture emblem of this was Britpop.

After the economically turbulent 1970s and the intense industrial restructuring of the 1980s, Britpop bands hearkened romantically back to the 1960s with a reimagining of a swinging Britain as the place to be.

Looking back on Britpop today echoes something of what those bands were themselves doing: peering across three decades of cultural and technological change.

Britpop was a preface to what cultural critic Simon Reynolds later called “retromania”, a pop culture obsessed with its own archaeological detritus. Reynolds, along with despondent contemporaries like the late Mark Fisher, were critics of a future irreverently assembled within a growing repository of the past.

Against the grain of Britpop’s 1960s upcycling, however, were Pulp.

After a big breakthrough in the 90s, Pulp were strongly associated with the retro-maniacal, “hey look, Britain still swings” Britpop era. Unlike the Blurs and Oases of the time, though, Pulp had traipsed their way through the decidedly unswinging 1980s indie scene. They shunned the tropes of repurposed mod fashions and appeals to the spirit of John Lennon, and some of their lyrics even read like critiques of Britpop’s cultural romanticism.

For example, in Common People the band caution that working-class life is not an opportunity to indulge in immersive performance art. Between the lines of Disco 2000, meanwhile, is a musing on how weird it would probably feel to revisit the past at some point in the future.

Pulp sang in counterpoint to their contemporaries, offering something different to the flaccidly nationalistic, wistful nostalgia common among the other acts of the time.

And now, returning with More, their first album since Britpop, how might Pulp reflect upon our experience of the present? A time in which digital media has etched deep divisions across society and the only surety seems to be socioeconomic uncertainty. Amid all of this, Brexit Britain doesn’t feel so cool any more.

If the lead single, “Spike Island”, is anything to go by, it looks like the retro-maniacal Britpop ethos might have registered belatedly with the band.

The sonic vocabularies of britfunk, disco and early indie converge in a texture of juicy synth bass, lively hand claps and sharp, edgy guitar sounds. These musical components are roughly contemporaneous with Pulp’s formation in 1978, but the pristine 21st-century production quality assures us we are listening in the present.

Lyrically, meanwhile, singer Jarvis Cocker seems to be reaching through the disastrously absurd cultural kaleidoscope of the 2020s in search of something more certain, back in the 90s perhaps.

Here, the refrain “Spike Island come alive” references a concert by Manchester indie band The Stone Roses, which became mythologised in British music history.

Held in 1990 on Spike Island in Widnes, Merseyside, the gig was a makeshift, outdoor, all day event, which attracted around 27,000 people. The warm up acts were back to back DJs, creating a rave atmosphere ahead of the band’s headlining show. This combined two of the currents that set Britain’s 1990s cultural optimism in motion: rave culture and “madchester”, a musical and cultural movement born in Manchester in the late-80s. Madchester birthed bands like The Stone Roses and The Happy Mondays, who injected indie rock with a rave-like hedonism.

By referencing the concert, Cocker effectively romanticises a time three decades gone, just as Britpop did its peak. The Spike Island concert, where rave and madchester met, represents a twin-headed crest of pop-culture. The pent up energy of this swept through the 90s with a wave of promise before it abruptly met the epochal breakwater of 9/11 and sluiced terminally into the bottomless drains of social media.

In the way it looks back on more jubilant times, Spike Island suggests the return of Pulp in a spirit more wistfully Britpop than the band were back in the day. What could reviving the essence of Britpop mean in 2025 when comparing the climate with the heady optimism that carried the movement 30 years ago?

Like Pulp, Gen Z are nostalgic for the 90s, a now mythical period that predates many of their births. From the vantage point of 2025, the 90s perhaps seem simpler, cooler and rather more stable socially and economically.

In a world now saturated by the distractions of digital media, it might be a stretch to hope for a 1990’s style period of collective optimism anytime soon. The sounds of that decade echo on, though. Maybe with More we can join Pulp for a moment in briefly reanimating the spirit of a time when the winds of change felt like they were blowing in a rather more positive direction.

More by Pulp will be released on June 6, 2025

Mark RJ Higgins, PhD Candidate, Department of Music, University of Bristol

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

When getting ready to take exams, it can sometimes feel as though there’s no way all the information you need to remember is going to fit in your brain. But there are ways to create the right conditions to make your studying as efficient as possible.

My research into the science of memory shows that both novelty – new experiences – and familiarity can affect memory. You can use novelty to prime yourself for learning, and familiarity to organise your memory and retain knowledge.

To start with, this might mean going for a walk in an unfamiliar part of your neighbourhood or looking at some art for the first time – in person or online – before you even start studying.

In the lab, colleagues and I have observed that chances are higher that you will remember new information if you just visited an unfamiliar place.

In a typical experimental set-up, participants came to the lab to familiarise themselves with a virtual environment on a PC or with a virtual reality headset. This consisted of a fantasy island with unexpected elements, such as streetlight-sized candy canes. We invited our research participants to come back on two other occasions. During these sessions, they explored the same – now familiar – virtual environment, and one they hadn’t seen before.

After each round of virtual exploration, the experiment participants were presented with a series of words to try to commit to memory, which we then tested them on after a completely different “distractor” task that consisted of solving simple maths problems. Interestingly, the participants who had explored a new environment typically remembered more words than those who had explored a familiar one. This suggests that novelty may prepare the brain for learning.

After you’ve prepared your brain with a foray into the unknown, it’s time to harness familiarity.

Why the familiar is important

Learning entirely new information is often very challenging. Students sometimes report reading several pages, but having no recollection of what they read.

There may be several reasons for this, but a common one is that it is difficult to memorise something if it is very different from anything you have learned before.

The brain likes to categorise and label information, and our memory is organised in semantic categories. For example, if I mention “swivel chair”, “computer”, and “filing cabinet”, the overarching term “office” may pop to mind.

Memory associations like these are crucial during memory retrieval, as linked information can work as a memory cue. In memory research we sometimes refer to these interlinked concepts as “memory schema”.

When you have to learn something new, your brain will try to categorise that novel information. If a link can be made with something you already know, this information can more easily be integrated into an existing memory schema.

Based on research, we would predict that studying for a test is more effective if you already know something about the topic, as it allows you to put novel information in your existing memory schema, and allows you to retrieve that information more easily at a later point in time.

For example, imagine eating a yellow kiwi for the first time. Your previous experience with green kiwis will allow you to recognise the fruit. The novel experience of eating this slightly sweeter kiwi is easy to integrate in your existing knowledge of kiwis, including what they look, feel and taste like.

Making connections

But studying for exams often means learning abstract concepts. The related memory schemas are underdeveloped for less concrete information, which makes new information hard to remember.

In a biological psychology course I teach, students have to learn about the transfer of information between brain cells. One of the crucial aspects of this topic is the change in chemistry of the neuron, from when it is at rest to when it is firing, and the potassium and sodium chloride ions involved.

Exam results showed that students found these processes hard to remember. One year, I decided to introduce a simple visual memory aid: an image of a banana with a container of table salt on top.

Most students know that bananas are rich in potassium, while table salt is sodium chloride. This simple picture shows the situation of a neuron at rest: A lot of potassium on the inside, and a lot of sodium chloride on the outside of the cell. But when the neuron is firing, ion channels open, and due to laws of diffusion, potassium will flow out, and sodium chloride into the cell.

After I introduced this memory aid, the performance of students on the exam question about this topic increased significantly. In fact, last year it was labelled as “too easy” by our exam monitoring tool, because so many students got it right. The image made integration of novel knowledge into an existing schema easier because it linked new, abstract information to well-known elements – the banana and the table salt.

When preparing for an exam, then, it can be helpful to think about how the new information you are trying to memorise relates to things you already know, even if this information is not directly relevant for the exam. Knowing that bananas are high in potassium, for instance, is not a learning objective of a biological psychology course.

And if you go for a walk somewhere new first, even better. Hopefully these tips will help you turn difficult exam material into lasting memories.

Judith Schomaker, Assistant Professor, Department of Health, Medical and Neuropsychology, Leiden University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Head lice, fleas and tapeworms have been humanity’s companions throughout our evolutionary history. Yet, the greatest parasite of the modern age is no blood-sucking invertebrate. It is sleek, glass-fronted and addictive by design. Its host? Every human on Earth with a wifi signal.

Far from being benign tools, smartphones parasitise our time, our attention and our personal information, all in the interests of technology companies and their advertisers.

In a new article in the Australasian Journal of Philosophy, we argue smartphones pose unique societal risks, which come into sharp focus when viewed through the lens of parasitism.

What, exactly, is a parasite?

Evolutionary biologists define a parasite as a species that benefits from a close relationship with another species – its host – while the host bears a cost.

The head louse, for example, is entirely dependent on our own species for its survival. They only eat human blood, and if they become dislodged from their host, they survive only briefly unless they are fortunate enough to fall onto another human scalp. In return for our blood, head lice give us nothing but a nasty itch; that’s the cost.

Smartphones have radically changed our lives. From navigating cities to managing chronic health diseases such as diabetes, these pocket-sized bits of tech make our lives easier. So much so that most of us are rarely without them.

Yet, despite their benefits, many of us are hostage to our phones and slaves to the endless scroll, unable to fully disconnect. Phone users are paying the price with a lack of sleep, weaker offline relationships and mood disorders.

From mutualism to parasitism

Not all close species relationships are parasitic. Many organisms that live on or inside us are beneficial.

Consider the bacteria in the digestive tracts of animals. They can only survive and reproduce in the gut of their host species, feeding on nutrients passing through. But they provide benefits to the host, including improved immunity and better digestion. These win-win associations are called mutualisms.

The human-smartphone association began as a mutualism. The technology proved useful to humans for staying in touch, navigating via maps and finding useful information.

Philosophers have spoken of this not in terms of mutualism, but rather as phones being an extension of the human mind, like notebooks, maps and other tools.

From these benign origins, however, we argue the relationship has become parasitic. Such a change is not uncommon in nature; a mutualist can evolve to become a parasite, or vice versa.

Smartphones as parasites

As smartphones have become near-indispensible, some of the most popular apps they offer have come to serve the interests of the app-making companies and their advertisers more faithfully than those of their human users.

These apps are designed to nudge our behaviour to keep us scrolling, clicking on advertising and simmering in perpetual outrage.

The data on our scrolling behaviour is used to further that exploitation. Your phone only cares about your personal fitness goals or desire to spend more quality time with your kids to the extent that it uses this information to tailor itself to better capture your attention.

So, it can be useful to think of users and their phones as akin to hosts and their parasites – at least some of the time.

While this realisation is interesting in and of itself, the benefit of viewing smartphones through the evolutionary lens of parasitism comes into its own when considering where the relationship might head next – and how we could thwart these high-tech parasites.

Where policing comes in

On the Great Barrier Reef, bluestreak cleaner wrasse establish “cleaning stations” where larger fish allow the wrasse to feed on dead skin, loose scales and invertebrate parasites living in their gills. This relationship is a classic mutualism – the larger fish lose costly parasites and the cleaner wrasse get fed.

Sometimes the cleaner wrasse “cheat” and nip their hosts, tipping the scale from mutualism to parasitism. The fish being cleaned may punish offenders by chasing them away or withholding further visits. In this, the reef fish exhibit something evolutionary biologists see as important to keeping mutualisms in balance: policing.

Could we adequately police our exploitation by smartphones and restore a net-beneficial relationship?

Evolution shows that two things are key: an ability to detect exploitation when it occurs, and the capacity to respond (typically by withdrawing service to the parasite).

A difficult battle

In the case of the smartphone, we can’t easily detect the exploitation. Tech companies that design the various features and algorithms to keep you picking up your phone aren’t advertising this behaviour.

But even if you’re aware of the exploitative nature of smartphone apps, responding is also more difficult than simply putting the phone down.

Many of us have become reliant on smartphones for everyday tasks. Rather than remembering facts, we offload the task to digital devices – for some people, this can change their cognition and memory.

We depend on having a camera for capturing life events or even just recording where we parked the car. This both enhances and limits our memory of events.

Governments and companies have only further cemented our dependence on our phones, by moving their service delivery online via mobile apps. Once we pick up the phone to access our bank accounts or access government services, we’ve lost the battle.

How then can users redress the imbalanced relationship with their phones, turning the parasitic relationship back to a mutualistic one?

Our analysis suggests individual choice can’t reliably get users there. We are individually outgunned by the massive information advantage tech companies hold in the host-parasite arms race.

The Australian government’s under-age social media ban is an example of the kind of collective action required to limit what these parasites can legally do. To win the battle, we will also need restrictions on app features known to be addictive, and on the collection and sale of our personal data.

Rachael L. Brown, Director of the Centre for Philosophy of the Sciences and Associate Professor of Philosophy, Australian National University and Rob Brooks, Scientia Professor of Evolution, UNSW Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

A week ago, the Australian Financial Review released this year’s “Rich List”. It reported the number of billionaires in Australia increased from 150 to 166 between 2024 and 2025.

A very different story is happening at the other end of the market. On Tuesday the Fair Work Commission awarded the lowest paid 20% of wage earners a 3.5% increase as a result of its annual review.

The commission acknowledged even with this increase, our lowest paid employees will not be earning as much in real terms as they did before the post-COVID inflationary surge of 2021-2022.

Why such a meagre increase?

In Australia it has long been accepted that – all things being equal – wages should move with both prices and productivity.

Adjusting them for inflation ensures their real value is maintained. Adjusting them for productivity means employees share in rising prosperity associated with society becoming more productive over time.

This “prices plus productivity” model of wage rises is, however, subject to economic circumstances. In recent times the key circumstance of concern has been inflation.

Depending how it is measured it peaked at between 6.5% and 9.6% in 2022-2023.

Since 2022, economic agencies such as the Reserve Bank and state treasuries, along with finance sector economists, have been preaching about the threat of inflation persisting.

Cutting real wages to control inflation

Interest rates were increased to tame the inflation dragon. And these agencies all issued dire warnings about the threat of long-term inflationary pressure if wages were adjusted to maintain lower and middle income earners living standards.

In its last three decisions the Fair Work Commission accommodated this narrative. Since July 2021 it ensured wages for the lowest paid 20% of employees did not keep up with inflation.

Unsurprisingly, real wages for award-dependent employees fell.

The commission has done its best to look after those on the absolute lowest rates: that is the 1% or so on the national minimum wage.

Their wages have fallen by 0.8% over the period since July 2021. For those in the middle of the bottom 20% of employees dependent on awards the fall has been in the order of 4.5%.

For example, this is the fall experienced by an entry level tradesperson in manufacturing dependent on an award.

Because inflation is currently running at about 2.4%, the 3.5% increase marks a modest 1% real wage gain for a worker on or close to the entry level manufacturing tradesperson rates.

In making this increase, the commission argued if real wage cuts continued, the entrenchment of lower minimum award rates was likely. It noted the economy is in pretty good shape – not just in terms of inflation and employment – but also many firms are turning a profit.

What about productivity?

The other striking feature of the post-COVID economic recovery has been poor productivity performance. It initially went backwards and more recently has flatlined.

The commission rejected arguments recent poor performance in national productivity numbers should prevent raising the minimum award higher than inflation.

It did this because it distinguished between productivity in the market and non-market sectors. In the former, productivity growth has been modest, but positive.

Poor numbers in the non-market sector like health and social services were an artefact of both measurement problems and the need for more workers per unit output to boost the quality of these services.

Silver linings?

It is always a judgement call as to what is the appropriate scale of any wage increase. Given low paid workers were not the source of recent inflationary pressure, it is reasonable to claim now is the time to reverse the recent trends of cutting their real wages.

Whether the increase had to be so modest is something the commission has indicated it is open to considering in future hearings. It has sent this signal by floating two novel arguments.

The first argument concerns how cuts in real pay are calculated. In its decision it makes the very important point that conventional measures of real wage movements use monthly measures of inflation but wages only increase annually.

It’s on this basis the 4.5% cut for the benchmark entry level trade worker in manufacturing was calculated.

The commission notes, however, that if you take into account wages only rise once a year and inflation rises continuously, the overall loss of earnings power for such workers has been 14.4% since July 2021.

This is a much higher account of real wage cuts than has previously informed debates on wages policy.

Secondly, the commission has noted consideration should be given to phasing out some of the lowest classifications in the award system. This is something it has done in the past.

In this way it does not have to “increase rates” for low paid classifications as such. Rather, it just eliminates the possibility of having rates for exceptionally low paid jobs – and so raises the base rates dramatically for the lowest paid workers.

Next year, things could be better. Australia has a long history of having a wages system that takes seriously the needs of all workers, and especially the low paid. This decision marks a break with the recent habit of using the lowest paid workers as a shock absorber for macroeconomic policy.

The 3.5% rise is a modest increase but an important one. More important is the framework the commission has set up for decisions in future years. Devising a more accurate measure of real wage cuts and noting the importance of abolishing whole classifications of low paid work lays the foundations for potentially very exciting developments in Australian wages policy in coming years.

John Buchanan, Professor, Discipline of Business Information Systems, University of Sydney Business School, University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Harewood House, with its impressive history and classic English beauty, is a magnificent place to visit in Leeds, west Yorkshire. The house frequently hosts remarkable exhibitions and cultural events devoted to art, poetry and history.

This time, its doors are open for a new exhibition Austen and Turner: A Country House Encounter, which marks the 250th anniversaries of the landscape painter J.M.W. Turner and the novelist Jane Austen.

The anniversaries have presented an opportunity for the co-curators of Harewood House Trust and the Centre for Eighteenth Century Studies at the University of York to unite the incredible works of two outstanding personalities of the Regency era.

Their masterpieces reflect their common engagement with the cultural and societal significance of British country houses and their landscapes. Though the pair seem to have never met, the expressiveness of Turner’s paintings are complemented by the literary richness of Austen’s manuscripts.

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The exhibition creatively highlights the common threads within Austen and Turner’s work through shared themes. The first is Austen Meets Turner, which explores how Austen and Turner’s interests and experiences intersected in the country estates that inspired their works.

I was especially struck by Harewood House from the North East (1797). Turner captured the magnificent building with such softness and light. The painting makes the landscape feel peaceful and alive, showing his ability to transform a real place into something almost dreamlike.

It highlights the grandeur of the landed aristocracy of the time, symbolising wealth, influence and a strong social hierarchy that was rooted in land ownership. Austen also used houses as symbols of status and wealth in her novels. Pemberley in Pride and Prejudice (1813), for example, reflects the class, riches and style of the love interest, Mr Darcy.

Another theme that attracted my attention was Encounters with Austen and Turner, located at the heart of the Harewood House library. Here, among the letters is another of his well-known paintings, Harewood Castle from the South East (1798). A visit to the exhibition can be complemented by a short walk to the real castle ruins in the Harewood grounds.

You just cannot take your eyes off this painting. Turner captures the ruin bathed in soft, natural light, blending the architectural detail of the castle with the surrounding pastoral landscape. His delicate use of colour and atmospheric perspective evokes a sense of romantic nostalgia, highlighting the harmony between human history and nature – a key feature of his style.

Objects of genius

The theme Interior Worlds deserves special attention. It is especially engaging because it offers the opportunity to feel the presence of Austen and Turner through the very objects that once made them famous.

Turner’s travelling watercolour box from 1842, for example, was made by the artist using two cards attached to a linen cloth. It was designed to hold a new kind of watercolour block, variations of which are still manufactured today.

Another such item is the original handwritten version of Austen’s unfinished novel Sanditon, penned during the last months of her life in 1817.

A first edition of Sense and Sensibility is also on show, with a fascinating explanation of the history behind its creation. Originally titled Elinor and Marianne and written in 1795, it was intended to be a novel in letters. But Austen later revised the text, and the version as we know it was published anonymously in 1811.

Finally, a collection of period costumes from Austen adaptations makes this exhibition truly memorable. An impressive collection of costumes from Sense and Sensibility (1995), Pride and Prejudice (1995) and Emma (2020) are on display.

Each garment reflects the elegance and social nuance of the Regency era, bringing Austen’s characters vividly to life. The craftsmanship and historical detail in the costumes evoke a sense of timeless charm that deepen the viewer’s connection to the novels.

This incredible exhibition is sure to move everyone who really wishes to engage with the high art and experience the historical spirit of the Regency era.

Oksana Hubina, Research Fellow, English literature, University of Leeds

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The America we thought we knew is not coming back. America in 2028 will be different, perhaps worse. And Australians, along with much of the world, are eager for something different.

In polling conducted by The Australia Institute in February 2025, 44% of respondents agreed that it is in Australia’s interests to pursue a more independent foreign policy. The way we think about our relationship with the United States, and our role in the world, is changing and changing quickly.

Those who insist that we can carry on as we always have, that we can just ride Trump out, or that we have to remain close to his version of America because that is the way we have always ensured our “security” are leaving the field open to bad-faith actors, making our world even less safe.

Proponents of the status quo also have a shallow and ungenerous understanding of what “security” really is.

Supporters of the AUKUS deal, and blind supporters of the US, typically exaggerate the threat to Australia of countries like China while deliberately obscuring the risks to our security and the security of our region if we unquestioningly follow the US.

Those risks include miscalculations or deliberate provocations of war between great powers. They also include threats such as catastrophic climate change, another global pandemic, nuclear annihilation, and the breakdown of the rule of law.

But to our current leaders, those real threats don’t appear to matter, because our current understanding of security doesn’t consider so-called “soft” issues such as environmental catastrophe or the collapse of international law as genuine threats.

The Australian government says that it considers climate change a threat to regional stability and international security. The 2024 Australia–Tuvalu Falepili Union, for example, committed both countries to

enhancing their partnership to promote and protect the Parties’ shared interest in each other’s prosperity, stability and security, including by responding to current and emerging security challenges, such as climate change.

The Union also recognised that “climate change is Tuvalu’s greatest national security concern”. But that rhetoric is not matched by action. Australia’s subsidies to fossil fuel producers and major users totalled $14.5 billion in 2023-24.

That number is an increase of 31% on the recorded figure in 2022-23. Since 2022, the federal environment minister has approved 10 new coal mines or expansions. The hypocrisy is breathtaking.

What about international law?

The same applies to Australia’s stated commitment to the “international rules-based order”.

In January 2025, Defence Minister Richard Marles was asked if Australia would support Trump’s attacks on the foundations of international law, perhaps a unilateral takeover of Panama, or annexation of Greenland.

The best response Marles could muster was that “our alliance with the US is really the cornerstone of our national security, our foreign policy”.

No one in the current government is able to say that such a move – or a US “take over” of Gaza, for that matter – would be a clear breach of the international rule of law.

It is extraordinary that a Labor government refuses to state unapologetically that Australia has a longstanding, and continuing, commitment to the institutions and structures of international law and that it is in both our and our closest ally’s interests that that system survives.

We are choosing to forgo our responsibility to protect and uphold the rule of law, to accept the significant risks to our security keeping Donald Trump on our side. Sometimes, as Phillip Coorey wrote in the Australian Financial Review in early 2024, “cosying up to a madman” is “a necessity”.

Self-harm is never a necessity.

What kind of security is that? What do we think security actually is?

As Trump sets about dismantling what is left of the international rules-based order, destabilises the US and global economies, undermines public health, increases already rising inequality, unleashes white supremacy at home and abroad, accelerates catastrophic climate change – exactly as he told us he would – we need a better answer to that question. And we need it quickly.

We can and we must think about our security differently.

Letting the powerful off the hook

Real security is more than just the temporary prevention of war. In Australia, and across much of the Western world, foreign and security policy is built on the assumption that war is inevitable. This assumption is based on a selective understanding of history and of human behaviour that ends up reinforcing, rather than challenging, the worst trends in international relations.

Pundits and politicians then make claims like “we live in the worst strategic circumstances since World War II”, that we face a “new Cold War”, that “great power competition” is necessary and completely beyond our control, without ever facing much challenge. Anyone who disagrees can be dismissed as an “appeaser”.

Those historical analogies are appealing and comforting, because the world is a dangerous place. But that isn’t how history works, and all those assumptions do is let those in power off the hook for their actions (or inactions).

The suggestion that we face the worst strategic circumstances since the last global war, for example, implies that it doesn’t matter what we do. In our circumstances, it suggests that our latest existential enemy is coming for us because that is what great powers do, and all we can do is prepare for the worst.

That is the basic assumption of the ANZUS Treaty and Australian foreign and security policy more broadly; Australia is always threatened by enemies from the north. Those enemies don’t look like us, and the only way we can protect ourselves from them is to fall in line behind another great (white) power.

That, in the end, is what AUKUS is all about. AUKUS was, as it was described at the time, always about the revival of the Anglosphere. It is the fatalism that induces paralysis.

Both the US and Australia often behave as if the provocative behaviour of the Anglosphere has nothing to do with how other nations respond. Any perception of Chinese aggression is framed as unreasonable and threatening.

Anything that Australia does – such as embarking on a plan to acquire nuclear-powered submarines clearly designed to engage in conflict far from Australian shores – is necessary and self-evidently defensive.

China is, undoubtedly, a risk to be managed. But it is not a direct, immediate threat to Australia, and it is not inevitable that it will become one. Diplomacy, genuine engagement, cultural exchange, people-to-people contact: these are all tools available to us, tools that Australia has been historically good at using when we have chosen to.

That genuine engagement – real relationships – requires a clear understanding of what our interests and values truly are. Right now, our approach to the world is undermined by the way our foreign and defence policy, and our alliance with the US, actively contradict those values.

Both Australia and the US pride themselves on their democracies, on their democratic values. China is, rightly or wrongly, regarded as an existential enemy because it is not a democracy. And yet the way Australia approaches our engagement with China in the world is a very, very long way from democratic.

The alliance is anti-democratic

Australian foreign and security policy is marked by intense secrecy. AUKUS is the epitome of this practice: it was conceived entirely in secret and sprung on the Australian people overnight without any consultation. It still has not been subject to any serious parliamentary or democratic scrutiny.

This is how critical decisions about national security are made in this country: in secret, mostly by men in suits or uniforms, with no democratic accountability.

The AUKUS deal probably would not have survived independent, democratic scrutiny from Treasury, or Defence, at least not in its current form. But foreign and security policy in this country isn’t subject to that kind of accountability, which results in unnecessary and eye-wateringly expensive agreements such as AUKUS.

Agreements that do not make us safer; agreements that fundamentally misunderstand what does threaten us and thus dramatically increase our insecurity.

Secrecy does not create security. Secrecy undermines security, as it undermines democracy.

And these kinds of secretive deals also undermine what we are often told are the “shared democratic values” of our alliance with the US. As AUKUS shows, the alliance is actively anti-democratic, and it is very far from transparent.

An alliance with the US that genuinely valued transparency, and democracy, would look very different. It wouldn’t allow the revenge fantasies of men like Boris Johnson to dictate the future of our security, and the ability of future Australian governments to make independent decisions in the national interest.

It wouldn’t allow our closest ally to persecute an Australian citizen for publishing the truth. It wouldn’t allow for the punishment of whistleblowers and publishers exposing war crimes, as the only people to be punished for war crimes committed in the name of that alliance. It would value the truth. It would value transparency.

These are things we can aspire to in Australian foreign policy that would make us more secure. It’s not inevitable that we go without. It is entirely possible for Australia to reform our secrecy and whistleblower laws. In a democracy, we all have a right to contribute and to hold our leaders accountable for their decisions and actions.

A healthy democracy is built on the understanding that human security is the wellspring of national security. Human security – real, lasting security – means addressing inequality, building prosperity, acting on climate and protecting the environment on which we depend.

Australia has considerable power and agency, more than enough to pursue this kind of security. We are a rich country. We have the 13th largest economy in the world. When that world is on fire, we could choose to focus on fighting the flames instead of fanning them.

Instead of spending upwards of $368 billion on escalatory military hardware, we could invest in things that make us safer. That could involve simple, practical choices.

As of early 2024, for example, Australia had a fleet of just six large fixed-wing air tankers, 15 large helicopters, 70 medium and small helicopters, 56 small fixed-wing firebombers, and 15 light fixed-wing aircraft available for firefighting. Most of that fleet is privately owned; the government leases them as required.

Annual government spending on this fleet totals around $125 million. Over a 30-year period – the same delivery timeline imagined for the AUKUS deal – that’s about $3.75 billion.

Put another way, that amounts to about 1% of the AUKUS budget. That it seems so unrealistic or even unreasonable to suggest that we might spend that kind of money on firefighting equipment instead of weapons is a marker of our current politics. But what would actually make us safer?

Investment in that kind of security is something we could do. We could decide, like Norway, that instead of charging our kids to go to university and subsidising fossil fuels to the tune of $14 billion, we could instead tax fossil fuels and make university free.

We could invest in public education, in public health, and action on climate change. We could operate in genuine partnership with countries in our region to build collective security.

As the former treasurer Josh Frydenberg said when asked about the eye-watering amount of money his government had committed to AUKUS: “everything is affordable if it’s a priority”.

Genuine democratic solidarity

None of that means abandoning our relationship with the United States. It does mean that relationship must change. We can rebalance and reprioritise that relationship away from its blind focus on a hollow understanding of “security” towards a genuine democratic solidarity.

Australia can seek out, and support, those with an interest in the revival of American democracy, in Congress, in the courts, and in civil society. We can try to be the kind of friend that brings out the best in someone and pushes back on their worst instincts. The kind of friend that rejects demands for blind fealty. A real friend.

We, and the rest of the world along with us, have choices, power, and agency. We do not have to weather whatever Trump’s America throws at us, hoping in vain for rare and costly scraps of his benevolence.

As the Board of the Doomsday Clock explained in early 2025, we are in this situation precisely because “despite unmistakable signs of danger, national leaders and their societies have failed to do what is needed to change course”.

Disaster is not inevitable.

We are capable of doing things differently from how we have done them before. We could play a leadership role in building genuine global security, by acting on climate change, on nuclear non-proliferation, on peacebuilding, and on safeguarding the international rule of law.

Instead, we consistently underestimate and undermine our own influence by refusing to acknowledge what we have and refusing to consider what we might do with it.

We could continue to choose irrelevance, or subservience, or we could choose something else. We could choose to continue with our usual meaningless and cowardly gestures towards a kind of “national security” that is, in reality, no security at all.

Or we could choose another world. We could build a vision and a plan, together, for what this country and the world might look like after America. And that post-America world is coming whether we like it or not.

What Australia does matters. Our choices matter. We can choose to build a world after America. A world that is better and safer than the one we had before.

This is an edited extract from After America: Australia and the new world order by Emma Shortis (Australia Institute Press)

Emma Shortis, Adjunct Senior Fellow, School of Global, Urban and Social Studies, RMIT University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.