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Music History #16: "Nothing Has Been Proved"

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“Nothing Has Been Proved”
Written by Neil Tennant & Chris Lowe (1989)
Performed by Dusty Springfield

The Music


With kitchen sink ballads like “You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me” and “Anyone Who Had A Heart,” Dusty Springfield reigned as Britain’s queen of sophisticated pop drama in the 1960s. But by the late ‘70s, mental illness and substance abuse had derailed her career. Then, in 1987, the Pet Shop Boys collaborated with Dusty on the hit “What Have I Done To Deserve This?” and introduced her to a whole new generation. Two years later, the trio got together again to record “Nothing Has Been Proved” for the soundtrack of Scandal, a movie about the Profumo Affair. The song, featured over the closing credits, went to #16 on the UK charts.

Dusty’s video for the song mixes archival footage with scenes from the movie.

The History

As the 1960s dawned in England, the established order of post-war society was being challenged and subverted on many fronts. Penguin Books was prosecuted for publishing Lady Chatterley’s Lover, a novel by D.H. Lawrence that used the f-word and had several explicit—for the time, at least—sex scenes. Political and social satire was exploding in magazines (Private Eye), on television (That Was The Week That Was) and in the theater (Beyond The Fringe). Author Ian Fleming rocked the paperback trade with his fictional super spy James Bond. And of course, a pop culture curiosity called The Beatles was about to completely turn the country upside down.

That said, in 1963, it was still deeply shocking when a public figure like a politician got caught with their pants down.

Long before Bill Clinton, John Edwards, and Elliot Spitzer, there was John Profumo.


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The son of a prominent barrister, Profumo was an Oxford-educated veteran of WWII, recipient of the OBE (an award for distinguished service or achievement in the British Empire), and a highly-regarded British politician who had served in various government positions beginning in 1945. In 1960, he was appointed the Secretary of State for War.

He was happily married to a well-known actress named Valerie Hobson, and they had a young son. His life was altogether settled and respectable.

Then, at a party in 1961, Profumo met a stripper named Christine Keeler, and the wheels were set in motion for one of the biggest political scandals of the 20th century.

The Showgirl and the Socialite


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Keeler was born in Middlesex, England in 1942. After an unhappy childhood with an abusive stepfather, Keeler left home at 16 and settled in London. A few years later, she started working as a topless dancer. At Murray’s Cabaret Club, she befriended another stripper, Mandy Rice-Davies and, through her, met the man who would become the catalyst of the Profumo Affair, a doctor named Stephen Ward.

Ward was a prominent socialite, known for his extravagant parties that mixed rich and powerful members of London society with actors, musicians, and writers. He also had a thing for pretty girls from lower-class backgrounds. He dated Rice-Davies and Keeler, and soon they’d both moved in with him.

At one of his parties, Ward introduced Keeler to Profumo, and soon the two started having an affair. What the Secretary of War didn’t know was that Keeler was also sharing a bed with, among others, Yevgeny Ivanov, a senior naval attaché at the Soviet Embassy. Suddenly, an extramarital affair turned into a national security risk.

British military agency MI-5 had recruited Ward in a scheme to bring down Ivanov with sexual blackmail. When MI-5 approached Profumo for his help, he learned that his mistress was in the middle of the whole mess. Shortly after, he broke it off with her. But the damage had been done.

“No impropriety”

Profumo’s affair might’ve remained a secret if it hadn’t been for a shooting incident at the home of Rice-Davies. Among the many men that she and Keeler had been involved with, there were two gangsters. The result was not so much a love triangle as a love quadrilateral. Add in jealousy, drugs, and guns, and the situation came to a head when one of the gangsters came looking for Keeler and blasted the door of the flat.

That disturbance brought the police, which tipped off the press that there might be a bigger story afoot. Reporters soon sniffed out Keeler’s affairs with both Profumo and Ivanov, and the story hit the papers.

Profumo’s downfall came in March 1963, when he lied to the House of Commons, saying there was “no impropriety whatever.” It was the “I did not have sexual relations with that woman” of the 1960s. To make matters worse, Profumo threatened the press with libel and slander suits if the allegations were repeated. But the press kept investigating. On June 5, Profumo admitted that he had lied. In shame, he resigned.

Profumo, his wife and their 8-year old son soon disappeared from public view, taking up residence in the country. Profumo poured himself into social work. He has refused to ever speak about the affair with the press.

In 2006, his son David wrote Bringing Down The House, a frank memoir about his father and the effect his indiscretions had on his family.

Though it was never proved that his affair with Keeler had led to any breach in national security, the resulting scandal played a big part in forever changing how we view politicians.

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Scientific Reports, Fernando Ramirez Rozzi
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Stones, Bones, and Wrecks
Humans Might Have Practiced Brain Surgery on Cows 5000 Years Ago
Scientific Reports, Fernando Ramirez Rozzi
Scientific Reports, Fernando Ramirez Rozzi

In the 1970s, archaeologists discovered a site in France containing hundreds of cow skeletons dating back 5000 to 5400 years. The sheer number wasn't surprising—human agriculture in that part of the world was booming by 3000 BCE. What perplexed scientists was something uncovered there a few decades later: a cow skull bearing a thoughtfully drilled hole. Now, a team of researchers has released evidence that suggests the hole is an early example of animal brain surgery.

Fernando Ramírez Rozzi, a paleontologist with the French National Center for Scientific Research, and Alain Froment, an anthropologist at the Museum of Mankind in Paris, published their findings in the journal Nature Scientific Reports. After comparing the opening to the holes chiseled into the skulls of humans from the same era, they found the bones bore some striking similarities. They didn't show any signs of fracturing from blunt force trauma; rather, the hole in the cow skull, like those in the human skulls, seemed to have been carved out carefully using a tool made for exactly that purpose. That suggests that the hole is evidence of the earliest known veterinary surgery performed by humans.

Trepanation, or the practice of boring holes into human skulls, is one of the oldest forms of surgery. Experts are still unsure why ancient humans did this, but the level of care that went into the procedures suggests that the surgery was likely used to treat sick patients while they were still alive. Why a person would perform this same surgery on a cow, however, is harder to explain.

The authors present a few theories, the first being that these ancient brain surgeons were treating a sick cow the same way they might treat a sick human. If a cow was suffering from a neural disease like epilepsy, perhaps they though that cutting a hole in its head would relieve whatever was agitating the brain. The cow would have needed to be pretty special to warrant such an effort when there were hundreds of healthy cows living on the same plot of land, as evidenced by the skeletons it was found with.

Another possible explanation was that whoever operated on the cow did so as practice to prepare them for drilling into the heads of live humans one day. "Cranial surgery requires great manual dexterity and a complete knowledge of the anatomy of the brain and vessel distribution," the authors write in the study. "It is possible that the mastery of techniques in cranial surgery shown in the Mesolithic and Neolithic periods was acquired through experimentation on animals."

Either way, the bovine patient didn't live to see the results of the procedure: The bone around the hole hadn't healed at all, which suggests the cow either died during surgery or wasn't alive to begin with.

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History
How the Log Cabin Became an American Symbol
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Many Americans have a special fondness for the log cabin, viewing it as the home of heroic pioneers, or at least a great weekend escape. But it wasn’t always this way. The log cabin was originally disdained here in America—and it took decades of pop culture and political shifts to elevate the structure to the vaunted status it holds today.

THANK THE SWEDES

While there’s plenty of imagery portraying log cabins in the English colonies of Plymouth and Jamestown (established in Massachusetts and Virginia, respectively), these depictions couldn’t be further from the truth. The English had no history of log cabins—they preferred more “refined” frame houses, and would sometimes squat in subterranean dugouts until they could be built. In fact, the log cabin was first constructed in the New World in the short-lived colony of New Sweden, established in the Delaware River Valley in 1638. Such structures had been around continental Europe for centuries, and the Swedish colonists were simply using a skill that had been passed down through generations.

Log cabins might have remained a Swedish anomaly in the New World had it not been for the German and Scots-Irish who adopted them after arriving in the mid-1700s. But none of these log cabins looked much like the quaint, cozy structures we revere today. They often had dirt floors, were crawling with lice and other pests, and were prone to drafts; as one traveler remarked around 1802, the gaps between logs were "filled up with clay, but so very carelessly, that the light may be seen through in every part." Yet as uncomfortable as these cabins were, they offered impoverished immigrants an invaluable slice of freedom. Cheaper and far easier to construct than finer homes, the log cabin thus became the go-to home for newcomers to the New World, helping millions of desperate refugees turn their dreams of settling in America into a reality.

But the practicality of the structure did nothing for the log cabin's public image, or that of its inhabitants. Benjamin Franklin wrote that there were only two sorts of people, "those who are well dress'd and live comfortably in good houses," and those who "are poor, and dirty, and ragged and ignorant, and vicious and live in miserable cabins or garrets." Dr. Benjamin Rush, Surgeon General of the Middle Department of the Continental Army and a signatory to the Declaration of Independence, said the cabin dweller was “generally a man who has out-lived his credit or fortune in the cultivated parts."

As for cabins themselves, they were generally seen as “rude” and “miserable,” and no self-respecting American would deign to live in one. Not permanently, at least. Cabins back then were temporary stepping stones meant to be abandoned once something better could be afforded; barring that good fortune, they were to be covered with clapboard and added to as the cornerstone for a finer home.

LOG CABIN PRIDE

But the log cabin and its inhabitants’ public image got a makeover after the War of 1812. The nation had just defeated the British for a second time, and Americans were feeling good, forging their own identity and distinguishing themselves from the old world. Log cabins—ubiquitous and appropriately rustic—started taking on an all-American sheen.

Soon enough, writers and artists were portraying them in a positive light. One notable example is James Fenimore Cooper’s 1823 novel The Pioneers, where the house of protagonist Natty Bumppo is described as being “a rough cabin of logs.” That scene in turn is thought to have inspired artist Thomas Cole’s 1826 painting, Daniel Boone Sitting at the Door of His Cabin on the Great Osage Lake. Together, these works helped spark an entire movement that saw the pioneer as a hero. Log cabin dwellers were no longer disdained for their rough edges; these same edges were what made them romantic and distinctly American.

A "Harrison & Tyler" woodcut used in the 1840 campaign
A "Harrison & Tyler" woodcut used in the 1840 campaign
Library of Congress // Public Domain

Similar shifts occurred in the political realm during the 1840 election. President Martin van Buren faced an uphill battle for reelection that year, and a politically aligned newspaper thought it could give him a leg up by launching a classist attack against rival William Henry Harrison: “Give [Harrison] a barrel of Hard Cider, and settle a pension of $2000 a year on him, and my word for it, he will sit the remainder of his days in his Log Cabin.” In other words: Harrison was an ignorant hick.

It was a lie—the wealthy Harrison actually lived in a mansion—but most of the public didn’t know it, and his rivals assumed voters would scorn Harrison’s poverty. They were wrong: Millions of Americans still lived in log cabins, struggling day-in-and-day-out, and they were not impressed. (“No sneer could have been more galling,” John McMaster wrote in his 1883 A History of the People of the United States from the Revolution to the Civil War.)

In no time at all, Americans rich and poor were displaying their Harrison love and log cabin pride by holding cabin raisings and patronizing specially-constructed log cabin bars, marching in massive parades with log cabins pulled by teams of horses, and purchasing heaps of Harrison-themed, log cabin-stamped merchandise, including tea sets, hair brushes, and hope chests. With his eye on the prize, Harrison gamely played into this fib, telling frenzied crowds that he’d rather relax in his log cabin than run for president, but that he had heeded their call to run for the White House. That fall, he won handily.

Though Harrison died 32 days into his term, his log cabin campaign became a reliable template for candidates in the years ahead. Franklin Pierce downplayed his family’s wealth in 1852, instead focusing on a brief time spent in a log cabin as a baby. James Buchanan did the same in 1856, and Lincoln’s log cabin youth was brought up consistently come 1860. “Like President Harrison, Mr. Lincoln has spent about one third part of his life in a log cabin,” one biography read.

"Across the Continent: Westward the Course of Empire Takes its Way" by Frances Flora Palmer
"Across the Continent: Westward the Course of Empire Takes its Way"
Frances Flora Palmer, Library of Congress

Log cabins became an even more persistent presence in the arts, culture, and commerce in the decades ahead, making cameos in iconic images like Frances Flora Bond Palmer’s 1868 painting Across the Continent: Westward the Course of Empire Takes its Way, in which the cabin is the symbol of an ever-expanding American empire. The log cabin also figured into tales high and low, such as The Log-Cabin Lady—a prescriptive memoir about escaping low-class drudgery—and The Log-Cabin Bishop, an uplifting account of a man who brought religion to the frontier. The Log Cabin Library dime novels even peddled swashbuckling adventures to young boys.

FALSE MEMORIES

Most powerful in terms of ingraining log cabin adoration in young Americans, though, were the scores of false histories that projected the log cabin back onto Plymouth and Jamestown. Historians of the late-19th century had heard so much about the log cabin that they just assumed it was key to American growth and expansion, leading to assertions like John G. Palfrey’s 1860 claim, “[Settlers] made themselves comfortable in log-houses,” and images like W.L. Williams 1890s painting, Plymouth in 1622. The latter shows the colony as a smattering of log cabins and was widely distributed to elementary school classrooms, cementing the image of a cabin-laden Plymouth.

A set of 1970s Lincoln Logs
A set of 1970s Lincoln Logs
Tinker*Tailor loves Lalka, Flickr // CC BY-NC 2.0

From then on, the log cabin was portrayed as the ultimate proverbial rag from which the rich nation of the U.S. had emerged, as when historian Warder Stevens declared in 1916, “The story of America is written in log cabins.” It’s this tradition of myth-making and believing that inspired subsequent outpourings of log cabin nostalgia: Lincoln Logs in the interwar years, log cabin chic of the 1990s, and today’s reality programs showing urbanites fleeing to the woods.

These days, the log cabin is emblazoned on money and sewn onto flags; it fascinates modern artists like Will Ryman (who created a gold-resin-covered log cabin at the New Orleans Museum of Art); and it appears in music of all genres, from country crooner Porter Wagoner’s 1965 track “An Old Log Cabin for Sale” to T-Pain and Lil Wayne’s 2008 romantic rap “Can’t Believe It.” That said, perhaps the log cabin itself is the nation’s greatest rags-to-riches story; it went from being sneered at as a poor immigrants’ hovel to being revered as an American icon. Not bad for something that writer John Filson, discussing Boone’s home circa 1784, described as “not extraordinary.”

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