Fascists Can’t Create: Why They Steal and Silence Music | The Last Mixed Tape

Fascists can’t create. They can only silence, steal, and twist music into something hollow. From Nazi Germany banning jazz, to the Catholic Church blacklisting artists in Ireland, to punk, disco, and hip-hop being targeted, authoritarian regimes have always feared music. Because music is messy, imperfect, alive… everything fascism can’t stand.

“When you have a government that prefers a certain moral code derived from a certain religion and that moral code turns into legislation to suit one certain religious point of view, and if that code happens to be very very right wing, almost toward Attila the Hun.” (Frank Zappa)

In this video, I explore how fascists try to erase or hijack culture, from Pink Floyd’s The Wall to Ireland’s recent Míse Éire Festival. And why, no matter how many times they raid the dancefloor or burn the records, music always slips free.

🎶 Featuring stories from punk, disco, hip-hop, the Civil Rights Movement, and today’s artists speaking up for Palestine.

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00:00 Intro 00:28 Frank Zappa 01:13 Fascists Can’t Dance 01:42 A Brief History of Authoritarianist Oppression 05:52 Because of Woke! 06:03 Why Fascists Hate Music 13:25 Why this matters 16:21 Zappa

A memorable scene in the film The Tin Drum, an adaptation of Gunther Grass’ novel of the same title, can be read as a cinematic embodiment of parody in its original Greek sense. In ancient Greek, parōidía did not mean merely humorous imitation, but literally a “counter-song” (para = parallel / alongside / against + ōidē = song). It was a form of singing or performance that ran parallel to an authoritative or established form, destabilizing its seriousness by inserting difference, disharmony, or comic dislocation.

The boy with the tin drum stages just such a counter-song. The Nazi parade, meant to project order, unity, and irresistible force, is undercut by the boy’s playful, stubborn rhythm. His drumming doesn’t attack the parade head-on with violence; rather, it dislodges its inner coherence by redirecting attention, confusing the musicians, and turning their intended display of power into something grotesque and ridiculous. The rigidity of fascist spectacle, which depends on unbroken rhythm and mass synchronization, is undone by a single child introducing a divergent beat.

Seen through the Greek concept of parody, the scene shows how authoritarian aesthetics — marching bands, parades, choreographed unity — can be exposed as brittle, even absurd, when confronted with art that insists on dissonance, freedom, or simply childlike play. Parody here is resistance: a reminder that music, rhythm, and art can break the spell of conformity, revealing the spectacle’s emptiness.