and performed "She's Got A New Spell," a clever play on the idea of love as magic: his new girlfriend's a witch, mumbling spells in Latin, bending the law of gravity, setting his room a-twirl.
Two very different, original personas co-existed on Bragg's classic early albums. The protesting socialist, a "one-man Clash" shouting down the hypocrisies and arrogance of the powerful, duetted with a romantic charmer armed with wit and wordplay. Those two sides of Bragg's talent also shone through on his Mermaid Avenue collaborations with Wilco, which interpreted once-lost Woody Guthrie songs. Bragg wasn't just a natural inheritor of Guthrie's folk protest tradition; his shambling renditions of sly lyrics such as "Walt Whitman's Niece" revived an earthier side of Guthrie: the winking cad.
The last ten years have challenged Bragg as a songwriter. He faces the mature rock troubadour's eternal dilemma: it's much easier to write a great breakup song or ode to new love than a compelling song about a decades-long relationship. It's also harder to rouse an audience with fiery protest songs now that Bragg doesn't have Margaret Thatcher to kick around anymore and Britain's politics have become splintered and centrist.