IT WASN’T awfully surprising when Bob Geldof admitted to hunkering down with David Cameron’s Boyz this week to act as their unpaid adviser on global poverty relief. Although Geldof has denied being a Conservative, most pop stars are Tories at heart — they believe in maintaining the status quo (especially Status Quo, of course), preserving core English values (Snakebite Black, fags, curry) and worry about country v town more than Blur v Oasis. After all, we don’t call them our pop aristocracy for nothing.

This Tory impulse is usually developed as a result of being in one of the most insecure jobs going. The rest of the arts get state subsidies; pop makes do with the odd invite to Chequers (Bono, David Bowie and Pete Townshend have all dined with the PM).

That makes the rock scene the ultimate free market — it’s dog-eat-dog capitalism. Pop stars confront the logic of capital directly, from their euphoric I Can’t Believe It’s Not Bouncing early cheque receipts to the annual tax bill-paying “final tours” of our elder talents. Punk may have changed the status of the safety pin but it didn’t change the meaning of success. As a “star” even the ultimate case studies in political pop, such as the leftie singer-songwriter Tom Robinson, became the source of income for an ever expanding chain of people who needed them. One minute you’re Slipknot and the next you’ve got staff, a country house in Sussex, a foxhunting son called Otis — and, boom, you’ve turned into Bryan Ferry.

There’s nothing truly eccentric or radical about Geldof — the Worzel Gummidge hair and hungry caterpillar eyebrows are pure backbench Tory. His lifestyle choices chime with those of London Tory sophisticates: the Mulberry interiors in his home, the privately educated children, the belief that you can change the world over a millefeuille with Chris Martin in Patisserie Valerie, Chelsea branch. It’s hardly Fulsome prison.

Even as far back as 1977 his lyrics revealed a resolutely solipsistic tendency. In Looking After No 1, his brash debut single, he swings a Right-hander at those on benefit. It’s a hymn to the individual and a rant against involvement in a liberal state:

“I’ll take all they can give me
And then I’m gonna ask for more
Cos the money’s buried deep in the Bank of England
And I want the key to the vault.”

Feed the World? Nah, so long as I’ve got my bacon sandwich . . .

He’s not alone. Phil Collins, Mike Rutherford and Tony Banks, of Genesis this week revealed that they had applied to convert what was once a 19th-century warehouse into 41 luxury flats worth millions, thereby profiting from the property boom generated by Liverpool’s status as the 2008 City of Culture. The price? The destruction of what is now the Parr Street Studio, the historic Petri dish of Britpop.

Tony Hadley, vocalist with Spandau Ballet and winner of the 2003 reality TV show Reborn in the USA, said last year that he would like to consider becoming a Tory MP after meeting Michael Howard, Sir Elton John’s South of France lunching partner. “The Tories are getting there but they’ve got to stop being afraid to stand up for what they believe in and getting out there and spreading the message,” he said. Hadley’s underwhelming solo career may have demanded he take care of the money he has.

Geri Halliwell once said that Margaret Thatcher was the original Spice Girl. In his Jam days, Paul Weller urged fans to “vote Tory”. And while Madonna hasn’t ridden pillion on Cameron’s push bike through the corridors of Westminster shouting “Wheee!” just yet, let’s not forget who her mother-in-law is (Shireen Ritchie, a councillor and former chairman of Kensington and Chelsea Conservatives). It’s a Madonna phase just waiting to happen.

Meanwhile, in the States, the Ramones’ own Johnny Ramone and some bloke from the punk outfit the Misfits joined Conservative Punk, an umbrella group launched in 2004 to encourage Republican moshers to vote Right. While R. E. M., Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen performed for John Kerry, Conservative Punk attempted to push the idea that Bushites could rock. Merchandise includes “Capitalism” T-shirts with the “a” doctored into the anarchy symbol.

It’s easy to see why pop stars vote Tory — they all say they want Respect, but what they actually want is the career path of the Rolling Stones. (Mick Jagger a Street Fightin’ Man? More a gilded husk cruising in a soft top.) However, it’s less easy to see any real reason why Tories want to associate themselves with pop stars, and rubbish, rude, potty-mouthed ones at that (we all know why Geldof went into the new “Civil Service” — he needed a new career). Never meet your idols — and certainly don’t ask them for free advice. There’s no such thing as a free gig ticket. Blair has proved that point. His association with Britpop was disastrous when he found he couldn’t control his new mouthpieces, such as Damon Albarn, of Blur.

No, if I were David Cameron, I would pedal away from Geldof at speed. Pop stars aren’t meant to reduce the world to a political manifesto. It’s simply not their job. Nor are they here to change people’s minds on the issues of the day or act as a social worker. When they try to, they’re usually at an artistic low (see Tom Petty’s post-riots dirge, Peace in LA: “We need peace in LA, what happened was wrong/ We all feel betrayed, but we got to be strong”). Pop stars’ power works differently. They preach to the converted, their fans. Band Aid was so successful because there was already a mood to do something, inspired by the news reports from Ethiopia.

Pop stars do a most valuable job — they make sense of the world around us, or at least highlight the nonsense. They give us the soundtrack to our lives. For that they should all get the entire alphabet after their names, Meatloaf-sized subsidies, season tickets to fish at Roger Daltrey’s trout farm. Even you, Shayne Ward!

But the meaning of pop songs is emotional, not intellectual. Nobody buys pop singles for budget analysis. Likewise, nobody reads budget analysis to really get into the mood (except for Gordon, of course). Pop stars rarely raise awareness: they’re better at raising the TV up over the Sheraton window sill and plonking it into the kidney-shaped swimming pool. And for that, we thank them.

Alex O’Connell is arts editor of The Times

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