Kneecap member charged with a terror offence in the UK
The Metropolitan Police force said Liam Og O hAnnaidh, 27, was charged under the Terrorism Act with displaying a flag in support of a proscribed organisation.
The alleged offence happened at the Kentish Town Forum, a London concert venue, on November 21, 2024.
The force said the musician - whose stage name is Mo Chara and whom police referred to by the English spelling of his name, Liam O'Hanna - was charged by postal requisition and is due in court on June 18.
Police are still investigating footage from another Kneecap concert in November 2023.
The Belfast trio has been praised for invigorating the Irish-language cultural scene in Northern Ireland, where the status of the language remains a contested political issue in a society still split between British unionist and Irish nationalist communities.
It has also been criticised for lyrics laden with expletives and drug references and for political statements.
Kneecap in 2024 released a raucous feature film loosely based on the band's origins and fuelled by a heavy mix of drugs, sex, violence, politics and humour.
The group's members played themselves in the film Kneecap, which won an audience award at the Sundance Film Festival and a Bafta for outstanding debut.
It was shortlisted for best foreign-language picture and best original song at the 2025 Academy Awards, though it didn't make the final cut.
British police have charged a member of Irish rap group Kneecap with a terrorism offence for allegedly waving a Hezbollah flag at a concert.
The Metropolitan Police force said Liam Og O hAnnaidh, 27, was charged under the Terrorism Act with displaying a flag in support of a proscribed organisation.
The alleged offence happened at the Kentish Town Forum, a London concert venue, on November 21, 2024.
The force said the musician - whose stage name is Mo Chara and whom police referred to by the English spelling of his name, Liam O'Hanna - was charged by postal requisition and is due in court on June 18.
Police are still investigating footage from another Kneecap concert in November 2023.
The Belfast trio has been praised for invigorating the Irish-language cultural scene in Northern Ireland, where the status of the language remains a contested political issue in a society still split between British unionist and Irish nationalist communities.
It has also been criticised for lyrics laden with expletives and drug references and for political statements.
Kneecap in 2024 released a raucous feature film loosely based on the band's origins and fuelled by a heavy mix of drugs, sex, violence, politics and humour.
The group's members played themselves in the film Kneecap, which won an audience award at the Sundance Film Festival and a Bafta for outstanding debut.
It was shortlisted for best foreign-language picture and best original song at the 2025 Academy Awards, though it didn't make the final cut.
British police have charged a member of Irish rap group Kneecap with a terrorism offence for allegedly waving a Hezbollah flag at a concert.
The Metropolitan Police force said Liam Og O hAnnaidh, 27, was charged under the Terrorism Act with displaying a flag in support of a proscribed organisation.
The alleged offence happened at the Kentish Town Forum, a London concert venue, on November 21, 2024.
The force said the musician - whose stage name is Mo Chara and whom police referred to by the English spelling of his name, Liam O'Hanna - was charged by postal requisition and is due in court on June 18.
Police are still investigating footage from another Kneecap concert in November 2023.
The Belfast trio has been praised for invigorating the Irish-language cultural scene in Northern Ireland, where the status of the language remains a contested political issue in a society still split between British unionist and Irish nationalist communities.
It has also been criticised for lyrics laden with expletives and drug references and for political statements.
Kneecap in 2024 released a raucous feature film loosely based on the band's origins and fuelled by a heavy mix of drugs, sex, violence, politics and humour.
The group's members played themselves in the film Kneecap, which won an audience award at the Sundance Film Festival and a Bafta for outstanding debut.
It was shortlisted for best foreign-language picture and best original song at the 2025 Academy Awards, though it didn't make the final cut.
British police have charged a member of Irish rap group Kneecap with a terrorism offence for allegedly waving a Hezbollah flag at a concert.
The Metropolitan Police force said Liam Og O hAnnaidh, 27, was charged under the Terrorism Act with displaying a flag in support of a proscribed organisation.
The alleged offence happened at the Kentish Town Forum, a London concert venue, on November 21, 2024.
The force said the musician - whose stage name is Mo Chara and whom police referred to by the English spelling of his name, Liam O'Hanna - was charged by postal requisition and is due in court on June 18.
Police are still investigating footage from another Kneecap concert in November 2023.
The Belfast trio has been praised for invigorating the Irish-language cultural scene in Northern Ireland, where the status of the language remains a contested political issue in a society still split between British unionist and Irish nationalist communities.
It has also been criticised for lyrics laden with expletives and drug references and for political statements.
Kneecap in 2024 released a raucous feature film loosely based on the band's origins and fuelled by a heavy mix of drugs, sex, violence, politics and humour.
The group's members played themselves in the film Kneecap, which won an audience award at the Sundance Film Festival and a Bafta for outstanding debut.
It was shortlisted for best foreign-language picture and best original song at the 2025 Academy Awards, though it didn't make the final cut.
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The Advertiser
3 hours ago
- The Advertiser
This Irish romantic drama takes its sweet time, to be sure
Truman Capote wrote, "More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones." In this film, God seems to be playing with that idea, toying with people's hopes and dreams and lives, giving them inspiration that leads to suffering, and granting at least some wishes but with a twist or a capricious sense of timing. Or maybe it's all down to some other kind of supernatural goings-on, or to fate. Or, if you're not into such metaphysical speculations, maybe things like coincidence just happen. This Irish romantic drama takes its sweet time to unfold and then crams a lot towards the end in a rush that hinders, rather than enhances, its impact. We have to wait a long time before the young lovers even meet, and even longer to discover what the title means. Niall Williams adapted his own novel: it's his first movie script, and the task might have been better entrusted to a screenwriter with more experience and objectivity. Four Letters of Love is also full of cliches from the Emerald Isle and from movies set there. Dancing merry jigs to jolly songs? Tick. A stern Mother Superior at a drab Catholic girls' boarding school? Tick. Impractical husbands and longsuffering wives? A score featuring wordless, ethereal female vocals? To be sure, to be sure. There are no banshees, but there do appear to be ghosts. There's also some spectacular scenery, gorgeously shot by Damien Elliott. The story begins in the 1970s. One day at the office, civil servant William Coughlin (Pierce Brosnan) has an epiphany and chucks in his job to become a painter. He abruptly leaves his wife Bette (Imelda May) and son Nicholas (Fionn O'Shea) to head west, leaving them bewildered and poor: Bette never recovers from the shock, and William comes and goes as he pleases. Meanwhile, on the island where William goes to paint, Isabel (Ann Skelly) is helping to care for her brother Sean (Donal Finn), who's wheelchair-bound and mute after a stroke. Isabel's parents - schoolteacher Muiris (Gabriel Byrne) and mother Margaret (Helena Bonham Carter) - send her off to a boarding school but she runs away and takes up with Peadar (Ferdia Walsh-Peelo), a musician with a car. He's an underdeveloped character, essentially a plot contrivance to complicate things between Nicholas and Isabel, but he's not a cardboard cad. Williams and experienced director Polly Steele (Let Me Go) do a fair job of juggling the moves between time and place but sometimes important elements - like a painting by William that plays a crucial role - aren't dealt with as clearly or skilfully as they should be. As mentioned, it takes a long time for Nicholas and Isabel to meet, after a near miss or two, and their falling in love feels rather too rushed and underplayed. Not that the full gushing Hollywood treatment was needed but the handling seems clumsy. The way Nicholas is kept around for story purposes isn't entirely convincing either. There's an air of muted fatalism about things: people don't seem to get too passionate or upset. The film benefits from a fine cast. O'Shea was very likeable in the heartwarming boarding-school drama Handsome Devil (in which he starred with Nicholas Galitzine) and, playing a fairly subdued character here, is a sympathetic hero throughout. Skelly is also very good: you hope things will end well for them. Brosnan seems slightly odd casting as a scruffy bohemian but he and the other veterans are good to have around. Romantic dramas can end happily or tragically, hopefully or bittersweetly: without spoiling the film, the ending doesn't seem entirely clear, which is a little frustrating. But the painting, when finally viewed, does have some impact. It, like the film, could have had more. Truman Capote wrote, "More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones." In this film, God seems to be playing with that idea, toying with people's hopes and dreams and lives, giving them inspiration that leads to suffering, and granting at least some wishes but with a twist or a capricious sense of timing. Or maybe it's all down to some other kind of supernatural goings-on, or to fate. Or, if you're not into such metaphysical speculations, maybe things like coincidence just happen. This Irish romantic drama takes its sweet time to unfold and then crams a lot towards the end in a rush that hinders, rather than enhances, its impact. We have to wait a long time before the young lovers even meet, and even longer to discover what the title means. Niall Williams adapted his own novel: it's his first movie script, and the task might have been better entrusted to a screenwriter with more experience and objectivity. Four Letters of Love is also full of cliches from the Emerald Isle and from movies set there. Dancing merry jigs to jolly songs? Tick. A stern Mother Superior at a drab Catholic girls' boarding school? Tick. Impractical husbands and longsuffering wives? A score featuring wordless, ethereal female vocals? To be sure, to be sure. There are no banshees, but there do appear to be ghosts. There's also some spectacular scenery, gorgeously shot by Damien Elliott. The story begins in the 1970s. One day at the office, civil servant William Coughlin (Pierce Brosnan) has an epiphany and chucks in his job to become a painter. He abruptly leaves his wife Bette (Imelda May) and son Nicholas (Fionn O'Shea) to head west, leaving them bewildered and poor: Bette never recovers from the shock, and William comes and goes as he pleases. Meanwhile, on the island where William goes to paint, Isabel (Ann Skelly) is helping to care for her brother Sean (Donal Finn), who's wheelchair-bound and mute after a stroke. Isabel's parents - schoolteacher Muiris (Gabriel Byrne) and mother Margaret (Helena Bonham Carter) - send her off to a boarding school but she runs away and takes up with Peadar (Ferdia Walsh-Peelo), a musician with a car. He's an underdeveloped character, essentially a plot contrivance to complicate things between Nicholas and Isabel, but he's not a cardboard cad. Williams and experienced director Polly Steele (Let Me Go) do a fair job of juggling the moves between time and place but sometimes important elements - like a painting by William that plays a crucial role - aren't dealt with as clearly or skilfully as they should be. As mentioned, it takes a long time for Nicholas and Isabel to meet, after a near miss or two, and their falling in love feels rather too rushed and underplayed. Not that the full gushing Hollywood treatment was needed but the handling seems clumsy. The way Nicholas is kept around for story purposes isn't entirely convincing either. There's an air of muted fatalism about things: people don't seem to get too passionate or upset. The film benefits from a fine cast. O'Shea was very likeable in the heartwarming boarding-school drama Handsome Devil (in which he starred with Nicholas Galitzine) and, playing a fairly subdued character here, is a sympathetic hero throughout. Skelly is also very good: you hope things will end well for them. Brosnan seems slightly odd casting as a scruffy bohemian but he and the other veterans are good to have around. Romantic dramas can end happily or tragically, hopefully or bittersweetly: without spoiling the film, the ending doesn't seem entirely clear, which is a little frustrating. But the painting, when finally viewed, does have some impact. It, like the film, could have had more. Truman Capote wrote, "More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones." In this film, God seems to be playing with that idea, toying with people's hopes and dreams and lives, giving them inspiration that leads to suffering, and granting at least some wishes but with a twist or a capricious sense of timing. Or maybe it's all down to some other kind of supernatural goings-on, or to fate. Or, if you're not into such metaphysical speculations, maybe things like coincidence just happen. This Irish romantic drama takes its sweet time to unfold and then crams a lot towards the end in a rush that hinders, rather than enhances, its impact. We have to wait a long time before the young lovers even meet, and even longer to discover what the title means. Niall Williams adapted his own novel: it's his first movie script, and the task might have been better entrusted to a screenwriter with more experience and objectivity. Four Letters of Love is also full of cliches from the Emerald Isle and from movies set there. Dancing merry jigs to jolly songs? Tick. A stern Mother Superior at a drab Catholic girls' boarding school? Tick. Impractical husbands and longsuffering wives? A score featuring wordless, ethereal female vocals? To be sure, to be sure. There are no banshees, but there do appear to be ghosts. There's also some spectacular scenery, gorgeously shot by Damien Elliott. The story begins in the 1970s. One day at the office, civil servant William Coughlin (Pierce Brosnan) has an epiphany and chucks in his job to become a painter. He abruptly leaves his wife Bette (Imelda May) and son Nicholas (Fionn O'Shea) to head west, leaving them bewildered and poor: Bette never recovers from the shock, and William comes and goes as he pleases. Meanwhile, on the island where William goes to paint, Isabel (Ann Skelly) is helping to care for her brother Sean (Donal Finn), who's wheelchair-bound and mute after a stroke. Isabel's parents - schoolteacher Muiris (Gabriel Byrne) and mother Margaret (Helena Bonham Carter) - send her off to a boarding school but she runs away and takes up with Peadar (Ferdia Walsh-Peelo), a musician with a car. He's an underdeveloped character, essentially a plot contrivance to complicate things between Nicholas and Isabel, but he's not a cardboard cad. Williams and experienced director Polly Steele (Let Me Go) do a fair job of juggling the moves between time and place but sometimes important elements - like a painting by William that plays a crucial role - aren't dealt with as clearly or skilfully as they should be. As mentioned, it takes a long time for Nicholas and Isabel to meet, after a near miss or two, and their falling in love feels rather too rushed and underplayed. Not that the full gushing Hollywood treatment was needed but the handling seems clumsy. The way Nicholas is kept around for story purposes isn't entirely convincing either. There's an air of muted fatalism about things: people don't seem to get too passionate or upset. The film benefits from a fine cast. O'Shea was very likeable in the heartwarming boarding-school drama Handsome Devil (in which he starred with Nicholas Galitzine) and, playing a fairly subdued character here, is a sympathetic hero throughout. Skelly is also very good: you hope things will end well for them. Brosnan seems slightly odd casting as a scruffy bohemian but he and the other veterans are good to have around. Romantic dramas can end happily or tragically, hopefully or bittersweetly: without spoiling the film, the ending doesn't seem entirely clear, which is a little frustrating. But the painting, when finally viewed, does have some impact. It, like the film, could have had more. Truman Capote wrote, "More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones." In this film, God seems to be playing with that idea, toying with people's hopes and dreams and lives, giving them inspiration that leads to suffering, and granting at least some wishes but with a twist or a capricious sense of timing. Or maybe it's all down to some other kind of supernatural goings-on, or to fate. Or, if you're not into such metaphysical speculations, maybe things like coincidence just happen. This Irish romantic drama takes its sweet time to unfold and then crams a lot towards the end in a rush that hinders, rather than enhances, its impact. We have to wait a long time before the young lovers even meet, and even longer to discover what the title means. Niall Williams adapted his own novel: it's his first movie script, and the task might have been better entrusted to a screenwriter with more experience and objectivity. Four Letters of Love is also full of cliches from the Emerald Isle and from movies set there. Dancing merry jigs to jolly songs? Tick. A stern Mother Superior at a drab Catholic girls' boarding school? Tick. Impractical husbands and longsuffering wives? A score featuring wordless, ethereal female vocals? To be sure, to be sure. There are no banshees, but there do appear to be ghosts. There's also some spectacular scenery, gorgeously shot by Damien Elliott. The story begins in the 1970s. One day at the office, civil servant William Coughlin (Pierce Brosnan) has an epiphany and chucks in his job to become a painter. He abruptly leaves his wife Bette (Imelda May) and son Nicholas (Fionn O'Shea) to head west, leaving them bewildered and poor: Bette never recovers from the shock, and William comes and goes as he pleases. Meanwhile, on the island where William goes to paint, Isabel (Ann Skelly) is helping to care for her brother Sean (Donal Finn), who's wheelchair-bound and mute after a stroke. Isabel's parents - schoolteacher Muiris (Gabriel Byrne) and mother Margaret (Helena Bonham Carter) - send her off to a boarding school but she runs away and takes up with Peadar (Ferdia Walsh-Peelo), a musician with a car. He's an underdeveloped character, essentially a plot contrivance to complicate things between Nicholas and Isabel, but he's not a cardboard cad. Williams and experienced director Polly Steele (Let Me Go) do a fair job of juggling the moves between time and place but sometimes important elements - like a painting by William that plays a crucial role - aren't dealt with as clearly or skilfully as they should be. As mentioned, it takes a long time for Nicholas and Isabel to meet, after a near miss or two, and their falling in love feels rather too rushed and underplayed. Not that the full gushing Hollywood treatment was needed but the handling seems clumsy. The way Nicholas is kept around for story purposes isn't entirely convincing either. There's an air of muted fatalism about things: people don't seem to get too passionate or upset. The film benefits from a fine cast. O'Shea was very likeable in the heartwarming boarding-school drama Handsome Devil (in which he starred with Nicholas Galitzine) and, playing a fairly subdued character here, is a sympathetic hero throughout. Skelly is also very good: you hope things will end well for them. Brosnan seems slightly odd casting as a scruffy bohemian but he and the other veterans are good to have around. Romantic dramas can end happily or tragically, hopefully or bittersweetly: without spoiling the film, the ending doesn't seem entirely clear, which is a little frustrating. But the painting, when finally viewed, does have some impact. It, like the film, could have had more.
The Advertiser
11 hours ago
- The Advertiser
What makes a song 'Australian'? Triple J's Hottest 100 reignites bigger question
On July 26, Triple J will broadcast the Hottest 100 Australian Songs, as voted by the public. While predictions for winners and even preemptive complaining about the shortlist are taking up column space and social media posts, there is an underlying question: what we mean when we talk about "Australian songs"? Do these songs sound a particular way? Do they express something about what it means to be Australian? Or is it purely about where the artist was born? Importantly, how will each of these factors influence voting? Musical cultures with their own unique sounds have existed on this continent for tens of thousands of years. The sound of the didgeridoo is often used as a shorthand to signify Australianness in films, television and, to a lesser extent, popular songs. However, the history of dispossession and genocidal practices that have accompanied settlement in Australia means much has been lost from these musical traditions. Indigenous performers have been actively excluded from the same music-making spaces where other songs we think of as "Australian" have been created. Since British colonisation in the late 18th century, Australian music has also been part of global music flows. Settlers arrived with songs and musical influences from their own cultures. Jazz, country, rock and pop inspired local versions of these genres. But is there anything truly Australian about such music, or is it just imitation? And this conundrum connects to wider issues of Australia's identity debated during the 20th century: was it a country, or still just a colony? Back in the 1970s, this question was also on then prime minister Gough Whitlams's mind. After his election in 1972, Whitlam gave a huge boost to funding for cultural and creative activities to "help establish and express an Australian identity through the arts", as part of a suite of nation-building activities. The dirty guitar sounds of the pub rock scene of the 1970s, with its associated subcultures, are sometimes said to be Australia's first distinct offering in post-rock 'n' roll music. This was followed by the rise of bands such as Midnight Oil and Cold Chisel, who found success not just by drawing on more local sounds, but also by referencing Australian places, politics and cultures. The Whitlam government's broadcasting reforms meant this music had homes on community radio and the new youth station 2JJ (now Triple J). The bands from this era have come to make up what might be described as the Oz rock canon - a collection of works seen to make up the "best" of the art form. Canons exert a strong influence over how we assess music, meaning these bands will probably appear in tomorrow's countdown. This idea of the rock canon is almost perfectly reflected in the ten entries by Prime Minister Anthony Albanese to tomorrow's countdown. His selection of almost 100% white male musicians encapsulates the exclusionary nature rock of this period. The fact that our last two prime ministers, despite being from opposite sides of politics, produced very similar lists, gives us insight into the persistence of this canon, and what ideas about "Australian culture" circulate in the halls of power. It's questionable whether any of the bands or songs on Albanese's list could be said to have a coherent "Australian" sound, yet they have come to hold a place in the national imagination. Triple J's Hottest 100 of All Time in 2009 was seen as a surprising recapitulation of the (male) rock canon, especially given the station's otherwise diverse playlists. However, the highest-placed Australian song on the list was The Nosebleed Section by Hilltop Hoods, representing the recent and rapid rise of Aussie hip-hop. The 2011 Hottest 100 Australian Albums of All Time (the closest forerunner to the current poll) further updated the canon, with Powderfinger's Odyssey Number Five (2000) in the top spot, and other top ten entries by electronic groups The Presets and The Avalanches. Nonetheless, the canon remained male dominated, with the highest woman-fronted album being Missy Higgins's The Sound of White (2004) at number 29. The past decade has seen a boom in Indigenous representation on Australian airwaves and stages, with artists such as Thelma Plum, Barkaa, A.B. Original and Baker Boy. These artists use a range of genres and styles to express pride in their Indigeneity, and critique Australian identity. A.B. Original's song January 26 was number 17 in 2016's Hottest 100 countdown. This was also the last year Triple J chose this date for its annual broadcast, speaking to the power of music to reflect - and even inform - popular sentiment. Given recent national debates, a strong contender for the upcoming poll is Treaty (Radio Mix) by Yothu Yindi (which ranked number 11 of all time in 1991). These shifts show how canons can be unsettled over time. Recently, Creative Australia came under fire for trying to stifle Khaled Sabsabi's politically-informed art in the interests of "social cohesion". But others pointed out art provides crucial space for challenging prevailing ideas, and that social cohesion in a democracy is not about reaching complete agreement, but being able to handle disagreement. A Hottest 100 that reflects the diversity and even the tensions in Australian society may provoke arguments, but it is in these spaces that we can reflect on what it means to live on these lands. On July 26, Triple J will broadcast the Hottest 100 Australian Songs, as voted by the public. While predictions for winners and even preemptive complaining about the shortlist are taking up column space and social media posts, there is an underlying question: what we mean when we talk about "Australian songs"? Do these songs sound a particular way? Do they express something about what it means to be Australian? Or is it purely about where the artist was born? Importantly, how will each of these factors influence voting? Musical cultures with their own unique sounds have existed on this continent for tens of thousands of years. The sound of the didgeridoo is often used as a shorthand to signify Australianness in films, television and, to a lesser extent, popular songs. However, the history of dispossession and genocidal practices that have accompanied settlement in Australia means much has been lost from these musical traditions. Indigenous performers have been actively excluded from the same music-making spaces where other songs we think of as "Australian" have been created. Since British colonisation in the late 18th century, Australian music has also been part of global music flows. Settlers arrived with songs and musical influences from their own cultures. Jazz, country, rock and pop inspired local versions of these genres. But is there anything truly Australian about such music, or is it just imitation? And this conundrum connects to wider issues of Australia's identity debated during the 20th century: was it a country, or still just a colony? Back in the 1970s, this question was also on then prime minister Gough Whitlams's mind. After his election in 1972, Whitlam gave a huge boost to funding for cultural and creative activities to "help establish and express an Australian identity through the arts", as part of a suite of nation-building activities. The dirty guitar sounds of the pub rock scene of the 1970s, with its associated subcultures, are sometimes said to be Australia's first distinct offering in post-rock 'n' roll music. This was followed by the rise of bands such as Midnight Oil and Cold Chisel, who found success not just by drawing on more local sounds, but also by referencing Australian places, politics and cultures. The Whitlam government's broadcasting reforms meant this music had homes on community radio and the new youth station 2JJ (now Triple J). The bands from this era have come to make up what might be described as the Oz rock canon - a collection of works seen to make up the "best" of the art form. Canons exert a strong influence over how we assess music, meaning these bands will probably appear in tomorrow's countdown. This idea of the rock canon is almost perfectly reflected in the ten entries by Prime Minister Anthony Albanese to tomorrow's countdown. His selection of almost 100% white male musicians encapsulates the exclusionary nature rock of this period. The fact that our last two prime ministers, despite being from opposite sides of politics, produced very similar lists, gives us insight into the persistence of this canon, and what ideas about "Australian culture" circulate in the halls of power. It's questionable whether any of the bands or songs on Albanese's list could be said to have a coherent "Australian" sound, yet they have come to hold a place in the national imagination. Triple J's Hottest 100 of All Time in 2009 was seen as a surprising recapitulation of the (male) rock canon, especially given the station's otherwise diverse playlists. However, the highest-placed Australian song on the list was The Nosebleed Section by Hilltop Hoods, representing the recent and rapid rise of Aussie hip-hop. The 2011 Hottest 100 Australian Albums of All Time (the closest forerunner to the current poll) further updated the canon, with Powderfinger's Odyssey Number Five (2000) in the top spot, and other top ten entries by electronic groups The Presets and The Avalanches. Nonetheless, the canon remained male dominated, with the highest woman-fronted album being Missy Higgins's The Sound of White (2004) at number 29. The past decade has seen a boom in Indigenous representation on Australian airwaves and stages, with artists such as Thelma Plum, Barkaa, A.B. Original and Baker Boy. These artists use a range of genres and styles to express pride in their Indigeneity, and critique Australian identity. A.B. Original's song January 26 was number 17 in 2016's Hottest 100 countdown. This was also the last year Triple J chose this date for its annual broadcast, speaking to the power of music to reflect - and even inform - popular sentiment. Given recent national debates, a strong contender for the upcoming poll is Treaty (Radio Mix) by Yothu Yindi (which ranked number 11 of all time in 1991). These shifts show how canons can be unsettled over time. Recently, Creative Australia came under fire for trying to stifle Khaled Sabsabi's politically-informed art in the interests of "social cohesion". But others pointed out art provides crucial space for challenging prevailing ideas, and that social cohesion in a democracy is not about reaching complete agreement, but being able to handle disagreement. A Hottest 100 that reflects the diversity and even the tensions in Australian society may provoke arguments, but it is in these spaces that we can reflect on what it means to live on these lands. On July 26, Triple J will broadcast the Hottest 100 Australian Songs, as voted by the public. While predictions for winners and even preemptive complaining about the shortlist are taking up column space and social media posts, there is an underlying question: what we mean when we talk about "Australian songs"? Do these songs sound a particular way? Do they express something about what it means to be Australian? Or is it purely about where the artist was born? Importantly, how will each of these factors influence voting? Musical cultures with their own unique sounds have existed on this continent for tens of thousands of years. The sound of the didgeridoo is often used as a shorthand to signify Australianness in films, television and, to a lesser extent, popular songs. However, the history of dispossession and genocidal practices that have accompanied settlement in Australia means much has been lost from these musical traditions. Indigenous performers have been actively excluded from the same music-making spaces where other songs we think of as "Australian" have been created. Since British colonisation in the late 18th century, Australian music has also been part of global music flows. Settlers arrived with songs and musical influences from their own cultures. Jazz, country, rock and pop inspired local versions of these genres. But is there anything truly Australian about such music, or is it just imitation? And this conundrum connects to wider issues of Australia's identity debated during the 20th century: was it a country, or still just a colony? Back in the 1970s, this question was also on then prime minister Gough Whitlams's mind. After his election in 1972, Whitlam gave a huge boost to funding for cultural and creative activities to "help establish and express an Australian identity through the arts", as part of a suite of nation-building activities. The dirty guitar sounds of the pub rock scene of the 1970s, with its associated subcultures, are sometimes said to be Australia's first distinct offering in post-rock 'n' roll music. This was followed by the rise of bands such as Midnight Oil and Cold Chisel, who found success not just by drawing on more local sounds, but also by referencing Australian places, politics and cultures. The Whitlam government's broadcasting reforms meant this music had homes on community radio and the new youth station 2JJ (now Triple J). The bands from this era have come to make up what might be described as the Oz rock canon - a collection of works seen to make up the "best" of the art form. Canons exert a strong influence over how we assess music, meaning these bands will probably appear in tomorrow's countdown. This idea of the rock canon is almost perfectly reflected in the ten entries by Prime Minister Anthony Albanese to tomorrow's countdown. His selection of almost 100% white male musicians encapsulates the exclusionary nature rock of this period. The fact that our last two prime ministers, despite being from opposite sides of politics, produced very similar lists, gives us insight into the persistence of this canon, and what ideas about "Australian culture" circulate in the halls of power. It's questionable whether any of the bands or songs on Albanese's list could be said to have a coherent "Australian" sound, yet they have come to hold a place in the national imagination. Triple J's Hottest 100 of All Time in 2009 was seen as a surprising recapitulation of the (male) rock canon, especially given the station's otherwise diverse playlists. However, the highest-placed Australian song on the list was The Nosebleed Section by Hilltop Hoods, representing the recent and rapid rise of Aussie hip-hop. The 2011 Hottest 100 Australian Albums of All Time (the closest forerunner to the current poll) further updated the canon, with Powderfinger's Odyssey Number Five (2000) in the top spot, and other top ten entries by electronic groups The Presets and The Avalanches. Nonetheless, the canon remained male dominated, with the highest woman-fronted album being Missy Higgins's The Sound of White (2004) at number 29. The past decade has seen a boom in Indigenous representation on Australian airwaves and stages, with artists such as Thelma Plum, Barkaa, A.B. Original and Baker Boy. These artists use a range of genres and styles to express pride in their Indigeneity, and critique Australian identity. A.B. Original's song January 26 was number 17 in 2016's Hottest 100 countdown. This was also the last year Triple J chose this date for its annual broadcast, speaking to the power of music to reflect - and even inform - popular sentiment. Given recent national debates, a strong contender for the upcoming poll is Treaty (Radio Mix) by Yothu Yindi (which ranked number 11 of all time in 1991). These shifts show how canons can be unsettled over time. Recently, Creative Australia came under fire for trying to stifle Khaled Sabsabi's politically-informed art in the interests of "social cohesion". But others pointed out art provides crucial space for challenging prevailing ideas, and that social cohesion in a democracy is not about reaching complete agreement, but being able to handle disagreement. A Hottest 100 that reflects the diversity and even the tensions in Australian society may provoke arguments, but it is in these spaces that we can reflect on what it means to live on these lands. On July 26, Triple J will broadcast the Hottest 100 Australian Songs, as voted by the public. While predictions for winners and even preemptive complaining about the shortlist are taking up column space and social media posts, there is an underlying question: what we mean when we talk about "Australian songs"? Do these songs sound a particular way? Do they express something about what it means to be Australian? Or is it purely about where the artist was born? Importantly, how will each of these factors influence voting? Musical cultures with their own unique sounds have existed on this continent for tens of thousands of years. The sound of the didgeridoo is often used as a shorthand to signify Australianness in films, television and, to a lesser extent, popular songs. However, the history of dispossession and genocidal practices that have accompanied settlement in Australia means much has been lost from these musical traditions. Indigenous performers have been actively excluded from the same music-making spaces where other songs we think of as "Australian" have been created. Since British colonisation in the late 18th century, Australian music has also been part of global music flows. Settlers arrived with songs and musical influences from their own cultures. Jazz, country, rock and pop inspired local versions of these genres. But is there anything truly Australian about such music, or is it just imitation? And this conundrum connects to wider issues of Australia's identity debated during the 20th century: was it a country, or still just a colony? Back in the 1970s, this question was also on then prime minister Gough Whitlams's mind. After his election in 1972, Whitlam gave a huge boost to funding for cultural and creative activities to "help establish and express an Australian identity through the arts", as part of a suite of nation-building activities. The dirty guitar sounds of the pub rock scene of the 1970s, with its associated subcultures, are sometimes said to be Australia's first distinct offering in post-rock 'n' roll music. This was followed by the rise of bands such as Midnight Oil and Cold Chisel, who found success not just by drawing on more local sounds, but also by referencing Australian places, politics and cultures. The Whitlam government's broadcasting reforms meant this music had homes on community radio and the new youth station 2JJ (now Triple J). The bands from this era have come to make up what might be described as the Oz rock canon - a collection of works seen to make up the "best" of the art form. Canons exert a strong influence over how we assess music, meaning these bands will probably appear in tomorrow's countdown. This idea of the rock canon is almost perfectly reflected in the ten entries by Prime Minister Anthony Albanese to tomorrow's countdown. His selection of almost 100% white male musicians encapsulates the exclusionary nature rock of this period. The fact that our last two prime ministers, despite being from opposite sides of politics, produced very similar lists, gives us insight into the persistence of this canon, and what ideas about "Australian culture" circulate in the halls of power. It's questionable whether any of the bands or songs on Albanese's list could be said to have a coherent "Australian" sound, yet they have come to hold a place in the national imagination. Triple J's Hottest 100 of All Time in 2009 was seen as a surprising recapitulation of the (male) rock canon, especially given the station's otherwise diverse playlists. However, the highest-placed Australian song on the list was The Nosebleed Section by Hilltop Hoods, representing the recent and rapid rise of Aussie hip-hop. The 2011 Hottest 100 Australian Albums of All Time (the closest forerunner to the current poll) further updated the canon, with Powderfinger's Odyssey Number Five (2000) in the top spot, and other top ten entries by electronic groups The Presets and The Avalanches. Nonetheless, the canon remained male dominated, with the highest woman-fronted album being Missy Higgins's The Sound of White (2004) at number 29. The past decade has seen a boom in Indigenous representation on Australian airwaves and stages, with artists such as Thelma Plum, Barkaa, A.B. Original and Baker Boy. These artists use a range of genres and styles to express pride in their Indigeneity, and critique Australian identity. A.B. Original's song January 26 was number 17 in 2016's Hottest 100 countdown. This was also the last year Triple J chose this date for its annual broadcast, speaking to the power of music to reflect - and even inform - popular sentiment. Given recent national debates, a strong contender for the upcoming poll is Treaty (Radio Mix) by Yothu Yindi (which ranked number 11 of all time in 1991). These shifts show how canons can be unsettled over time. Recently, Creative Australia came under fire for trying to stifle Khaled Sabsabi's politically-informed art in the interests of "social cohesion". But others pointed out art provides crucial space for challenging prevailing ideas, and that social cohesion in a democracy is not about reaching complete agreement, but being able to handle disagreement. A Hottest 100 that reflects the diversity and even the tensions in Australian society may provoke arguments, but it is in these spaces that we can reflect on what it means to live on these lands.
SBS Australia
12 hours ago
- SBS Australia
SBS Gujarati Australian update: 25 July 2025
SBS Gujarati is a part of SBS South Asian, the destination channel for all South Asians living in Australia. Tune in to SBS Gujarati live on Wednesdays and Fridays at 2pm on SBS South Asian on digital radio, on channel 305 on your television, via the SBS Audio app or stream from our website . You can also enjoy programs in 10 South Asian languages, plus SBS Spice content in English. It is also available on SBS On Demand
