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Irish Times
10-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Times
Live Aid at 40: Bob Geldof emerges from this less sanitised version of events seeming somehow more admirable
For the past four weeks the Irish-language music series An Ghig Mhór (RTÉ One, Monday) has chronicled the fortunes of various up-and-coming musical acts as they put on a big gig in their hometown with help from veteran artists such as the folk singer John Spillane and Rónán Ó Snodaigh of Kíla. This week's subjects are the Connemara band Na hEasógaí, who fuse sean-nós with contemporary rock, and say they take their name from the seanfhocal 'chomh craiceáilte le mála easóg', or 'mad as a bag of weasels', on the grounds that they, themselves, are 'a bit mad'. If one were moved to pick holes in this self-diagnosis, the show provides many opportunities. As we watch them discuss their craft, scope out venues and attempt to negotiate a generator for a knockdown rate, Na hEasógaí appear to be almost parodically well-adjusted young men. Quiet, diligent and suffused with altar-boy politeness, they're a charming trio, filled with wide-eyed delight at the prospect of staging their first big gig, whether that be in a gym with coin-slot power supply or in a distinctly malodorous fish factory. READ MORE To aid them in this endeavour they are joined by Tebi Rex, a Maynooth rap duo who quickly find themselves beguiled by the band's earnestness and dedication, even if the two groups' musical leanings appear to share little common ground. What follows is an amiable journey towards what might be termed nanostardom, in which the band scout stages and transport for the gig, and attempt to drum up publicity by handing out flyers dressed (somewhat) like weasels. An Gig Mhór: Na hEasógaí. Photograph: RTÉ It is, in short, a microcosm of the scrabble and indignity involved in promoting your art as a young person, but also of the irreducible thrill of so doing. It's not exactly punk film-making, and anyone looking for a whiskey-soaked, blood-splattered paean to hardcore DIY music would do better returning to their battered copies of Legs McNeil's Please Kill Me or Simon Reynolds's Rip It Up and Start Again. This is resolutely gentle telly, filmed with all the anarchic energy of a weather forecast, but its style and tone work well for what is, essentially, a disarmingly astute chronicle of the admin and obstacles for any kid out there with three chords in their head and a couple of pals to play them with. In the 20 years since I last found myself palling around with teenage friends, trying to put on gigs featuring our (much worse) music, it's alarming to see how much, and how little, has really changed. The tyranny of Spotify followers and the spectre of venue closures haunt this younger generation in ways we never had to deal with, providing umpteen hurdles that seem wearily intractable for those of us whose musical lives and deaths belong to a predigital age. But the central dilemma of putting your art in front of people seems as familiar as ever, even in a show that gets around most of these problems by having an RTÉ film crew and a successful rap group take on some of the heavy lifting. None of this dims Na hEasógaí's passion at any stage, of course, and they charge through technical difficulties and venue changes with an unbreakable belief that their audience will be found, and that they'll be left satisfied. Maybe that resolve comes from youth, or perhaps you really do have to be mad as a box of weasels to believe it, but An Ghig Mhór is here to tell us that if you build it, they will come. At the risk of placing their efforts in the ha'penny place, it's 40 years this week since another self-possessed Irish man called around a few pals and decided to put a gig together. You might be forgiven for thinking we didn't need another documentary about Live Aid, the seminal movement of records, concerts and fundraising that has since begat dozens of anniversary events and releases, and at least as many films, dramatic re-enactments and, last year, a jukebox musical on the West End stage. But Live Aid at 40: When Rock'n'Roll Took on the World (BBC Two, Sunday) makes a compelling case for just one more go around one of the best-documented events in cultural memory. The early beats of this series – the first two parts of which aired last week, with another to air this Sunday – will be familiar to anyone who has been alive for the past four decades: Bob Geldof's visceral reaction to Michael Buerk's reporting from the Ethiopian famine in 1984; the slow but steady progress of turning that disgust into an unprecedentedly large charitable venture; and the artistic and logistical challenge of corralling the world's biggest pop stars into both a 'check your egos at the door' supergroup and the most ambitious series of live concerts ever mounted. Where this series differs is in its slightly more holistic approach to the story, placing the experiences of Ethiopians somewhat closer to centre stage and examining, if patchily, the broader context of international uninterest, cold-war politics and distribution issues that complicated relief efforts at the time. We hear from figures as diverse as an Ethiopian farmer, Woldu Menameno; Dawit Wolde Giorgis, an Ethiopian aid minister; and Rony Brauman of Médecins Sans Frontières – none of whom, thankfully, has much to say about the perils of getting Boy George on a Concorde from New York so he can make it to the studio in time to sing on the Band Aid single. Instead they offer refreshingly clear-eyed critiques of the movement's messaging and the occasional, and irrefutable, paternalism with which it was enacted, not least Geldof's sweary interactions with Ethiopian government figures, the questionable absence of black artists from Live Aid's Wembley shows and the titular query posed by Band Aid's seminal Christmas number one. Was it tactful, we may reasonably ask, to wonder whether people in Ethiopia, perhaps the oldest Christian nation on the planet, knew when Christmas was? Even amid the story's better-known early beats, there's stuff here I'd not previously seen. Geldof's tale of attending a swanky soiree in London shortly after first seeing Buerk's reporting is one I've heard before. I had not, however, seen footage of this very party, in which he can clearly be overheard saying, in real time, how 'gross' it is to be eating canapes with socialites while others elsewhere starve. Seeing it in the flesh seems absurd, a moment in time so weighted with everything that came after, it almost beggars belief that it was captured. And there is real emotion. At one point in the first episode, Geldof breaks down in tears while recalling the guilt he felt about being marketed as a white saviour during his trip to Ethiopia, when Do They Know It's Christmas? came on the radio. Through tears, he repeats words that feature several times in the programme: 'rage and shame'. Live Aid at 40 is, at times, a survey of Geldof at his most driven and visionary, but also at his most pugnacious, even arrogant; a portrait that deploys fewer of the standard messianic safety nets afforded to him by previous films, and gives his critics, and their context, a valuable right of reply. The result, counterintuitively perhaps, is a series of films that gives audiences greater reason to admire him, and the incredible things Live Aid really did achieve, than a dozen more hagiographical documentaries ever could.
Irish Times
08-07-2025
- Business
- Irish Times
State supports and tax credits required to help struggling Irish musicians, says Imro
State supports, including tax incentives similar to those available to the film industry, should be considered to help the Irish music industry grow and navigate the challenges facing artists in the era of content streaming, the Irish Music Rights Organisation (Imro) has said. Research published by the body on Tuesday revealed that the music industry is worth €1 billion to the Republic's economy annually, supporting more than 13,400 jobs. Based on a nationally representative survey of 1,000 people and a survey of Imro members, the report found that Irish adults spent an average of €757 on music events last year, including festivals and individual concerts. Music fans spent an average of €298 on concerts in high-capacity venues last year and €194 on festivals, Imro said. READ MORE However, two-thirds of survey respondents said the high and growing price of concert tickets is a barrier to gig-going, while almost half cited the accommodation costs as an issue. 'At the heart of this report is a clear truth: Irish people don't just enjoy music – they live it. From packed festival fields to quiet moments with a favourite playlist, music is embedded in our daily lives,' said Imro chairwoman Eleanor McEvoy. 'This heartfelt connection is at the core of our vibrant music culture, but people working in the sector need more than passion to thrive. According to the research, more than 13,400 people are employed in the music industry here, yet just 43 per cent of Imro members surveyed said they had full-time jobs in the sector. Almost 70 per cent said they are reliant on employment in other sectors of the economy to sustain their careers, 'reflecting a widespread dependency on external income sources', the report's authors said. Against this backdrop of financial precarity, Imro said the uneven distribution of streaming income, which means artists and songwriters receive a disproportionately lower share of the revenue relative to the streaming platforms, means mean musicians are struggling to earn sustainable incomes. The body said the Government should look to apply some of the financial strategies that have helped the Irish film industry grow and develop, such as the Section 481 tax credit, to alleviate the financial burden on musicians. The Republic's music industry could also benefit from State intervention at the level of marketing, Imro said, citing the example of the popularity of K-pop and the South Korean government's efforts to export it to a global audience. Imro also wants the Government to put the Basic Income for the Arts, a pilot version of which was unveiled in 2022 and runs until the end of this year, on a permanent footing. Ms McEvoy said musicians must be fairly compensated in the streaming economy and protected from 'emerging risks' like artificial intelligence. 'The recommendations outlined here are not just aspirational, they are essential steps toward a sustainable and equitable future for Irish music, and we look forward to working closely with the Government and the Oireachtas committees to further these recommendations,' she said.
Irish Times
07-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Times
Aistear an ealaíontóra
Foclóir: ildathach – multi-coloured; bástchóta - waistcoat; flúirse – plenty; mothúchán – feeling; glór inmheánach – internal voice; sólás – solace; suaimhneas – calm. Is ait liom leagan beag picteilíneach den amhránaí David Keenan a fheiceáil idir cnaipí an fhísghlaoigh. Tá rud éicint faoin amhránaí atá as alt leis an teicneolaíocht seo. Ach is léir go bhfuil sé ar a chompord ina chistin gheal ildathach agus bástchóta cniotáilte air. 'Táim sách insular,' a deir sé agus muid ag labhairt ar ghréasán ceoil na hÉireann. 'Táim i mo chónaí i gCill Cheannaigh, like! Ach táim an-bhródúil as an sruth Éireannach a ritheann tríd mo scríbhneoireacht.' Scríbhneoir a bhfuil flúirse ar a pheann is ea é. Tá trí albam, chomh maith le dornán singlí, leabhar filíochta, agus clár faisnéise taifeadta aige ó bhí 2020 ann. Chuir sé iontas orm, mar sin, gur bhraith sé go raibh srian air go dtí seo. 'Bhí mé dúnta síos ar bhealach. Ach tá fuinneamh nua san albam nua. Tá draíocht ag baint leis - draíocht sa gceol, mistéir sa gceol – tá sé difriúil an uair seo. Níl an brú céanna ann, an bhfuil a fhios agat?' Ní rún é gur iomaí brú a bhíonn ar ealaíontóirí an lae inniu – costas maireachtála, athruithe teicneolaíochta agus cumarsáide, gnéithe dá saol nach soláthraíonn struchtúr laethúil ná buanseasmhacht - ach is léir go raibh brú inmheánach ag luí air freisin. 'Bhí mé i m'fhear óg nuair a tháinig an chéad albam amach. Ní raibh a fhios agam conas a bheith socair ag an am sin. Bhí mé plúchta ag an mothúchán sin – that you might miss the boat! – go gcaithfidh tú gach rud a chur amach láithreach. 'Tá contúirt ann nuair a dhéanann tú gach rud i d'aonar – ag tour-áil, margaíocht, taifeadadh, gan bhainisteoir, gan léiritheoir – contúirt go mbeidh tú dóite amach. B'shin an riocht ina raibh mé.' I ndiaidh trí albam a thaifeadadh laistigh de thrí bliana, seo an tréimhse ab fhaide ar chaith sé gan ceann a thabhairt ar an saol, ó eisíodh Crude in 2022. 'I mo thuairim táim anseo chun ceol a dhéanamh, scríbhneoireacht a dhéanamh, ach thosaigh mé an t-albam seo trí bliana ó shin - trí bliana ag fás! Tá an chothromaíocht tábhachtach. Is duine mé a bhíonn obsessive, mar sin caithfidh mé a bheith cúramach . . .' Ní albam amháin atá idir lámha aige, ach clár faisnéise freisin. Leanann Focla ar Chanbhás tréimhse 500 lá dá shaol. Filleann an scannán ar a bhaile dúchais i nDún Dealgán, le stair agus miotaseolaíocht na háite a fhiosrú, chomh maith lena stair agus próiseas cruthaitheach féin. 'Mar a deirim sa scannán, bhí mé ag éalú ó mo chuid mothúchán, le deoch, le ceol, ó mhothúcháin a bhí ann ó bhí mé i mo pháiste. Bhí gach rud bunoscionn, fuair cara a bhí sa mbanna liom bás. Nuair a bhíonn na ceolchoirmeacha críochnaithe agus tú ar ais i seomra i d'aonar - tá sé contúirteach.' Ruaigeann sé leochaileacht an nóiméid seo le racht gáirí – 'tá sé ar fad ar an albam nua!' a deir sé, lámha san aer – 'ach no, tá an t-ádh orm na rudaí seo a chur síos ar albam.' Is léir go raibh tionchar ag próiseas taifeadta an scannáin ar a mheon maidir leis an albam úr seo a scríobh. 'Bhí sé crua in áiteanna, mar gheall ar an macántacht a bhí ann, bhí sé deacair ach bhí an t-ádh orm é a dhéanamh. Mothaím níos éadroime ina dhiaidh.' Ní foláir go bhfuil sé dian ar cheoltóir a ghlór a chailleadh, glór inmheánach go fiú. Céard a bhíonn ag teastáil leis an nglór sin a chothú an athuair? 'An leigheas atá sa gceol, agus na sound heads in aice liom. Caint faoin ngortú agus dorchadas. Bhí mé in ann é a chur in amhráin roimhe seo ach ní raibh mé in ann caint mar atáim anois. Bhí náire ann. Mar a deirim bhí sé crua, bhí sé deacair, ar feadh cúpla bliain, ach tá mé fós beo. Tá banna ceoil nua den scoth agam, tá an scannán ar siúl i mBéal Feirste an mhí seo, tá an t-ádh orm, big time.' Tá rómánsaíocht ag baint le stíl Keenan, a thagann leis an rómánsaíocht chultúrtha atá le feiceáil go forleathan le tamall anuas. Lasann rud éicint ann nuair a ardaím an cheist: 'tá teoiric agam faoi seo!' Leagtar cupán caife leis an splanc seo, ach leanann sé á míniú agus an bord á ghlanadh. 'Tá sé cosúil, má bhrathnaíonn tú siar, leis an réabhlóid tionsclaíochta sna 1800idí. Le AI anois, tá imní ar dhaoine. Tá muid ag dul ar ais mar sin ar 'the rise of the occult', ar seances agus ar an miotaseolaíocht, athbheochan na Gaeilge, agus an béaloideas.' Tá ceist na hinteachta saorga á hardú arís agus arís eile i gcomhráite faoin ealaín, ar ndóigh. Tá éiginnteacht maidir lena buntáistí agus go deimhin a baol cultúrtha. Ní mór an meas atá ag David ar an intleacht shaorga: 'caimiléireacht atá ann! Caith aon rud isteach i ChatGPT agus tá scéal agat. Tá muid ceangailte le traidisiúin: na baird, scéalaíocht, seanchas, mar sin AI? No. I'm not having it! Níl aon anam sa bpróiseas sin. Níl aon streachailt ann.' Luann sé go bhfuil aontais bunaithe ag aisteoirí agus scríbhneoirí, agus gur chóir do cheoltóirí amhlaidh a dhéanamh. 'Caithfidh muid rud éigin a dhéanamh anois, beidh sé ar fud na háite i gceann cúpla bliain.' Spás nach féidir leis an intleacht shaorga a líonadh is dócha ná ceolchoirmeacha, ach fiú sna spásanna sin is é an comhluadar, agus comhráite daonna a chothaíonn an t-anam. 'Tráth den saol bhí na gigeanna ar an rud is tábhachtaí, ach tá sé sin difriúil anois freisin. Tá mé níos ciúine. Tá suim agam i ngach rud. Tá mé beo. Tá suim agam sa chomhrá seo, tá suim agam i ngach rud.' Is léir dom ón bhfreagra seo go bhfuil suaimhneas as an nua aimsithe ag David. Tá solas agus sólás le brath uaidh, agus ón gceol nua atá le teacht. Aistear a bhí ann, is léir, ach is cosúil gur ar bhóthar a leasa atá sé anois. 'Thosaigh mé ag ól nuair a bhí mé 13 bliana d'aois. Ag amanna éagsúla bhí mo shaol lán leis an eachtraíocht. Ar feadh cúpla bliain bhí mé sa dorchadas. Agus bhí mé i gcónaí ag obair - fós ag cur amhrán amach - ach bhí mé plódaithe le heagla agus le gortú. Tá sé difriúil inniu, agus mar gheall air sin, mothaím . . . loosey goosey!' Seanscéal nó teacht in inmhe i saol an ealaíontóra atá ann ar bhealach. An tuiscint nó ciall a thagann le haois, nach gá fulaingt don cheird. 'Cheap mé go raibh ort a bheith trom agus dáiríre le bheith i d'ealaíontóir 'ceart', ach is a mhalairt atá fíor, sin atá foghlamtha agam!'
Irish Times
05-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Times
Are You Dancing? Showbands, Popular Music and Memory in Ireland: who, exactly, had the postcolonial attitude here?
Are You Dancing? Showbands, Popular Music and Memory in Ireland Author : Rebecca S Miller ISBN-13 : 978-0253072368 Publisher : Indianapolis University Press Guideline Price : £27.99 In the course of this excellent account of the showband era in Ireland – roughly the mid-1950s to the mid-1970s – Rebecca Miller quotes John Waters to illustrate what was a common attitude among those alive at the time who disdained the entertainment on offer in the dancehalls. Waters suggests that the 'imitative' approach of the showbands was the result of a postcolonial mentality, an inherited sense of 'inferiority, fatalism and self-hatred'. It was an attitude expressed more succinctly by Bob Geldof in the recent RTÉ series, Ballroom Blitz : the showbands were 'crap'. It might be argued that it is Waters' and Geldof's view that is most suggestive of the postcolonial: the belief that the local must be inferior and that modernity – the good stuff – must be found elsewhere. Irish popular music has always had the distinctly mixed blessing of a powerful neighbour. The proximity, particularly through the 1960s and into the 1970s, of the rapidly changing and inventive pop and rock scene in Britain could not but highlight the apparent shortcomings of the native offering. In fact, it was Britain that was the exception – popular music elsewhere was often as focused on entertainment, on competent reproduction of covers, and on versatility as the showband scene in Ireland. READ MORE Miller, who is American, discovered the showbands long after the fact; when booking a festival of traditional Irish music in New York in 1986, a musician told her he wouldn't be available as he was playing with a showband. She was intrigued, and close to 40 years later this book, the fruit of exhaustive archival research and hundreds of interviews, is an admirable example of the best kind of academic writing: fluent, authoritative, free of either nostalgia or embarrassment – and beautifully illustrated. [ Ballrooms of romance: 'I wasn't the greatest dancer but when we danced together it was like it was meant to be' Opens in new window ] She looks closely at the business side; in a society that was underemployed and lacking in industry, the showband industry was a big fish, even if much of the cash went into, as Eamon Carr puts it 'the biscuit tin', and beyond the reach of the Revenue Commissioners. She is revealing also about the social background of the musicians and on the ways in which the expectations of the wider society regarding gender roles played out on stage, backstage and on the dancefloor. Stan Erraught lectures in music at the University of Leeds and is author of Rebel Notes: Popular Music and Conflict in Ireland (Beyond the Pale)
Irish Times
04-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Times
Singer-songwriter Mickey MacConnell dies aged 78
Mickey MacConnell, the singer-songwriter and former Irish Times journalist, has died aged 78. MacConnell described himself as having been born during the 'unparalleled snowstorms of 1947″ into a musical family from Bellanaleck, near Enniskillen in Co Fermanagh . He wrote his most famous song, Only Our Rivers Run Free, as a teenager. A lament for the partition of Ireland, it has been covered by Christy Moore and The Wolfe Tones , among others. 'It was a classic example of the right song in the right place at the right time, recorded by the right artist, Christy Moore,' MacConnell said years later. READ MORE 'I was 17 when I wrote it and had just come back from covering a council meeting for the local paper in my native south Fermanagh full of frustration over the bigotry I witnessed in the meeting, with the allocation of houses to single Protestants over Catholic families. It was never a republican song per se but a song about the love of one's country.' MacConnell went on to release two albums, Peter Pan and Me in 1992 and Joined Up Writing in 2000. The Politician Song, which was on his first album, is a satirical look at the language used by politicians. His close friend Billy Keane described him as one of the finest and most courageous singers of his generation. As a journalist, MacConnell worked first for the Irish Press and later for The Irish Times. He spent many years covering Seanad debates and likened its importance to a 'fart in a hurricane'. 'When working as a journalist in Dublin I was forced to endure many painful hours reporting in the national parliament,' he wrote in the sleeve notes to The Politician Song. 'In those days I had a very good Pitman's shorthand note, and I began to notice how many cliches kept coming up again and again. I gathered them together and wrote this song.' Mickey, Cormac and Cathal Mac Connell at the funeral of their brother, Seán Mac Connell, at the Church of the Divine Word, Rathfarnham. Photograph: Frank Miller He was one of three brothers who worked in the national media: his late brother Seán was The Irish Times' agriculture correspondent; and his brother Cormac worked for the Irish Press and Irish Central, among other publications. MacConnell, who had lived in Listowel, Co Kerry, for many years, is survived by his wife, Maura, daughters Kerry and Claire, a son-in-law, Paddy, and three grandchildren. Seán MacConnell, who was The Irish Times' agriculture correspondent for nearly 20 years, predeceased him in 2013. Cormac MacConnell is also an acclaimed songwriter, having written the song Christmas in the Trenches 1914, which Mickey featured on his Joined Up Writing album. Mickey MacConnell will be reposing at Lyons Funeral Home, Derry, Listowel, on Saturday evening, July 5th, from 5pm to 7.30pm. The removal to Shannon Crematorium takes place on Sunday with a cremation service at 12pm.
