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THE IRISH EYES - N° 95

The March issue is important for the Irish (St Patricks Day), so we have articles on Irish cinema (Breakfast on Pluto), Irish writers (Sam Beckett), Irish music (Noirin Ni Riain), and we reflect on the Titanic with one of the remaining boats the Nomadic. We talk about lap dancing in Dublin and of course Rugby.

Any movie that begins with two robins seated on milk bottles having a subtitled conversation about events taking place inside the suburban house whose milk they're trying to pinch would instantly strike me as being not only on an instant downward slide but already hitting rock bottom. At least that's what I thought as I sat uneasily watching the first few minutes of Neil Jordan's latest movie, Breakfast on Pluto. Surprisingly, the movie not only picked up rapidly after that opening scene, but became better as it went along and finished in realms of pure creative magic. Breakfast on Pluto is the best movie that Neil Jordan has made in years and is arguably one of the best, most original, movies of the past twelve months.
With a few exceptions (The Company of Wolves; Mona Lisa) Neil Jordan's high reputation rests on his Irish-themed movies: Angel (1982), The Crying Game (1992), Michael Collins (1996), and The Butcher Boy (1997). Because of its crossed themes of transvestism with the Troubles, both in Northern Ireland and in London, Breakfast on Pluto has frequently been compared to The Crying Game - and there is a fair degree of accuracy in that comparison. But in truth, this new movie, based on a novel by Patrick McCabe and co-scripted by him (he also has a small role in it), with its extraordinary combination of romanticism, brutality, magic-realism and contemporary fairy tale, is more readily identifiable with The Butcher Boy, also based on a McCabe novel and co-scripted by him. That these collaborations between Jordan and McCabe have produced two exceptional movies may be due to the fact that Jordan, apart from being a talented movie director, is also a novelist and short-story writer of distinction. He and McCabe therefore have much in common.
Breakfast on Pluto is the Candide-like tale of Patrick 'Kitten' Braden who, as a 10-year old boy (Conor McEvoy), abandoned by his mother and living with a tough foster mother in the sexually repressed Ireland of the early 1960s, has developed a fondness for wearing dresses and putting on lipstick. Though shocking not only his mother, but also his Catholic-school superiors and the local community in general, he becomes ever bolder and more openly defiant in his 'perversion', eventually insisting upon being called 'Kitten', a flagrantly feminine nickname. He also chances his arm in his bid for attention by writing a short story, for his school teacher (played by Patrick McCabe), in which he describes himself as the illegitimate offspring of the local priest, Father Bernard (Liam Neeson). This certainly succeeds in getting him more attention, not all of it pleasant.
As he becomes a reed-slim, androgynous, highly seductive teenager (Cillan Murphy), Kitten develops the notion that the mother who abandoned him (Eva Birthistle), whom he calls his 'Phantom Lady', looks like the blonde Hollywood musical star, Mitzi Gaynor, and is living somewhere in London. Determined to find her, he leaves Ireland and makes his way to the swinging London of the 1970s, at a time when the IRA, whose bloody handiwork he had already witnessed in Northern Ireland, has just begun its notorious bombing campaign in that city. Once there, he has a series of relationships with a broad gallery of low-lifers, including a rough-as-guts glam-rock singer (Gavin Friday), who puts him on stage as an Indian squaw back-up singer; a middle-aged club magician and mesmerist (Stephen Rea), who exploits Kitten's passionate desire to find his mother by incorporating it heartlessly into his stage act; a creepy curb-crawler (Brian Ferry) who almost kills him during a brief sexual assignation; and an itinerant Irish actor (Brendan Gleeson) who finds him a short-lived job in a Womble's theme park. Throughout all of these misadventures, which Kitten seems to relish (being determined to avoid 'reality'; refusing to treat anything as 'serious') he is emotionally supported by an attractive black female friend, Charlie (Ruth Negga) who is unhappily involved with an IRA activist (Laurence Kinlan). He is also threatened by the Provos, nearly killed in a pub bombing, brutally beaten up by the Metropolitan police during a lengthy interrogation, and reduced to a period of street prostitution before finding bleak, temporary salvation as a female impersonator in a sleazy peep show. Then he learns where his 'Phantom Lady' is living and decides to pay her a visit...
Breakfast on Pluto is the story of the metamorphosis of a boy into a woman, both in appearance and in personality, and how he (or she) deals with the loss of his (or her) mother, his (or her) abandonment, by becoming another person, inventing another world, and resolutely refusing to acknowledge the real world's brutality and evil. As this hermaphroditic Candide, Cillian Murphy gives a remarkable performance and it is impossible to recognise him as the same actor who played, with equal conviction, the psychopathic terrorist in Red Eye and the dreaded Scarecrow in Batman Begins. In the uniformly excellent supporting cast, Liam Neeson brings his customary, understated decency to the role of Father Bernard, Brendan Gleeson effortlessly commands the screen, rock star Brian Ferry is surprisingly effective as the creepy curb crawler, Stephen Rea gives his best, most extrovert performance in years, and Ruth Negga, as 'Charlie', joins Jordan's list of admirably strong, if sexually ambiguous, females.
Yet finally, this is Neil Jordan's movie, a visual feast of brilliantly directed scenes, some hilarious, others shocking, yet others deeply moving. Amongst the great set pieces are two superbly orchestrated pub rock concerts (the sight of Kitten, dressed as an Indian squaw, duetting with an outrageously attired Billy Hatchet on 'Running Bear' while being backed by the scruffily bizarre Mohawks, is one you won't forget in a hurry), a vividly rendered bomb explosion in a packed London pub, and an obliquely orchestrated, shocking IRA execution. But other, smaller scenes are handled with Jordan's unique flair for combining the grimly realistic with humorous or fantastical elements and understated compassion.
If Breakfast on Pluto has one major failing, it may be, perhaps, that no real development is shown in the characterisation of Cillian Murphy's Kitty, apart from his final decision to live as a woman rather than a man; otherwise, he merely drifts from one event to the next, reacting to brutalisation, love, exploitation and friendship with the same inexplicable equanimity. (Is he saintly or merely insane?) Also, the benevolence shown to him by otherwise malevolent IRA hit-men and brutal Special Branch police officers stretches credibility somewhat. Finally, the division of the movie into thirty-six titled chapters, like a book, seems unnecessary and makes it seem even more episodic than it is; the humour, including the 'chapter' titles, sometimes comes perilously close to the puerile; and some of the earlier, shorter scenes are overwrought and unconvincing. However, these are minor faults in what is otherwise a movie of remarkable, fascinating inventiveness and genuine humanity.
Incidentally, for those interested, the movie's title comes from the lyrics of one of the many 1970's pop songs heard on the fabulous soundtrack: 'We'll fly to the stars... Journey to Mars... And find our breakfast on Pluto...

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SAMUEL BECKETT (1906-2006), THE FRENCH CONNECTION

The history of Paris is littered with the personal histories of the many famous people who have lived there. Amongst those many famous individuals there is quite a smattering of famous Irish personalities (Oscar Wilde, J.M. Synge, Maud Gonne, James Joyce, Countess Markievicz...) but amongst those Irish Parisians few have left more lasting a legacy and more indelible an imprint than Samuel Beckett.
Beckett - the most Parisian of Irishmen or the most Irish of Parisians? This is the question the Irish Eyes asks in this two-part series to mark the centenary of the birth of one of Ireland's greatest literary figures.
The Beckett French Connection truly began in 1928, when upon graduating in Modern Languages from Trinity College Dublin, he was appointed as 'lecteur' at the 'Ecole Normale Supérieure' in the rue d'Ulm. However, the future Nobel laureate was not yet hooked. He returned to Dublin and to his alma mater where he lectured in French, but only briefly, stating that he -"could not stand the absurdity of teaching others that which"- he did not fully understand himself. The lure of Paris and his addiction to things continental were soon to entice him back to mainland Europe and after traveling extensively, he finally settled down in the rue des Favorites, near Montparnasse in 1938.
From this period on, Beckett wrote almost exclusively in French although he translated most of his own work into English. This situation made him an almost unique figure in modern literature - writing in a language which was not his mother tongue in order to free himself of the constraints imposed by that fact and yet re-imposing them himself by working backwards into his native idiom. This situation prompted Ragner Glerow of the Swedish Academy, to announce in the presentation speech of the 1969 Nobel prize for literature that 'a single award (was) being addressed to one man, two languages and a third nation, itself divided': ironic indeed given that Beckett himself had been educated both north and south of the Irish border (Portora, near Enniskillen and Trinity College Dublin).
So Beckett was not unfamiliar with this notion of linguistic and cultural duality. He chose to build upon it and produce an opus of work which transcended even these boundaries and whose implications could be universally applied.
Nonetheless he does appear to have maintained certain traits which clearly defined him as an Irishman. His close friend and English publisher John Calder, confirmed this in a recent interview with 'The Irish Eyes', stating that "what he (Beckett) has to say appeals everywhere but he WAS Irish, his background was Irish, there are constant references to Irish landscapes and so on, which are recognizable to Irish people and a lot of the turns of phrase are Irish... he was a very Irish person himself."
Yet, despite this Irishness, Beckett is considered in France as a national treasure, as an example of what France does best, as the classic illustration of the French author-intellectual with a French slant on universal questions. As such, his work is treated with kid-glove reverence and French directors and actors whilst jumping at the opportunity of working on his plays, treat them in an extraordinarily respectful manner. This distance creates an altogether different relationship with the plays than that of an Irish version. Beckett himself would certainly have been pleased with the notion that his own cultural and linguistic ambiguity should be translated onto the stage itself.

(Next issue's article will deal in greater depth with the question of the different approaches to Beckett's work in his homeland and his adopted land.)

www.imagi-nation.com/moonstruck/clsc7.htm
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NOiRIN NI RAIN... THE THEOLOGY OF LISTENING

Theosony is a word I use for the phenomenon of a listening theology referring to the sacred aural event as it occurs. Theosony is the sound of the soul, the sound of God".
Derived from Greek theos (god) and Latin sonans (sounding), theosony is the inspiration for Biscantorat, Nóirín's 2003 recording with the Benedictine monks of Glenstal Abbey.
"Biscantorat is an aural representation of my theosony studies, the representation of sounds as a means to religious experience from a Christian perspective. Glenstal offered me a hermitage in the Abbey during my doctorate, they were halcyon days, up at 6am for matins, studying and praying all day with the Brothers." To the enchanted listener, Biscantorat is a collection of sounds, voices and music; Latin chants, Irish songs and English hymns. Voices singing together and beyond themselves. "Sinéad O'Connor sings on the album. She was mad to learn chant but didn't want the album to be about her so she's credited as Marie-Bernadette. She got on extremely well with the monks who found her very interesting. It was about then that she gave birth and she dubbed mine 'music to have babies to! John O'Donohue, author of ánam Cara was also extremely helpful in critiquing my work. John is a poet and writes magically."
Since her 1980s trilogy of Glenstal recordings, Nóirín has become synonymous with sacred music. "My singing is for the purpose of prayer. I find it hard to sing secular song, if such a thing exists as theosony professes that every sound is sacred. The ear is a primeval source to the divine and in my life access to the divine has mainly been aural. In theology, the aural importance has been somewhat neglected as theologians centre on the eye and the visual."
The special magic of Nóirín's performance of song and chant, has deep roots and Glenstal Abbey looms large as her inspiration. "All my life I've been drawn to Glenstal. As a young girl I'd creep in at the back to listen to the Brothers chant or prayer." Later she became the first woman to join them in song and spend time in the monastery. Nóirín's musical collaborations at Glenstal include the ethereally beautiful 'The Virgin's Lament' (1979). "The Virgin's Lament was special, my first dialogue with the monks, through traditional religious songs, the oldest on this planet. Every song is a once-off recording, no doctoring, no studio and the sound is the pure reverberation of the Abbey; a prayer experience." Her later album 'Stór Amhrán' (1988) offers an inspired insight into the Irish soul through sean-nós Gaelic song. 'The Darkest Midnight' charts the unique 300 year unbroken tradition of traditional Christmas Carols from Kilmore Quay in Wexford.
Nóirín has just completed a hectic schedule of Brigid's Day (1st Feb) performance. "Brigid is both a 5th century Christian saint and Celtic pagan Goddess. She is revered as one of the Irish Trinity with St. Patrick and St. Columcille, and is also the goddess of fire, her name interpreted as 'fiery arrow'. In 1993 I performed at the rekindling of eternal flame at the Brigidine convent, and this year at President McAleese's lighting the flame in Kildare town centre. Singing at that ceremony was very powerful, a flame which will be kept burning in perpetuity."
Described by Anjelica Huston as "the high priestess Gregorian chant", Nóirín feels that chant has a particular significance today. "Vatican II's, dispensing with Latin was huge mistake because that mystery has disappeared from the mass and chant which is so healing is gone. Today people are searching for depth and spirituality in their lives and I feel it's vital to provide an ambience through sound and singing whereby deeper levels of existence, beauty and being can emerge."
Nóirín finds herself at a cross roads. "I'm on the threshold of my future and I'm praying for discernment, as the Chinese say, 'What you cannot avoid, welcome'. I love writing and Veritas will publish my Theosony book this autumn. The first part will be theological statement and in the second I explain how a person actually goes about hearing the sound of God."
Nóirín never tires of reinventing herself, now singing with her two sons, Eoin and Mícheál in a vocal trilogy, A.M.E.N., "which translates A for Absolute, the Audience, Mícheál, Eoin and me, Muggins!" AMEN is unique in that it sources an embryonic sound. A mother sings and is heard in the womb by her two sons; two male voices harmonise with that same voice. "We've performed at the Edinburgh Festivals 2004, 2005 and FIL, Lorient, 2005."
What seems certain is that Nóirín's life will continue to be associated with Glenstal her spiritual and musical home. "We run the Ausculta workshops, which are for singer and listener alike, drawn to the innate power of sound to transform and surprise the ear of the heart and to exploring the presence of god in ones life. What I love about these workshops is that it's a living forum for chant, you're not in an unnatural setting. In Glenstal chant is part of the monks worship and prayer routine and is performed within its living liturgical context."
High priestess of Gregorian chant, the Mother of Theosony, Sacred music Renaissance woman, Nóirín Ni Riain will continue to inspire and enchant from her Glenstal sanctuary.

www.theosony.com/docs/thesis_abstract.htm

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A BELFAST, GRACE AU NOMANDIC, LE TITANIC REFERA SURFACE

Après avoir transbordé les passagers du Titanic, transféré des soldats pendant les deux guerres, repris du service à Paris en tant que lieu branché et passé ses vieux jours en plein délabrement au Havre, le Nomadic vient d'être racheté par l'Irlande du Nord. Au cœur de l'actualité, le S/S Nomadic, petit frère du Titanic a inspiré un ouvrage éponyme publié chez Isoète par Fabrice Vanhoutte et Philippe Melia.
Le 26 janvier, au Palais de Justice de Paris, l'Irlande du Nord a acheté le Nomadic, vendu aux enchères pour la somme de 250 001 euros.
Cet achat était très attendu par le ministre des Affaires sociales, David Hanson. Depuis décembre, le ministère préparait secrètement une stratégie pour réussir cette acquisition.
Le luxueux ferry construit à Belfast entre 1910 et 1911 par Harland and Wolff tient une place importante dans l'histoire des chantiers navals de la ville et dans celle du vingtième siècle... En tant que transbordeur, ce bateau transportait en pleine mer passagers et bagages vers les paquebots pour les traversées transatlantiques de la White Star Company.
En avril 1912, il achemina au départ de Cherbourg une centaine de passagers du Titanic. Celui-ci sombra lors de sa première et unique traversée vers l'Amérique avec mille cinq cent passagers à son bord.
L'histoire du Nomadic ne faisait que commencer... A la mobilisation en avril 1917, le Nomadic transborda des soldats américains venus débarquer en France. Dans les années 1920, le bateau reprit son service normal et accueillit à son bord des célébrités, entre autres Marie Curie et Douglas Fairbanks.
Vendu en 1933, le Nomadic fut rebaptisé Ingénieur Minard en hommage à un ingénieur cherbourgeois. Puis, la deuxième Guerre mondiale éclata. En mai 1940, l'Ingénieur Minard évacua les soldats et les employés d'une usine vers Portsmouth, en Angleterre, afin d'échapper aux Allemands qui encerclaient les portes de Cherbourg.
A la fin des années soixante, l'existence du Nomadic semblait proche de la fin, et pourtant...
Après avoir transbordé les passagers du Queen Elizabeth en 1968, le bateau rejoignit le port du Havre. Il faillit être un restaurant à Conflans-Sainte-Honorine et fut même sauvagement pillé. L'avenir du Nomadic se faisait de plus en plus incertain si la rencontre avec un agent immobilier n'avait pas eu lieu.
Yvon Vincent cherchait à transformer un bateau en une salle de réceptions. Il acheta le transbordeur qu'il fit amarrer près de la Tour Eiffel en 1974. Pour pouvoir passer sous les ponts, le bateau dut subir certaines transformations ! Les locataires et les enseignes défilèrent : le Nomadic devint le Shogun, un restaurant japonais, ensuite, un restaurant-discothèque, Le Colonial. Il devint enfin Le Transbordeur du Titanic, restaurant qui proposait, suite au succès du film de Cameron, un Menu Titanic !
Dès 2000, le bateau fut entreposé au Havre pour frais impayés au Port Autonome de Paris et parce qu'il n'était plus conforme aux normes de sécurité. Plusieurs tentatives de ventes aux enchères laissèrent le Nomadic en cale sèche jusqu'à la vente de janvier 2006, tant attendue.
En effet, l'acquisition du Nomadic joue un rôle fondamental dans un projet culturel prévu pour 2012 : le Titanic Quarter. Ce quartier, en construction, commémorera le Titanic et l'activité navale de Belfast. Situé dans la zone portuaire, il comportera des logements, des cafés, une reconstitution des chantiers Harland et Wollf et un centre sur le thème du Titanic. Le Nomadic trouvera naturellement sa place dans ce quartier où on attend de nombreux touristes et la création d'emplois pour répondre à la demande...
La ville de Belfast offre une partie du financement de la restauration et l'association The Nomadic Appeal, créée en 2002, récolte des dons. Mais ce vieux bateau n'a pas l'éternité devant lui. Selon David Hanson, si la restauration n'a pas suffisamment avancé d'ici un an et demi, le Nomadic sera revendu avant d'avoir atteint un état de délabrement irréparable...

HISTOIRE
Dans les coulisses du rachat du Nomadic

Finian O'Luasa (BIM) entendit parler du fameux bateau. En 2002, pour louer une péniche, il fit appel à Franck Jouanic qui connaissait Yvon Vincent, le propriétaire du Nomadic, qui n'arrivait pas à payer le loyer au Port autonome de Paris. Qu'allait-il advenir du bateau ? Il risquait de finir à la casse... L'Office de Tourisme d'Irlande averti de la situation, fit le relais. Isabelle Galy-Aché prit contact avec les associations locales afin de faire avancer la situation. Elle alerta Isabel Jennings du Bureau de développement industriel de Belfast. Isabel avait auparavant été une collaboratrice d' Harland and Wollf. La mobilisation pour la sauvegarde du Nomadic commença avec la création du Nomadic Appeal et la signature de pétitions. En 2004, un partenariat avec le Belfast Industrial Heritage fut constitué pour que le bateau puisse revenir en Irlande.

www.titanic-titanic.com/nomadic.shtml

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NO STRINGS ATTACHED

The morals of our nation continue in a steady downward spiral this month, with the top stories in the news lately revolving around the unwholesome activities of lapdancing and money laundering.
Depending on your point of view, Dublin was, on February 1st, dragged into the modern world - or knocked back several decades - with the opening of Peter Stringfellow's first Irish venue. The English nightclub impresario, whose name has become synonymous with just-about-legal bad behaviour and wild nights out for overpaid footballers, launched the Dublin branch of Stringfellow's amid a horde of scantily clad lovelies and, slightly further away, a storm of protest placards and shouts of "Shame on you!" and "Go home to your wives!" to welcome the first clients.
The club's advent was not entirely problem-free, however, and only by becoming a watered down version of its siblings in the UK was it permitted to open at all. The licence hearing in Dublin District Court focused, rather entertainingly, on what precisely would be going on between the dancers and their clients, and only by promising that there would be no lapdancing (or "the application of friction", as defined in court), was Stringfellow finally granted his licence. There are already five lapdancing clubs operating in the Irish capital, so Stringfellow's high media profile seems to have worked against him in this case. For him, it will be a matter of look, but don't touch.
Local residents, naturally, protested against the opening of the club, which is in the Parnell Centre, an entertainment complex in the north inner city. While legitimate concerns that the Stringfellow's clientele might attract more prostitution into the area are convincing enough, it was perhaps a little disingenuous to claim the club would "lower the tone" of the area. The venue was previously the less than lovely Shooters bar, and having myself once lived just round the corner for two years, I can testify that the tone for which the area has long been known is somewhat less than genteel. Stringfellow, meanwhile, promised to be a good neighbour, and also claimed that he would actually be raising the tone, having invested 2 million euro in the venue in the hope of attracting wealthy clients from the business and tourist sector.
Other businesses had their legitimacy questioned, meanwhile, in a huge Garda swoop set up by the Criminal Assets Bureau. The CAB was formed in the wake of the 2004 Northern Bank raid, to investigate the financing of paramilitary activities. Along with their Northern Irish counterparts, the Assets Recovery Agency, their remit is to hunt down the money from this raid - most of which was never recovered - and others like it, and to hit the paramilitary organisations where it hurts, by taking away their funds.
Late in January the CAB seized over 150 boxes of documents in raids on businesses in counties Dublin, Wicklow, Meath and Louth. Among them were at least ten solicitors' and accountants' offices, property companies, a Dublin pub and a well known city centre hotel, just along the street from government buildings, and where my firm, incidentally, had its Christmas drinks.
The CAB says it will take at least six months to go through the thousands of documents seized as part of their investigation into the IRA's proceeds of crime. Gardai believe the IRA made money running fraudulent slot machine operations in London over the last 15 years and they are now trying to link this to the purchase of legitimate businesses. Minister for Justice Michael MacDowell has made no secret of his crusade to go after IRA funding and there have already been arrests made and money seized in Dublin and Cork, in connection with the Northern Bank heist.
Whether, in this case, there is any evidence to be found or any trail to be followed - the Dublin Hotel has changed ownership several times over the last two decades - it and all the other businesses involved have now acquired a taint to their reputations from which it might not be possible ever to recover.

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INTERESTING TIMES
by Michael Adams

We live in interesting times. And a good thing too. Means we might win a bit of money now and then on those outside bets. Consider the weekends of rugby we witnessed in January and February. To start from an Irish point of view, there were some cracking Heineken Cup games. But before I begin, let's go back in time a bit. Namely, back to about mid January. The prevailing thought then was that Ireland had lost its way and had no cohesive game plan to achieve results in the six nations. After all, our autumn season had been 'urine' poor, to quote a colleague. Then came two breath taking matches involving Leinster and Munster. Both needed big results with bonus points to reach the quarter finals. And they both delivered with spades. Suddenly, all of Ireland was dreaming of a renaissance. All that was needed was a welder to fix the Munster pack to the Leinster backs and away we would go.
Well no. That's not enough. We nearly came undone against Italy. We never seem to generate the passion required to dominate them. Mind you, they don't let you play your game. Ireland ran the ball flat-usually a sign of confidence-but encountered ferocious and off-side defence. Most disturbing was the stolen line outs. Ireland looked like the schoolboy bully who has just received a bloody nose early on, and finds himself on the back foot. O'Driscoll and d'Arcy may be singled out for the most fumbles, but in fairness, everyone was nervous and shaky. But we won. England faced a feisty Wales, but over ran them toward the end, and looked to be the favourites for a while. Then there was Scotland versus France. Forget the after game press. France has never learnt to accept that another team has out played them. They always say they played badly, and if it wasn't for that small fact, they would of course have won. Bull'excrement'. Scotland was mighty.
Then came the second weekend. It's an old adage, but it's a game of two halves. Or, if you like, a game of two weekends. Wales dominated Scotland, even if the Scots ran in some late tries to flatter the score. Yes, England beat Italy, but they were pushed. Ireland folded badly to the French in the first half through a series of misfortunes and intercepted passes. They then showed some fighting spirit to score 28 points in the second half. So, teams from the first weekend drastically changed their form in the second, with the sad exception of Ireland.
What predictions to make now? France/England? 50-50. Ireland/Scotland? 50-50. Wales/Italy? Ok, 60-40. But you see what I mean.
Oh, and another bone to pick; Rather than rant on about bad refereeing, and blaming them for defeats-although the Italians may feel duly hard done by; I had my doubts about two of Ireland's tries- I hope that umpires can continue to retain their control over the game in a fair manner. Not that I doubt their integrity, but I question their ability to judge correctly in the seething cauldron of modern rugby. I may have to accede to video referees for a variety of offences, including offside, crossing, releasing the ball and forward passes.
All in all, the tournament is alive again and not just a two horse race. Sure we know who the best are, but they can be beaten on any given day. Interesting times, interesting times.

IRELAND-FRANCE
by RJ Doyle

One of the more underrated qualities of life in Paris is FM radio. How many cities come close to the wealth and richness of stations available here? The French may have invented cinema and dream about being on TV, but they are at home on the radio. News, chat, classical music, jazz, pop, rock, world and ethnic beats, even religious offerings: whether you are cruising in the car or kicking back over drinks on a Friday evening, or just unable to get to sleep, Paris radio will have the tonic for you.
One thing that makes Paris FM unique, of course, is FIP, and its Fipettes-those velvety, sophisticated female voices that softly "moo" and "coo" the traffic news to soothe irate Parisian drivers. Dublin's radio is underdeveloped by comparison. Okay, the national station, RTE compares well with French counterparts, and the discussions on NewsTalk 106 are sharp and engaging. But generally, pop hogs the FM dial. There is certainly not much rock or jazz, and nothing in ethnic beats, either. Lyric FM, a popular classical station, deserves a clap for being there, though it has a slightly haughty and prude air, with none of the verve or flair of Paris's Radio Classique.
Fortunately, thanks to the Internet, you can listen to radio stations from anywhere nowadays. These provide welcome ambience via the desktop at work, and through their archives, you can catch a programme from last week or last year. There are several purpose-built Internet radio stations, but I prefer the real thing. If in Dublin, why not try those irresistible Fipettes? Recently at work, I have been clicking into Danish Radio Jazz, with its smooth, seamless play list. Occasionally there is chat, but in mumbling Danish, so no distraction there.
It was on Internet a few years ago that I happened across what has become one of my favourite radio shows, a programme dedicated to the warmest contemporary chilled out lounge-style sounds on the planet. Lo and behold, it is broadcast not from some Off Boulevard dance cave in Paris or New York, but from Raidio na Gaeltachta, an Irish language station located in the stony mists of Connemara, a paradise somewhere on the other side of the world. How fitting, for the show is called An Tuaibh Tuathail (pronounced On Tou-ive Toohill), meaning "the other side".
And why not? After all, the Internet is footloose and it would be a pity if all it did was reinforce the "pre-e" world. Remarkably, An Taobh Tuathail has been around for nearly seven years now and is starting to reach cult status across Ireland. Founder and presenter Cian ó Cíobháin recalls the early days when he managed to get around a ban on non-Irish lyrics by seeking out exciting new musical sounds and bringing them to Irish audiences. Globalisation met the Gaeltacht; local farmers normally used to listening to scratching fiddles and plaintive banshees, now peeled their spuds to "house, electro, hip-hop, drum'n'bass, techno, post-rock or nu-jazz from across the globe".
Cían's efforts paid off in May 2005 when RTE, in a bid to win new audiences, decided to create a new slot just for contemporary music, which it called Anocht FM (Tonight or Ce Soir). This "radical departure from mainstream Raidió na Gaeltachta programming" also meant dropping the language ban on lyrics. The other side, indeed.
It was music to Kerryman Cian's ears. He still presents the show in Irish of course, serving up a rich ambient menu from Tuesday through Saturday, while Galwegian Cathal ó Cuaig adds his own special recipe from Saturday to Monday, perhaps with a pinch more dance and world.
While their Irish has gone global via the Internet, so the duo's decks draw a worldwide audience: Cathal shows me emails, one from a listener in France, another from San Francisco, others from Asia.
French sounds feature strongly on the play list, from Marc Moulin to Dimitri, and jazz blower Eric Truffaz. Irish sounds also get aired, such as God is an Astronaut and Dara, but as Cathal points out, "the emphasis is global electro, Afrobeats and nu-jazz". Compilations include A Slice of Paradise and the Tango Club Night. The station also has a very good archive, and listeners can request a playlist by email.
This is the one item needing improvement, though: the playlist should be streamed or posted with the shows, and times, artists and record names more clearly distinguished.
But these are just details. Working at my laptop in the heart of Paris, flipping between chilled Connemara and fond Fipettes, life could hardly be kinder to these Irish ears.
Radio references (mostly available online, just Google them!)

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