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What does it take to become a success in the world of online self-publishing? Is there a particular kind of novel that is more likely to do well in an electronic format? And if there is, how would one go about writing such a book?

These are the kinds of questions that you don’t find authors and publishers debating much yet, but perhaps they should. Glance around your nearest bookshop or Amazon.com, and you’ll find a million manuals that explain how to create a novel, using chapter headings such as ‘Learning Your Craft’ and ‘Ten Rules for Good Time Management’. But few of these manuals discuss the importance of the space into which a novel is delivered, and what it means for the authors who are publishing now.

Make no mistake about it: publishing online is a totally different proposition from doing it on plain old paper. Think of the strain on the eyes of reading in an ebook format, for example. Think of the harried reader who buys a Kindle to read on crowded commutes. Think of the modern world, in which a million types of entertainment compete for our attention. And think of who is succeeding in this new world, and why.

Many self-published books which began life in an electronic format have now succeeded beyond the authors’ wildest expectations. Take the eyebrow-raising Fifty Shades of Grey by EL James, for example; or new bestseller Wool by Hugh Howey, which is about to be turned into a big-budget Ridley Scott film; or Switched, the debut novel in the million-plus selling Trylle Trilogy by the 20-something Amanda Hocking.

What do these books have in common besides their humble origins? Actually, quite a lot. All the authors in question write within specific genres: S&M (EL James); dystopian fantasy (Howey) and trolls (Hocking). They are suspenseful and attention-grabbing, using blunt, effective (and sometimes very poorly rendered) prose to keep and hold readers. They are short, but allow for the possibility of sequels. They lack profound messages. “My goal was to keep people reading,” Hocking has said. “They have to ignore everything else and read the book.”

In his latest book, How Music Works, David Byrne talks about the importance of context in the area of music. The Talking Heads founder says that the type of music we make is vastly influenced by the space into which that music is delivered: so we get drums in a tribal space, which carry well over distance, and plaintive choir singing in a high-ceilinged church. At CBGB, for example, the small room lent itself well to the performance of punk rock – a sound which would have seemed ridiculous if performed in a church. The Ramones and Mozart both understood intrinsically what would work for their particular type of arena. They knew that environment plays a huge role in shaping the music.

For this new type of publishing space, it should be obvious that we need a new kind of book: one that grabs the attention fast, doesn’t bother with fancy language, relies on a clever idea and can be made into a series of books incredibly easily. Readers who choose to read in electronic formats will naturally want a different kind of prose. And the world of writers will have to learn to provide for that. So maybe it’s time for those self-help manual authors to take a leaf out of a new book – and begin to think about what it means to be a successful author in today’s world of e-publishing. After all, increasingly, it’s where the big bucks lie.


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It’s hard to articulate the feelings of frustration, rage and helplessness that come from hearing about the death of a young woman in an Irish hospital of septicaemia after a miscarriage. After being told the baby would not survive, the woman’s husband said doctors refused requests for a medical termination.

It’s hard to properly describe, too, the lingering sense that perhaps blood is on our hands. We are the people who allow our public representatives to push abortion legislation down the political agenda. We are the people; we make the laws. Did a young Indian woman have to die in a Galway hospital, reportedly told that this was a “Catholic country”, before we got upset enough to do something? Isn’t a refusal to try harder – to get angry enough to effect political change – also, in its own way, a tacit consent?

‘Shame’ ran the headline of one placard carried by a protester outside the Dáil on Wednesday night. The New York Times, the London Independent, Al Jazeera: media outlets in countries around the world told the story of what happened – and they judged us for the death of Savita Halappanavar, a 31-year-old dentist who arrived into a Galway hospital pregnant one week, and was carried out of it the next, to her funeral. They were correct to do so. In our inertia, we are all complicit.

Last month, Time magazine carried a portrait of Enda Kenny, thoughtful and erudite-looking, on its cover. The Last Action Hero for Ireland, the Green Saviour. In the accompanying interview, Kenny spoke of how now was not the time for abortion legislation.

“I think that this issue is not of priority for government now,” he said, confident he was reflecting the views of his backward-facing Emerald Isle.

And you wonder: were we just better at protesting in the 1970s and 1980s? Remember those images of Nell McCafferty on the contraceptive train? Remember those 1980s photographs of celebrities at pro-choice movements? Have we become so overwhelmed by mortgage stress, so distracted by our iPhones, so enthralled by dancing kittens on YouTube, that we can’t focus on anything of worth? Are we – in our heart of hearts – sometimes a little embarrassed about being gauche enough to be seen waving a flag at a protest march and standing up for what we believe in?

Ordinarily, this column is intended to discuss arts and cultural issues, about anything from Big Brother to the Rolling Stones. But culture, in its widest form, is about the structure inside which we exist today. It includes gay rights and women’s rights. And it is the trampoline that is now propelling the tragic story of Savita skywards.

News of her death bounced from a person with ten followers on Twitter to a person with 10,000. Reading the outpourings of compassion for Savita, I saw urgent tweets being sent to feminist writers including Naomi Wolf and Caitlin Moran, asking them to make the story known to their huge audiences. People were agitating, forming protests in Dublin, London and further afield. Writing 20,000 emails of protest to their TDs, mobilised by bloggers and tweeters.

Will it help effect change? None of it will bring a young woman back. But we have to try to make our voices heard.

The BBC’s Mark Simpson was one of several reporters who interviewed Savita’s husband last week. Asked by Simpson if he felt his wife would be alive if she could have had an abortion, he answered simply: “Of course. No doubt.”

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I don’t doubt the sincerity of Gabriel Byrne’s recent comments on the Gathering.

As has been well documented by now, the actor told Today FM presenter Matt Cooper on The Last Word, on location in New York, that he believes the efforts to bring American people back to Ireland represented nothing more than a scam.

“Most people [in Ireland] don’t give a shit about the diaspora, except to shake them down for a few quid,” Byrne said. “People are sick to death of being asked to help out in what they regard as a scam.”

From a lesser commentator, such remarks would be pushed out of the room like so many cobwebs cast aside by the firm, swishing broom of the media. But Byrne’s opinions carry weight – for two years, he acted as Ireland’s unpaid cultural ambassador. When I interviewed him in New York in 2011 about his role, he was miserable, snuffling from a cold. But he still carried out his media duties; still performed that evening at the Museum of Modern Art, where he was launching the Irish film retrospective he had personally curated; still charmed the Americans, many of whom who had arrived at the event – as one couple told me – purely to see him in the flesh.

Byrne put himself out for years on our behalf, and I have no reason to think he did it for any other cause than to help get Ireland back on its feet. But it’s difficult to understand the logic of his comments now, coming as they do from a man who not only thoroughly understands the nature of artifice – he’s an actor after all – but has long been complicit in such tourist-related artifice himself. Is the Gathering a tourist initiative designed to get people to spend money in Ireland? Yes. Is it any different – less substantial, more essentially fake – than the Irish cultural awareness activities that Byrne himself participated in when he was ambassador? Not really, no.

Byrne’s main point seems to be that we’re codding the Americans, being condescending to them, when really we don’t care about them at all. But when I think back to my time in America in 2011 – when I was on a trip, funded by Culture Ireland, designed to show the Irish media how tax-payers’ money was being spent – so much of what I saw from the Culture Ireland programme belonged to the realm of artifice.

The film Byrne chose to open his Irish film retrospective with, for example, was The Quiet Man, the John Ford flick legendary for pandering to terrible Irish stereotypes. The following day, we were brought to the exhibition The Ties That Bind, where we saw garish Irish dancing dresses in glass displays and old parade footage, but very little, other than some tagged-on U2 footage, that represented a more recognisable definition of Ireland.

Were such efforts any less contrived than the Gathering? Any less condescending? Culture Ireland was pandering to Americans, showing them shamrocks and shillelaghs in an effort to appeal to their sense of nostalgia. Don’t tell me that wasn’t a “scam” too.

The best comment on the subject this week came from Terry Wogan. When asked whether the Gathering was a “tourism wheeze”, the veteran presenter said: “Of course it is. It is an attempt to bring more people to Ireland to spend their money and enjoy themselves.” Simple as that. Byrne might shrug off the comparison, but he has made use of a very similar technique. It’s the pot calling the kettle black.


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In the wake of Gabriel Byrne’s negative comments on the Gathering — he called the Irish initiative to bring tourists to Ireland in 2013 a “scam” — I thought I’d put up an archive piece from summer 2011, when I went to America on a trip, funded by Culture Ireland, which was designed to show the Irish media (and, by extension, the Irish tax-payer) how the vast sums that had been put at the organisation’s disposal were being used to raise awareness of Ireland in America. Byrne is also interviewed in the piece — he was at the time Ireland’s cultural ambassador. The article was published as The Sunday Business Post’s cover story for the magazine in July, 2011.


The great Irish invasion
Cultural agency Imagine Ireland has been entrusted with the task of promoting this country and its creative arts to the widest possible American audience. But is this necessarily the smartest way of selling us abroad?
Words: Nadine O’Regan

Janet loves going to Ireland on her holidays. As the runway lights dip behind us, and we ease upwards into the Dublin air to begin our long journey to New York, the American retiree with the gentle smile sitting beside me can’t help but give a wistful sigh.
“We had a wonderful time,” she says, gesturing to her husband David, who is seated in the row beside us. “We were here for the Skellig Michael traditional festival in Kerry. We didn’t eat out much — the restaurants are so expensive — but we saw some great musicians. It’s our fifth time in Ireland. We’ll definitely come back again.”
Janet and David are real people but, if they didn’t exist, the Irish government would do its damnedest to try to invent them. They are textbook examples of a new type of tourist the Irish government is seeking to attract to our shores: those who come to our country because of the richness and variety of our arts and cultural scene.
Each year since 2007, €4 million has been given to Culture Ireland, the state agency that promotes Irish arts worldwide. This year Imagine Ireland, a culture initiative intended to promote Irish culture in America, has also been given a separate one-off grant of a further €4 million.
Imagine Ireland began its work in January. Over the course of the year, more than 1,000 musicians, writers, actors, artists and arts producers from Ireland will take part in events across 40 American states.
They have been sent to the US to weave a powerful spell on our behalf; to raise awareness, create tourism and, with our self-esteem so wounded in the wake of the recession — indirectly restore to our own country a sense of pride.
But is this the kind of initiative the Irish government should be engaged in, when we have patients lying on trolleys in hospital corridors and a country on financial life support? How many Irish taxpayers realise how their money is being spent? And if we can agree that this money should be spent on promoting Irish culture, then what is the best way to spend it?
When I flew to New York in May to take in some of the events, it was clear from the outset that the pressure would be on Culture Ireland to show off its best wares. Culture Ireland received its funding from the previous government; it now needs to show the current government, and the wider public, that it’s making good use of the hefty funds that have been allocated to them.
With that in mind, a heady programme of events over four days was promised. We would take in a Martin McDonagh play in Philadelphia, an Irish film retrospective in New York and a site-specific promenade piece in Washington, as well as art exhibitions, book launches and more.
The exhausting scope of the programme was matched only by the ambition, passion and optimism of those working behind the scenes to create the events.
“There are 36 million people who have told a census worker in the United States that they connect to Ireland in some way,” says Aidan Connolly, executive director of the Irish Arts Center, located just down the road from where Jon Stewart’s Daily Show is filmed, on West 51st Street. “The Irish brand punches far above its weight culturally.”
Optimism is a key word around these parts — that, and a belief in the good old-fashioned notion of rolling up your sleeves and putting your nose to the grindstone. Gabriel Byrne is struggling with a cold in SoHo, but he’s not about to let that put a halt to his stride.
Byrne was appointed Ireland’s first cultural ambassador last year. It’s a non-paying role which the actor has embraced with gusto, skilfully using his name to open doors and forge connections on behalf of Culture Ireland, flying the flag with the charisma and charm that has made him a star here and in the US, particularly for the HBO series In Treatment.
“In real economic terms, it would be ridiculous to say that investment in Irish arts and culture abroad is going to solve the Irish economic problem,” Byrne says. “But the British treasury, because of cultural tourism, brings in €22 billion a year — that’s somebody who has read a book, gone to a play.
“U2 bring people to Ireland. People say: `Where’s Bono’s hotel?’ There’s a predictable narrative in the American audience that the Irish story is Oscar Wilde, Yeats, James Joyce and U2, but there’s a new voice coming through that needs to be heard.”
“With the collapse of the financial structure and the moral guidelines represented by the Church, you have a country whose self-esteem was devastated. I believe arts and culture can help empower us. We have to re-evaluate what we have to offer.”
Byrne has been instrumental in organising and curating an Irish film retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Later that evening, to a receptive audience, the 1950s John Ford film The Quiet Man will officially launch the series, which will go on to include In the Name Of The Father, Hunger, The Wind That Shakes The Barley, The Butcher Boy, and Kisses, Lance Daly’s bittersweet film about two scruffy teenagers in a part of Dublin that never saw the Celtic Tiger.
“Gabriel started off with a 500-strong list — it was a bit terrifying,” says Sarah Glennie, director of the Irish Film Institute, which has been working with Moma to deliver the project, and has also begun planning a new project with the museum for 2012.
“We agreed that what we didn’t want to do was a survey of Irish films. This is not the greatest hits — this is very much a polemic, and a personal polemic to Gabriel, of this thorny issue of how Ireland represents itself. It’s not a programme about filling the gaps. The series should be seen as a whole.”
After the screening of The Quiet Man, one American couple admit that the reason for them to attend was not so much to take in the film, but to see Byrne afterwards at a post-film discussion. “My wife read that the programme was going to be followed by a discussion with Gabriel Byrne,” laughs Larry, a New Yorker. “She booked the tickets a week ago.”
Big names and landmark films can connect to an American audience — but so too can exciting new work from Irish voices. The following day, we journey to Philadelphia for Druid’s excellent production of the London-Irish Martin McDonagh’s The Cripple of Inishmaan, the blackly comic story of Cripple Billy and what happens when his fellow islanders on Inishmaan in 1934 discover that a Hollywood film is about to be made on the neighbouring island of Inishmore.
If The Quiet Man’s audience was mostly older, moneyed and with strong connections to Ireland, the audience for The Cripple of Inishmaan is noticeably more diverse. Young and old range around the healthily attended, 950-seater Annenberg Center auditorium — and the feedback afterwards is unquestionably enthusiastic.
“Martin McDonagh is my speciality in my master’s thesis,” says Nelson, an American student in the audience who has arrived to watch the performance with four of his friends. “I love him and I’m going to Ireland for the first time this summer. I’ve heard nothing but awesome things about Ireland from people who have gone.”
Druid calculates that, by the end of this five-month tour of the US, 47,000 people will have seen the show.
“Sometimes, there are audible shocks in the audience,” says Dermot Crowley, who plays JohnnyPateenMike, the codger who would rather like to kill his mother. “The way I speak to my mother or the way she speaks to me — Martin McDonagh has taken traditional Irish drama, shaken it by the scruff of the neck and made it hugely entertaining. He’s one of a line of new Irish playwrights, like Conor McPherson and Enda Walsh, who have done that.”
It would be easy to greet such comments with a sniff of cynicism — after all, many of the people interviewed have a vested interest in being positive. But you can’t doubt the truth of Crowley’s words — not when you look at the international garlands for Druid’s work — or the reviews Irish playwrights are chalking up in venerable publications like the New York Times.
“Irish playwrights have made my life as a reviewer more exciting in recent years,” Ben Brantley, chief theatre critic of the New York Times, tells me in an e-mail. “There’s an originality of language — and an infatuation with words themselves — that’s irresistible in the works of McPherson, Walsh and McDonagh.
“What these men create is less a sense of place than a state of mind [although it's obviously born of an idea of place]. If you see — or for that matter, if you read — any of their plays anywhere, you’re there, in the Ireland that they’ve summoned into being. The Ireland of Walsh, in particular, exists more within his characters’ heads than outside of them.”
Does he believe the Irish government is being smart by promoting Irish culture in America? Or will such hopes of attracting tourism come to nothing?
“I’m not sure that their writing would send people to Mother Ireland herself,” Brantley writes. “Still, I suppose there might be a hope that the country that inspired those writers might be a place to absorb their language and point of view.
“Of course, if it were McDonagh’s Ireland I were visiting, a land of homicidal villagers, I would feel I’d have to tread very carefully.”
When asked for his take, New York playwright Christopher Shinn doesn’t know anything about Culture Ireland, but he’s in no doubt about whose star is on the rise. “The writer I have heard the most about in the last few years from Ireland is Enda Walsh,” he tells me. “Obviously we all know about Martin McDonagh and Conor McPherson, but Enda has been getting the most attention lately. Has Culture Ireland been promoting his work?”
They have. Plays like Walsh’s Penelope have been performed across the US as part of the Culture Ireland initiative. The playwright is also busy working on an off-Broadway adaptation of John Carney’s Oscar-winning indie musical film Once, which is already generating a lot of excitement Stateside.
“I did an interview with American Theatre Magazine,” Walsh says, over a cup of coffee in Dublin. “They were knocked out that there was such a thing as Culture Ireland. They were like: `That’s incredible’.
“They thought it showed extraordinary initiative that a government would go: `You know what we do well? Culture.’ We are down on our fucking knees. But what’s positive about this country is that we can make shit. Let’s go to America and show them what we can do.
“The Irish government is very wise to push the whole cultural thing. I think it’s really good from a business point of view. It shows that we’re evolving and cultural and modern.”
There are plenty of reasons why young, exciting companies like Google and Facebook would choose Dublin as their European headquarters — chief among them the corporation tax rate and the educated work force — but Noel Kilkenny, Ireland’s consul general in New York, believes we shouldn’t discount the notion that the arts plays a role in their decision-making process.
“For some corporations, when you strip it all down and there is nothing to play for between two locations, it can come down to something as simple and critical as: `Is this an environment in which we want our top executives to work?’ ” Kilkenny says.
“Apart from the schools element, is there a cultural environment in a broader sense — in the sense that you’ll be asking your top executives to move and set up in a country that has a cultural scene.”
But beneath the surface, there’s a lurking fear that Culture Ireland may be forced, at times, to show a romanticised version of Ireland, an Ireland that America wants to see — as opposed to the Ireland that exists.
“It’s vital that we don’t play the lepra-corny card,” says New York-based Irish author Colum McCann, who has helped Culture Ireland organise a number of events.
Kilkenny points to the airing of the play Terminus by Mark O’Rowe as an example of the edgier works promoted by Culture Ireland, but there was disappointment voiced by several Irish attendees that The Quiet Man — a 1950s film directed by an American — was chosen to kick off the Moma retrospective. Beautifully made, complex and intriguing as The Quiet Man is, it’s hardly a signifier for modern-day Ireland, or a remotely accurate representation of 1950s Ireland.
“There’s a new Irish voice coming through,” says Gabriel Byrne. “But sometimes amongst the audiences here, it’s a voice that they don’t want to hear. They want to see The Quiet Man and read certain books that reinforce a somewhat simplistic notion of what it means to be Irish.
“I think The Quiet Man is a more subversive film than it seems,” Byrne adds. “Ford was an outsider with a very romantic view, and he was a myth-maker. He mythologised Ireland in ways that have been helpful, and ways that have been destructive.”
In his less guarded moments, Byrne can be surprisingly negative when he talks about how Americans view Ireland. “I don’t think most American people know or care what’s going on in Ireland. In an interview I did this morning, three times in the interview the word `alcoholic’ was mentioned, `shamrock’ was mentioned. You get sick of it.”
If truth be told, the Irish exhibition The Ties That Bind, which is currently running at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts, won’t help to rid us of the shamrocks and shillelaghs perception any time soon.
It was a little dispiriting, as an Irish person, to roam around the venue looking at garish Irish dancing dresses in glass displays and old parade footage, but not seeing much other than some tagged-on U2 footage that represented a more recent, recognisable definition of Ireland.
But then, is this exhibition really for an Irish person, or for an American-Irish person who wants to fondly reminisce in a reconstruction of a 1960s Irish-American living room? You can’t argue with the footfall — 4,000 people walked through the exhibition in the first two months of its opening. Historical nostalgia is part of what we are too, and a part of us that we’ve made a lot of money from flogging. Still, with that in mind, it’s a relief to know that Culture Ireland have been instrumental in sending young, deeply modern writers like Paul Murray (Skippy Dies) and Kevin Power (Bad Day In Blackrock) to America for readings.
Both writers showcase an Ireland that’s neither romantic nor sanitised. And the truth contained in their fiction is resonating with international audiences — Time Magazine named Murray’s book as one of its top ten reads of the year.
Likewise, Swampoodle — an avant-garde work performed in the massive, abandoned Uline Arena in Washington — is anything but safe or conventional. Uline Arena is situated in an old Irish-American neighbourhood, and once hosted the Beatles’ first American concert.
Now it’s a cavernous, dilapidated space reeking of urine. Solas Nua and the Performance Corporation make use of it to tell the story of the area — albeit in a nutty, shouty way, complete with wigs, swimming costumes and megaphones.
Not all the hip young American attendees love it (“I’m not feeling this,” sighs one girl to her boyfriend) but, afterwards, many say they were intrigued and inspired by the uniqueness of the show.
So, six months into the Imagine Ireland programme, is it working? How do you measure its impact?
“Some measurements are tangible, some are intangible,” says Eugene Downes, chief executive of Culture Ireland. “If you have a rave review by Ben Brantley for the latest Enda Walsh play, how do you put a cash value on that? Tracking the number of people who read, say, Skippy Dies — after one of Paul Murray’s readings across the States — who knows what that will lead to in terms of what other books they’ll pick up, or their decision to visit Ireland in a year’s time.
“There’s an element of trust and common sense that if you can connect in a compelling way to the United States, that will bring about an interest in Ireland.”
Common sense. Trust. These are difficult concepts for the Irish public to have much credence in when the country is in financial freefall. The government which committed this money to Culture Ireland has itself left the building, and in times to come, the current administration may not be so willing to allow the organisation to retain its funding at its current level.
“I have to say, Mary Hanafin really got it,” says Byrne, a touch wistfully. “She got the bigger picture, and she understood that it wasn’t a question of just playing to your home team. It was about thinking globally and outside the box.”
Is it fair to say that he and Culture Ireland are going to have a tougher time with this government? “I think that Enda Kenny is willing to listen to new ideas and new ways of defining ourselves abroad,” Byrne says.
“Like everyone else, I feel betrayed [in relation to Ireland's economic situation]. I feel anger. I feel a certain amount of pessimism. But I believe that, by encouraging arts and culture, we can begin to rebuild a spiritual sense of ourselves. My recommendation to Enda Kenny is that they establish a full-time cultural office in New York, because ultimately it will benefit the country economically.”
“I would love for us to develop a policy through to 2016,” says Colum McCann. “We should go to Britain, New Zealand and Australia with the same project, with a long-term view. We have to look at this as something that the government has rightly funded and should continue to fund. It is important.”
You’ve got to have faith, in other words — the same faith writers have when they begin a new novel, or musicians when they start recording an album. A few weeks after I return to Dublin, Colum McCann is ushered into the limelight once more when he wins the world’s most lucrative fiction prize, the International Impac Dublin Literary Award, for his novel Let The Great World Spin.
At a glittering ceremony in the Mansion House, an emotional McCann talks about James Joyce, about his teachers in Clonkeen College and St Brigid’s National School, and about the support and enlightenment that literature offers.
“Perhaps literature doesn’t cure anything,” he says. “But it is, at least on its deepest level, an inner need that is designed to refuse despair. Is that enough? It is yes. I believe in the power of the story.’

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Just a little post to mention a few things coming up on The Kiosk — my arts and culture show on Phantom — in the next few weeks.

Emma Donoghue (Room) and Sebastian Faulks (Birdsong) will be in for a chat — they both have new works of fiction coming out over the next while, and Donoghue has an intriguing-sounding play coming up in the Dublin Theatre Festival. We’ll also be reviewing some of the plays in the Dublin Theatre Fest and we’ll have some pretty deadly competitions too.

The Kiosk airs at 11am on Saturdays on Phantom 105.2 — that’s 105.2 FM on the radio dial and http://www.phantom.ie on the internet. There’s also a repeat of the show Tuesdays at midnight and Sundays at 7am. Do tune in — and text me! I love an aul text — it’s 51052. Email the show at this address: kiosk [at] phantom.ie.

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Why do musicians have to be young to be relevant? That was a question that cropped up a lot in Shut Up and Play the Hits, the documentary that depicts the final days of acclaimed American electro-outfit LCD Soundsystem and their sob-inducingly triumphant farewell gig at Madison Square Garden in 2011. The film finally received an Irish cinematic release last week.

For fans around the world, James Murphy, the main man of LCD Soundsystem, is to electronic music what Morrissey is to indie-rock. Murphy’s lyrics are biting, bone-dry, witty and often, as on Someone Great, emotionally wrenching.

All My Friends, Losing My Edge, Daft Punk is Playing at My House and North American Scum are just some of the blistering tracks Murphy has given the world. Once offered a job as a writer on Seinfeld, Murphy’s intent with LCD Soundsystem was to leave “a stain” on culture – and he has done that, and more.

But last year Murphy decided he’d had enough of being a rockstar. It was time to hang up his microphone and spend his days quietly running his record label, walking his French bull-dog and making coffee in his New York apartment surrounded by his beloved records.

The problem, mainly, was his age. Greying of hair and paunchy of stomach, Murphy, 41, would look in the mirror and worry about having a “face like a dad”. And he was far from alone in fretting. If there could be a support group for artists who fear they’re too old to rock out, that group would fill a stadium all on its own: the Rolling Stones, Madonna, the Pet Shop Boys, Elton John, Paul Simon, Leonard Cohen, Tom Petty, Tom Jones, U2 and Cliff Richard are just a few who spring to mind.

These days, AA stands for age-appropriate – and it’s the audiences, rather than families, who are constantly staging interventions, contriving to push the elder lemons off the stage.

Ageism is anathema elsewhere, but it’s tolerated, even encouraged in rock music, where it’s okay to jeer about Madonna’s old-lady hands, Jagger’s dodgy knees and Elton’s fake hair.

In fact, reviewers and fans point-score on this front all the time, dreaming up nasty couplets about mutton dressed as lamb with the eagerness more usually reserved for snatching new version iPads from stores. Small wonder Kate Bush seems afraid to show her face in her most recent videos.

As a culture, we are horrible bullies. We refuse to allow our musicians to age before our eyes. Instead we demand that they clear off. This is despite the fact that unlike, say, Olympic athletes, musicians are not required to run 100 metres in ten seconds. They do not have to do the high jump. They just have to make good music. So why do they need smooth skin too?

Asked in the documentary what his grand failure was, Murphy answered that perhaps stopping was his biggest failure. If he believed in his music, why was he doing this? Sure, he wanted to have kids; he liked an anonymous lifestyle, but was the bigger reason simply that he was being pushed out?

There was a moment in the documentary when Murphy went to look at the band’s musical equipment that had been put in storage and would soon be sold. It was his chance to say goodbye. Standing on the hard floor surveying all before him, Murphy raised his hands to his face and began abruptly to cry.

This was “the controlled ending” he had planned. But who was really pulling the strings: Murphy or the culture that he had begun to fear would soon reject him?


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The rumbles of discontent could be felt within minutes. The Rose of Tralee had arrived on the box in all its antiquated, dewy-eyed glory, but it didn’t take long before fans, eagerly awaiting their annual wince-fest, were left reeling. The 32 Roses had gone and shocked all of us, and not in their usual, perfectly acceptable fashion — by simpering at us in weapons-grade sparkly dresses until we begged for mercy. No, things were much worse than that. These Roses appeared to be staging a rebellion before our very eyes.

The tweets came flying in. “Is there a ban on the party piece?” asked mystified tweeter Becky Cawley (@becky_cawley). “What’s the point of being a Rose if you don’t do a party piece?” wondered @siobhansiobhan. Rose after Rose came and went with a flutter of the hand, a swoosh of the dress, a bit of small talk about their career goals and then — nothing. Zip. No song. No dance. No demonstration of `talent’.

The party piece is not compulsory, explained @roseoftralee_ — the official Twitter account — somewhat defensively. “Each gets to pick a party piece if they wish.” But it was a sad state of affairs when the best of the tragically few party pieces in the overstuffed ballroom came courtesy of the Kilkenny Rose, who, like a good sport, agreed to make her trademark dolphin noise (remarkably convincing). Other party pieces included a Maori song, a failed magic trick, an extract from Oscar Wilde and a version of Whiskey in the Jar (let’s just say the Sydney Rose was creative in her rendition).

All the Roses who performed made mistakes. But the mistakes were part of the point. Forget all this nonsense about the “truth in her eyes ever dawning”, the Rose is about so much more than that. It’s about pluck and vim. It’s about saying that one can perform under conditions that are almost impossible and with skills so meagre that only a Rose with the most giant of balls would dare don a sparkly dress and try to sell herself to an audience. The Rose is a metaphor for Ireland itself: pinched into a tight dress, vulnerable and forced to sing for its supper.

Consider the pluck last year of the Dublin Rose, ferociously giving herself over to hip-hop manoeuvres, despite the dress issues, sound glitches and audience of baffled blue rinses in front of her. Now that’s what I call entertainment. Without such events, who would we have to parody? What would Father Ted have done? And how has it come to such a pass that presenter Daithi must don high heels to give us a lift?

It was no surprise that, after the virtually non-existent party pieces, the attendance in front of the telly was low for the second night of the Rose of Tralee festival — the lowest audience that the Rose of Tralee has pulled in for eight years. Frankly, those 32 shyster Roses deserved our apathy — well, at least those of them who refused to perform.

At the end of the two nights, it was the teacher, the Luxembourg Rose, who bravely admitted to giving her teddy bears exams as a child, who was crowned the winning Rose. It was no surprise, really. Nicola McEvoy had a song. She sang La Vie en Rose, and made a good fist of it — not impressive enough to be a pro (no one wants X-Factor), but not bad enough to scare the horses. “Gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous,” cooed Daithi, mopping his brow with relief. At last, here was someone who understood the game.

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Did you feel it recently? The flickerings of anger? It came in the past week when several reporters, writing about the passing of the wonderful novelist Maeve Binchy, decided to brand her style of fiction `chick-lit’, not seeming to realise or care that it was a diminution.

Tweeters complained about the term having been used. Radio contributors — including Sheila O’Flanagan on Morning Ireland — also expressed their annoyance. When publications such as the New York Times gave Binchy her due and described her sprawling novels accurately, there was a sense of relief that Binchy had been given the credit owed to her; that they would not dim the bright light of her fiction in her death.

Women have been diminished often over the years for their fiction. Women might read more than men. They might sell more than men. But still, and particularly when it comes to commercial fiction, we’re fragile specimens as authors, with only the cardboard of our self-worth for shields, ever fearful someone will tell us we shouldn’t be at the party; that for all we might care about fiction, we still don’t really count.

Praise from men still counts for too much. At the Dalkey Books Festival (at which Binchy gave her final reading), the Irish Times journalist Fintan O’Toole was asked to comment on chick-lit. O’Toole said he had found something great in the work of Marian Keyes, and spoke about the qualities that made her fiction rich and compelling.

Later, a breathless Tweeter sent a tweet to report to Marian Keyes that Fintan O’Toole had praised her work. I laughed reading it — I don’t imagine Keyes — and bless her for it — would have been massively fussed about his opinion one way or the other. But it didn’t escape my attention that someone had felt it important she be served notice that a male intellectual had liked her work. Was she supposed to feel good about that? Was she — a bestselling author loved by millions — supposed to feel validated by his recommendation?

Perhaps the reason the answer is `yes’ is because there’s still an intellectual snobbery at work today, even for the female authors we most love.

It bothered me that Roddy Doyle — in his newspaper column on Maeve Binchy — appeared to file her work under a female-only category. For his piece, Doyle conjured up a fictional dialogue between two males, who had never read Binchy’s books, but had partners who did: “Whenever she had her hands on a new Maeve Binchy buke, yeh knew it was goin’ to be a quiet fuckin’ night.”

Maybe Doyle is right. Maybe only women do read Binchy. And maybe I’m being over-sensitive. But it still felt like he was limiting her, and the scope of her fiction, with his generalisations.

Interestingly, on Thursday in the Irish Times, of the eight letters about Binchy, five of them were from men. “I read her work, devouring it, and was shrouded in its humanity, its consideration, its hope,” wrote Patrick Dowling in a beautiful missive.

There is such a thing as chick-lit fiction. I’m not denying that. Chick-lit is plot-driven candyfloss, designed for the beach and the airport. And there’s nothing wrong with that, if it gets a reader through.

But Binchy deserves better than that appellation. A generous writer — in her spirit and her fiction — she was someone who carried the world with her, and who put it into her fiction. Her legacy in writing should never have the word `chick’ in it.

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I don’t read women’s magazines. Well, that’s not totally true. I do read them. I skim through them in the dentist’s waiting room or at the hairdresser. I read them on holidays or when they’re lying around in someone else’s home. But generally speaking, I rarely read them and I never buy them. Which is odd, when you think about it, because for all my three (with some loose change) decades on earth, I’ve read pretty much anything I could get my hands on, from the back of the cornflakes packet straight on up to the literary big guns.

My refusal to love women’s magazines isn’t a snobbery thing. I’m not a culture snob: I’ve read every single one of the Twilight books and Hunger Games series and enjoyed them. In literary terms, I’m as fond of a hamburger as a sirloin steak.

But here’s the thing: you might complain to me (and oh how people have) about Twilight being rubbish. But Twilight has never told me I’m too fat, badly dressed, old, or in need of “blow-job tips from our resident sexpert”.

Women’s magazines, on the other hand? They never stop picking on women. They huddle together on the newsstands like a clique at a girls’ school, shrill, snickering and pointing fingers. Celeb A has lost weight! Celeb B has gained weight! Celeb C is a fat slag! Then there’s their dubious notion of self-improvement. `How to please your man.’ `How to wear florals.’ `How to fake being thick so guys will like you more.’ (Okay, I made that last one up, but I bet someone, probably Cosmo, has published it.)

With few exceptions (Grazia definitely tries harder than most, and Bust is smart and sparky), I feel like women’s magazines are actively grabbing hold of my brain and trying to shrink it.

Of late, it seemed like there was an opportunity afoot for women’s publications. With the advent of new, female-focussed webzines, it felt like a chance to transform not just the format, but also the philosophy behind such enterprises. That was the promise, at least, that new Irish website Her.ie seemed to offer to readers. Created by the same company that founded Joe.ie, Her.ie announced itself as an Irish website “solely dedicated to the needs, interests and aspirations of modern Irish women aged 18-44.”

But one flashy Dublin launch later, it’s more of the same. Her.ie seems to be waving at us from the 1980s, so retrograde in its thinking it might as well have a hoover and a feather duster in its hand. I should probably mention some of its downfalls (the endless pink, the terrible headlines such as `Katy Perry does not eat junk food on tour’), but honestly it’s too miserable to bear much thinking about.

It’s not a big deal for me. My life will go on as before: I won’t read the magazines, I won’t check out the websites. But the owners of such sites and publications should be fretting. Sales of women’s magazines are slumping, titles are closing. Big names like Glamour and Cosmopolitan are feeling the heat. The migration to free online information is part of their problem, but not all. Far from it. It’s time for them to look in the mirror.

If webzines and publications focussing on women are to succeed, they’ll have to take some lessons in self-improvement themselves. They need to recognise that there is room in their pages for a more generous portrayal of women; and that female readers are cleverer and more impressive than their content currently admits. Online or in print, the model needs to change, if its purveyors mean to survive and prosper.

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