Galway 2020: Hubris hits the west
The news that the controversial rapper and friend of Donald Trump, Kanye West, has been handed the most coveted gig in the Irish arts industry right now is being hailed as a masterstroke by tourism chiefs. Meanwhile, a government spokesperson has insisted that the inevitable inquiry will only be confirmed in a few years’s time, when it is already far too late.
In a shock development that is likely to stun Ireland’s already beleaguered arts community, Galway 2020 has announced Kanye West as its new Artistic Director. The decision ends a period of major controversy for the project, with a series of high profile resignations having culminated recently in the decision of the Druid Theatre Company to withdraw its commitment to the European City of Culture project and to tell the organising committee to go and fuck themselves.
The appointment of Mr. West (41) was hailed by local Fine Gael and Fianna Fáil politicians as a coup for the city that would surely resonate with white Americans, who after all are our biggest tourist market.
Asked why Mr. West was chosen for the position, a spokesman for Galway 2020 issued a statement from the company’s recently outsourced headquarters in Mumbai, India…
“It was a very straightforward choice,” Hot Press was told. “Galway is a city in the west of Ireland, which itself is a country at the very west of Europe. It was one of those extraordinary, collective lightbulb moments for members of the committee, when it came to us all in a blinding flash, that to have somebody called West as Artistic Director would turn Galway 2020 into the kind of celebration of Irish-ness that we could all be proud of.
“We did approach Adam West, the guy from Batman,” the spokesperson elaborated, “but that approach was unsuccessful, as we discovered belatedly that he is unfortunately dead or at least that is what it states on the Wikipedia page devoted to him, lord have mercy on his soul. However, it says a lot about the spirit of the city that we, as organisers, were not deterred by this enormous setback to our plans. We knew that we had to find another West, but we also sadly established that John West also died a long time ago, despite the fact that he is still very much alive as a brand and we really love his tuna here in Galway – I mean Mumbai. And so we finally realised that this role was truly tailor-made for our man, Kanye West.”
The spokesperson emphasised the extraordinary cultural legacy of the hip hop superstar as the crucial deciding factor.
“We are thrilled with Kanye’s acceptance of what is a very prestigious and influential position,” the spokesperson added. “Like everything else associated with him, his appointment will doubtless bring with it a lot of misplaced optimism, and a soupçon of total bullshit, which is precisely what we are hoping to spread across the city over the next two years. There has been too much cynicism and negativity regarding #G2020. People asking legitimate questions about funding and transparency – what’s that all about? The constant harping on about these issues by certain cosseted members of the media, who like to think of themselves as champions of democratic accountability, is an example of political correctness gone mad and it really puts people in bad form, especially members of the organising committee.”
Accusations in the media that Kanye West is ‘so overwhelmed by delusion’ that he will think #G2020 is happening when in fact nothing is going on at all in the Western capital have been dismissed by the spokesperson, who insisted that Mr. West would be inviting his friend Donald Trump to visit and that this was likely to result in what he described as “unique spontaneous artistic statements” of a kind never seen before on this island.
In an attempt to highlight how he feels his message is often misinterpreted, Mr. West, who indicated that he still wishes to be called Ye, addressed assembled media outlets via video link from his ranch in Wyoming. In a gesture to multiculturalism which has been applauded by activist groups, Mr. West, communicated through a series of six interpreters (from English to Mandarin to Swahili to Dari to Welsh to Flemish and back to English, or ‘YeSpeak’ as it is more commonly known). Asked what he hoped his appointment would bring to the city of Galway, he was typically candid in his response.
“Sneakers,” he told he watching members of the media corps. “Specifically, $450 sneakers. That’s where it’s at right now.”
Pressed by one interviewer regarding the relevance of sneakers to the social, cultural and political reality of life in Ireland, at this precise moment in time, when the very future of our planet is under deadly and increasingly imminent threat, in a move that underlines the originality of his thinking, Mr. West decided that the best way of fighting fire was with water, pulling no punches in what he had to say in response.
“This city is wet as fuck,” he said. “I mean that city. Wetter than nothing I ever seen. But it seems to me that getting rained on is a choice. Like all you Galwegians been getting rained on for hundreds of years and y’all standing there in the rain doing nothing about it. ‘Cept getting wet. That’s why there’s no climate change. Because you just stand there and do nothing about it. Which is why I am planning to run for President of the United States in four years time. Or maybe eight. Or twelve. This job is just a stepping stone for me but I am really looking forward to the challenge immensely.”
Mr. West, who looked fetching in a Connacht Rugby jersey (customised with diamond cufflinks by Kim Kardashian and for sale through her merchandise outlet for $10,000 a pop)) and a Philip Treacy hat, which he wore specially for the media conference, confirmed that he did not intend to visit Galway during his directorship, but would send his sneakers instead to meet Donal Trump.
“My latest collaboration with Adidas is called ‘In Absentia’, and it’s inspired by my attitude to my G2020 role. I haven’t been there. I probably won’t go. I ain’t seen the place. But I can feel the place and I know that President Trump will get on like a house on fire, there in England.”
Mr. West confirmed he would not draw down the salary offered to him, but would instead donate it to the development of his wife’s latest appetite suppressant mineral water product H2No.
“Charity. It starts at home. I said this. Ye said this,” he stated.
In a terse Skype exchange between members of the media and the organising committee of Galway 2020, who insisted on hosting the conference at 3am Irish time, local Galway reporters expressed concerns that the monies being spent on the year-long celebration might be better used on vital structural improvements for the city.
“Of course,” the spokesperson for Galway 2020 reacted, “you could argue that we could take some of the €45.7m budget, approximately €27m of which is Irish taxpayers money, identify some sites around the city, develop them into playgrounds for kids and create ambitious, purpose-built public spaces, where our children could run and play, express themselves and, you know, do their own thing.
“You could argue exactly that – especially as the city has no such space, and doesn’t bother maintaining what it does have. You could also argue that we should lay proper cycle-lanes, and encourage our children to cycle to school. Indeed you could also argue that this would potentially tackle the obesity problem, not to mention the traffic jams in the city.
“But that’s all hypothetical. We’ve always said – alllllways said! – that what we really want is for visitors to Galway to have a good time, just like the one we are having now in Mumbai, which is a model we should be looking closely at, and of course we are. That’s why the appointment of Kanye West is so important, because he is very used to having a good time.”
A spokesperson for the Government said that at some time in the distant future it would be setting up a Tribunal to see what went wrong in relation to Galway 2020, and that the Government hopes that we will learn from the subsequent in-depth 1,850 page report – and that things like this should “never, ever, be allowed to happen again.”
A spokesperson for Knock Airport said that they hoped that President Trump would fly into Knock Airport. They are hoping to have Donald Trump Plaza – a new shopping mall – open by the time the President arrives in Ireland. The spokesperson confirmed that they will be selling Kanye West sneakers.
Villagers; Hot Press Review
The Art Of Pretending To Swim
9/10
Standout track: A Trick of the Light
It’s perhaps a little too easy to take Villagers front man Conor O’Brien for granted. When his big reveal Becoming a Jackal (2010) dropped upon our heads, you could be excused for expecting this to be the mark all future offerings be measured against. To that end, you could forgive the Malahide man a misstep or two. On the evidence of The Art of Pretending to Swim
(released today on Domino Records), you will be kept waiting for his off day. Far from pretending to do anything, O’Brien once again confirms himself to be the real deal.
The rhythm of the record is established from the starters gun:
I found again/a space in my heart again/for God again/in the form of art again.
The opening lyrics to the train-like Again confirm the beautiful introspection of 2015s Darling Arithmetic endures as a theme, but the sparsity of that record gives way to all the bells, whistles
and seagulls O’Brien has in his extensive locker. The tempo ebbs and flows – A Trick Of The Light sounds like a Flight of the Conchords track fused with the concept of an Enda Walsh play.
The album has a touch of everything; from the curious (Fool), to the ominous (Love Came With All That It Brings) to the downright trippy (the sumptuous closer Ada).
There is a timelessness to Pretending to Swim that leaves you with the sense that O’Brien and Villagers somehow been here before – at least a lot longer than the eight years and four albums
suggest. In arsehole wine parlance; there are hints of Sufjan Steven, meshed with an aftertaste of Sonic Youth.
Realising that once more, O’Brien wrote, produced, mixed and primarily performed the entire
album himself, you can’t help wonder how easy all of this comes to him, and whether his genius
somehow diminishes the material. Every note of the album screams control. The craftsmanship, lyrics, and production – it almost feels as if he is Will Hunting, burning the unsolvable theorems he has nonchalantly cracked before or eyes in the wastepaper basket, shouting “you know how easy this is for me?”
It’s a moot complaint – arguing that an artist is just too good at what he does. The Art of Pretending to Swim is a treasure. O’Brien has crafted his most accomplished album to date. Far from stressing about the ocean, it’s the stars who need to worry.
Bon Iver – It might be over soon
‘Passionate About’ is a series in which Hot Press writers, contributors, musicians and artists take the opportunity to make a bold statement about the music, movies, cultural artefacts or other driving passions that really matter deeply to them. In this first beautifully written and powerfully argued instalment, Colin Sheridan returns to the remarkable debut album by Bon Iver, aka Julian Vernon, For Emma, Forever Ago – and looks back on the music that leaves you “with wet eyes and an aching heart.”
As will become evident very quickly, I am not a critic of the arts. I’m one of you. I’m the consumer, the audience, the everyman. I can’t tell a C minor from a D Cup, but I do know what hurts and helps me, sometimes all at once: music.
*****************************
You are 38 and you have a pair of kids that your own father, that is the kids grandfather, has nicknamed the “Taliban 2”. Said duo, outrageously entertaining as they are, treat sleeping patterns with Gallic contempt. Winter is coming, and with it a time of deep reflection and rumination, the type of which you don’t need, given you are from Mayo and are pretty much impervious to joy, each September through to April, thanks to lost All-Irelands, poor broadband and other such bourgeois tragedies. To compensate, you’ve taken to eating two bags of Sensations every night in lieu of the physical exercise your body so badly needs. Your socializing is reduced to impromptu rendezvouses with monosyllabic dads you bump into in playgrounds and standard questions you ask and answer like filling in bank forms.
You do enjoy a drink, but that mostly takes place standing in front of the fridge, door wide open; slugging from last week’s pinot grigio. You last went to the cinema in 2013. You commute three hours a day. Your boss never changed a nappy in his life so he cares little for your fatigue. You can’t finish reading a book because you’re too fuckin tired. So, your artistic fulfilment is now limited to reading album reviews in the Sunday supplements and watching twenty minutes of Made in Chelsea each Monday night. It’s a low ebb, but a consequence of circumstance. This too shall pass, you reassure yourself, but, it’s Autumn now and you cannot be sure. The only fuel in your tank comes from the smiling faces of your children, who far exceed the hype that preceded their arrival. But, even for their sakes, you need an outlet. And then it comes, like a long forgotten fifty euro note in a neglected suit breast pocket, a lyric from Bon Iver loops in your head, dropped from a higher place. You draw breath, and thank God for Justin Vernon.
Suddenly, you organize your day better. You go back running the exact number of miles it takes to listen to an album. The fresh air makes you think clearer and sleep deeper. You play the albums for your kids because you somehow want them to be influenced, even through osmosis, by the tortured greatness of the music. You reconnect with lost friends and remind them of killer verses. You scour the internet for concert dates – gigs you will never attend, but it’s more the hope than anything. Given Vernon’s proclivity for symbols, numbers, places, you pay little heed to song titles or lyrics at first, you just let it wash over you, again and again, until you’re content you’ve got it. And once you’ve got it, well, it’ll never leave you. You want this to be the music your children listen to in twenty years. You want to be the dad who gave this to them.
I don’t understand Vernon’s lyrics. Not in a way I can articulate. I have no comprehension of chords or chorus, but I do think I know a good song. When I was twelve my brother left me a Neil Young cassette After the Gold Rush. The sleeve of the cassette was photocopied, so, for a long time I thought Neil Young to be black, which is unimportant, but I devoured it. Next came Leonard Cohen’s New Skin for the Old Ceremony, and Bowie’s Changes. It gave me a foundation, not in the technicalities of what went in to making great music, but in the practicalities of what great music could sound like. Justin Vernon has made three great albums with Bon Iver. Each one a progressive evolution.
He possesses a look a Stoneybatter barista would kill for – part lumberjack, part Williamsburg poet – but, with Vernon it’s more accidental than contrived. Fame offends him. He refused to perform at the Grammys without his band. He experiments constantly – using Autotune, Vernon sounds like a chipmunk when uttering the very first line of his 2017 album 22, A Million: “It might be over soon” – you may not tolerate such gimmicks from other artists, but, you trust his reasons and they almost always win out. Most tellingly, he’s done his time in the trenches; spending a winter of his life in Galway, meaning he has lived the nightmare of wet boot-cut denim on shin bone, drenched from wild Atlantic rain, and undoubtedly comforted himself supping mothers milk, in the guise of stout from Freeneys on High Street. You believe you could sit there with him, as he devours Taytos, quiet and content. He seems like one of us. Save, of course, for the genius.
***********************
“Go find another lover, to bring a… to string along”
It’s a little over ten years since Vernon disappeared into a Wisconsin wood, a broken man. The fruits of his soul-searching sabbatical manifested themselves in his 2008 masterpiece, For Emma, Forever Ago. I say masterpiece, but we all know there is no definitive database of masterpieces. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right?
With a title like that, the album could only be about one thing. With a title like that, it wouldn’t have mattered if the album was a crock of shit. The title itself was a lyric. A lyrical ode to love, loss, and regret. The title, all by itself, was a wolf-whistle. An aria. Four words and a comma that contained multitudes. Four words and a comma and you nearly knew everything you needed to know about how this girl ripped the beating heart from a grown man’s chest and performed a Maori war dance on the bloody organ. Yeah, that’s right, it happens to guys too.
Turns out, Vernon’s album was not sprinkled with genius as much as it was marinated in it. Maybe there was no Emma, but I defy anybody to invest some time in this and tell me it didn’t come from the deepest darkest hole in a broken-hearted man’s soul. Scattered with lyrics that, to a layman at least, represented memories – or, represented representations of memories – for what are memories only one person’s recollections of what they think happened? This album, once I got to know it, slept with it and took it home to meet the folks, embodied everything that great art can be – that is, many things at once.
I get it. One man’s tipple is another man’s poison. We can’t all love the same music, just as we can’t all love the same girl. There’d be a recession. Nobody would get any work done. I’ve passed Bon Iver on, to many people I thought should know better, and they’ve tossed him like a quinoa salad, citing his melancholy and his “incessant whine.” Cool. Whatever. More misery for me. I’m down with that. I can only surmise they didn’t put in the time. For Vernon’s music is like an onion. First listen might only give you tentative cause for return, but peel back the layers, and eventually arrive at the lyrics – shit, brother, you’ll have to leave the kitchen, with wet eyes and an aching heart.
“And the story’s all over you, in the morning I’ll call you, can’t you find a clue, when your eyes are all painted Sinatra blue”
Sinatra blue. When your eyes are all painted Sinatra blue. Are you fucking kidding me? Imagine coming up with that line. I swear, I’d buy a boat after that one. Crack open a cold one, and hang up the Copa Mundials. I’d contact Barry Egan, ask him to ghost-write my biography.
I know how this goes. Give Arianna Grande some of these lyrics and she too could make them in to something inspiring to somebody, and sell millions more in the process. No problem with that. I can only speak for myself. These words, in the context of the music, have a punch that could fell a horse.
“There’s a black crow sitting across from me, and his wiry legs are crossed, he’s dangling my keys, he even faked a toss whatever could it be…”
Fucked if I know Justin. But I’ve met that crow too, so you had me at hello.
“Sent your sister home in a cab.”
That line floors me more than any other. Don’t ask me why. I’ve no clue.
Colin Sheridan 