Live Aid at 40: Bob Geldof emerges from this less sanitised version of events seeming somehow more admirable

Irish Times

10-07-2025

For the past four weeks the Irish-language music series
An Ghig Mhór
(RTÉ One, Monday) has chronicled the fortunes of various up-and-coming musical acts as they put on a big gig in their hometown with help from veteran artists such as the folk singer John Spillane and Rónán Ó Snodaigh of Kíla.
This week's subjects are the Connemara band Na hEasógaí, who fuse sean-nós with contemporary rock, and say they take their name from the seanfhocal 'chomh craiceáilte le mála easóg', or 'mad as a bag of weasels', on the grounds that they, themselves, are 'a bit mad'.
If one were moved to pick holes in this self-diagnosis, the show provides many opportunities. As we watch them discuss their craft, scope out venues and attempt to negotiate a generator for a knockdown rate, Na hEasógaí appear to be almost parodically well-adjusted young men.
Quiet, diligent and suffused with altar-boy politeness, they're a charming trio, filled with wide-eyed delight at the prospect of staging their first big gig, whether that be in a gym with coin-slot power supply or in a distinctly malodorous fish factory.
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To aid them in this endeavour they are joined by Tebi Rex, a Maynooth rap duo who quickly find themselves beguiled by the band's earnestness and dedication, even if the two groups' musical leanings appear to share little common ground.
What follows is an amiable journey towards what might be termed nanostardom, in which the band scout stages and transport for the gig, and attempt to drum up publicity by handing out flyers dressed (somewhat) like weasels.
An Gig Mhór: Na hEasógaí. Photograph: RTÉ
It is, in short, a microcosm of the scrabble and indignity involved in promoting your art as a young person, but also of the irreducible thrill of so doing.
It's not exactly punk film-making, and anyone looking for a whiskey-soaked, blood-splattered paean to hardcore DIY music would do better returning to their battered copies of Legs McNeil's Please Kill Me or Simon Reynolds's Rip It Up and Start Again.
This is resolutely gentle telly, filmed with all the anarchic energy of a weather forecast, but its style and tone work well for what is, essentially, a disarmingly astute chronicle of the admin and obstacles for any kid out there with three chords in their head and a couple of pals to play them with.
In the 20 years since I last found myself palling around with teenage friends, trying to put on gigs featuring our (much worse) music, it's alarming to see how much, and how little, has really changed. The tyranny of Spotify followers and the spectre of venue closures haunt this younger generation in ways we never had to deal with, providing umpteen hurdles that seem wearily intractable for those of us whose musical lives and deaths belong to a predigital age.
But the central dilemma of putting your art in front of people seems as familiar as ever, even in a show that gets around most of these problems by having an RTÉ film crew and a successful rap group take on some of the heavy lifting.
None of this dims Na hEasógaí's passion at any stage, of course, and they charge through technical difficulties and venue changes with an unbreakable belief that their audience will be found, and that they'll be left satisfied. Maybe that resolve comes from youth, or perhaps you really do have to be mad as a box of weasels to believe it, but An Ghig Mhór is here to tell us that if you build it, they will come.
At the risk of placing their efforts in the ha'penny place, it's 40 years this week since another self-possessed Irish man called around a few pals and decided to put a gig together. You might be forgiven for thinking we didn't need another documentary about Live Aid, the seminal movement of records, concerts and fundraising that has since begat dozens of anniversary events and releases, and at least as many films, dramatic re-enactments and, last year, a jukebox musical on the West End stage.
But
Live Aid at 40: When Rock'n'Roll Took on the World
(BBC Two, Sunday) makes a compelling case for just one more go around one of the best-documented events in cultural memory.
The early beats of this series – the first two parts of which aired last week, with another to air this Sunday – will be familiar to anyone who has been alive for the past four decades: Bob Geldof's visceral reaction to Michael Buerk's reporting from the Ethiopian famine in 1984; the slow but steady progress of turning that disgust into an unprecedentedly large charitable venture; and the artistic and logistical challenge of corralling the world's biggest pop stars into both a 'check your egos at the door' supergroup and the most ambitious series of live concerts ever mounted.
Where this series differs is in its slightly more holistic approach to the story, placing the experiences of Ethiopians somewhat closer to centre stage and examining, if patchily, the broader context of international uninterest, cold-war politics and distribution issues that complicated relief efforts at the time.
We hear from figures as diverse as an Ethiopian farmer, Woldu Menameno; Dawit Wolde Giorgis, an Ethiopian aid minister; and Rony Brauman of Médecins Sans Frontières – none of whom, thankfully, has much to say about the perils of getting Boy George on a Concorde from New York so he can make it to the studio in time to sing on the Band Aid single.
Instead they offer refreshingly clear-eyed critiques of the movement's messaging and the occasional, and irrefutable, paternalism with which it was enacted, not least Geldof's sweary interactions with Ethiopian government figures, the questionable absence of black artists from Live Aid's Wembley shows and the titular query posed by Band Aid's seminal Christmas number one. Was it tactful, we may reasonably ask, to wonder whether people in Ethiopia, perhaps the oldest Christian nation on the planet, knew when Christmas was?
Even amid the story's better-known early beats, there's stuff here I'd not previously seen. Geldof's tale of attending a swanky soiree in London shortly after first seeing Buerk's reporting is one I've heard before. I had not, however, seen footage of this very party, in which he can clearly be overheard saying, in real time, how 'gross' it is to be eating canapes with socialites while others elsewhere starve.
Seeing it in the flesh seems absurd, a moment in time so weighted with everything that came after, it almost beggars belief that it was captured.
And there is real emotion. At one point in the first episode, Geldof breaks down in tears while recalling the guilt he felt about being marketed as a white saviour during his trip to Ethiopia, when Do They Know It's Christmas? came on the radio. Through tears, he repeats words that feature several times in the programme: 'rage and shame'.
Live Aid at 40 is, at times, a survey of Geldof at his most driven and visionary, but also at his most pugnacious, even arrogant; a portrait that deploys fewer of the standard messianic safety nets afforded to him by previous films, and gives his critics, and their context, a valuable right of reply.
The result, counterintuitively perhaps, is a series of films that gives audiences greater reason to admire him, and the incredible things Live Aid really did achieve, than a dozen more hagiographical documentaries ever could.