A late-career marvel and an enriching memoir: The Age Book of the Year winners
The winners of this year's Age Book of the Year Awards have been praised for writing books that stay with readers long after their final pages.
The awards were presented by The Age editor Patrick Elligett at the opening night of the Melbourne Writers Festival on Thursday night, and the winners each received $10,000, thanks to the Copyright Agency's Cultural Fund.
Rodney Hall's Vortex won the awards' fiction category. Queensland-based Hall, who is 89, was unable to accept the award in person, but said in a pre-recorded video that the experimental Vortex, 'was a risk from the beginning'.
Hall, who has twice won the prestigious Miles Franklin Award, said his 14th novel, which is set in Brisbane in 1954 and depicts an alternative history of the 20th century, took shape in 2021 when he found 18 pages of a novel he had abandoned in 1971.
'At long last I could see what I had been aiming for when I was a young man. Fifteen of the eighteen pages went straight into the project.'
The fiction judges, author and critic Bram Presser, and The Age and Sydney Morning Herald 's Canberra Bureau Chief Michelle Griffin, described Vortex as a late-career marvel 'that sticks with you ... often surprisingly funny and sad all at once.'
'At a time when many will feel caught up in the vortex of global events, this novel feels both particular to its time and place and yet universal.'
The novel has been widely acclaimed as Hall's best, but the author says he 'doesn't distract himself' with comparisons of his novels. 'I just try to keep each book fresh for the reader.'
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
The Advertiser
4 hours ago
- The Advertiser
Standing firm on Aussie talent in the streaming era
Making it onto a popular Spotify playlist is huge for country musician Sara Storer, who is releasing her eighth solo album. But she puts it down to sheer luck. "You just cross your fingers - you rely on someone to like your music, to get on a playlist that could be heard by millions," she says. This is the kind of scale musicians need to even start making money from recordings in the streaming era. Even solid numbers from Storer's mostly Australian audience don't translate to a viable income. A recent snapshot of the listening habits of Australian music fans show the shift to streaming has resulted in playlists that are dominated by pop from the US and Britain. While Australians say they love local music, only one in three fans will actively look for new songs by Australian artists, research by federal music development and funding agency Music Australia shows. And of the top 10,000 artists streamed in Australia during 2024, eight per cent were Australian while more than half were from the US, according to entertainment analytics firm Luminate. These are sobering figures but Darwin-based Storer has high hopes for her album titled Worth Your Love, which is being released at the end of June. "This album is a big deal for me," she says. "The songs on it, I just can't wait for everyone to hear the new music. "I feel like this is me getting back into the music industry." It's an industry that has completely transformed since Storer started out, teaching music and singing her own songs by the campfire at outback stations in the remote Northern Territory. When her first album Chasing Buffalo was released in 2001, listeners would hear Storer's tunes on the radio, she made money selling CDs, and her record label had money to spend. More than two decades later, the mother of four boys has to rely on touring to make a living. It's something she describes as a rollercoaster of variable ticket sales and festival slots that often don't eventuate. She wonders about the streaming playlists and radio stations that default to imported tunes, when she believes Australian music is top notch. "People can mock it and say we sound feral or put us down like we're second grade but I love the way Aussies sound," she says. She name checks John Williamson, Paul Kelly and Missy Higgins - each one an authentic storyteller, just like Storer. But a US sub-genre known as bro-country, with lyrics about women, whiskey, pick-up trucks and cowboy boots, is currently in vogue instead, she says. As she prepares to embark on a national tour in July, Storer hopes a more authentic brand of country will soon have a resurgence. "Especially older generations, they're not going to want to hear bro-country," she says. "They're going to be starved for someone singing Aussie stories." As for the future of the industry, Storer is putting her faith in the calibre and originality of Australian music. "At the end of the day it's about the quality of the songs, being true to yourself as an artist, because that's what really shines through," she says. "If you sound like everyone else, it's boring and you'll just get skipped." Making it onto a popular Spotify playlist is huge for country musician Sara Storer, who is releasing her eighth solo album. But she puts it down to sheer luck. "You just cross your fingers - you rely on someone to like your music, to get on a playlist that could be heard by millions," she says. This is the kind of scale musicians need to even start making money from recordings in the streaming era. Even solid numbers from Storer's mostly Australian audience don't translate to a viable income. A recent snapshot of the listening habits of Australian music fans show the shift to streaming has resulted in playlists that are dominated by pop from the US and Britain. While Australians say they love local music, only one in three fans will actively look for new songs by Australian artists, research by federal music development and funding agency Music Australia shows. And of the top 10,000 artists streamed in Australia during 2024, eight per cent were Australian while more than half were from the US, according to entertainment analytics firm Luminate. These are sobering figures but Darwin-based Storer has high hopes for her album titled Worth Your Love, which is being released at the end of June. "This album is a big deal for me," she says. "The songs on it, I just can't wait for everyone to hear the new music. "I feel like this is me getting back into the music industry." It's an industry that has completely transformed since Storer started out, teaching music and singing her own songs by the campfire at outback stations in the remote Northern Territory. When her first album Chasing Buffalo was released in 2001, listeners would hear Storer's tunes on the radio, she made money selling CDs, and her record label had money to spend. More than two decades later, the mother of four boys has to rely on touring to make a living. It's something she describes as a rollercoaster of variable ticket sales and festival slots that often don't eventuate. She wonders about the streaming playlists and radio stations that default to imported tunes, when she believes Australian music is top notch. "People can mock it and say we sound feral or put us down like we're second grade but I love the way Aussies sound," she says. She name checks John Williamson, Paul Kelly and Missy Higgins - each one an authentic storyteller, just like Storer. But a US sub-genre known as bro-country, with lyrics about women, whiskey, pick-up trucks and cowboy boots, is currently in vogue instead, she says. As she prepares to embark on a national tour in July, Storer hopes a more authentic brand of country will soon have a resurgence. "Especially older generations, they're not going to want to hear bro-country," she says. "They're going to be starved for someone singing Aussie stories." As for the future of the industry, Storer is putting her faith in the calibre and originality of Australian music. "At the end of the day it's about the quality of the songs, being true to yourself as an artist, because that's what really shines through," she says. "If you sound like everyone else, it's boring and you'll just get skipped." Making it onto a popular Spotify playlist is huge for country musician Sara Storer, who is releasing her eighth solo album. But she puts it down to sheer luck. "You just cross your fingers - you rely on someone to like your music, to get on a playlist that could be heard by millions," she says. This is the kind of scale musicians need to even start making money from recordings in the streaming era. Even solid numbers from Storer's mostly Australian audience don't translate to a viable income. A recent snapshot of the listening habits of Australian music fans show the shift to streaming has resulted in playlists that are dominated by pop from the US and Britain. While Australians say they love local music, only one in three fans will actively look for new songs by Australian artists, research by federal music development and funding agency Music Australia shows. And of the top 10,000 artists streamed in Australia during 2024, eight per cent were Australian while more than half were from the US, according to entertainment analytics firm Luminate. These are sobering figures but Darwin-based Storer has high hopes for her album titled Worth Your Love, which is being released at the end of June. "This album is a big deal for me," she says. "The songs on it, I just can't wait for everyone to hear the new music. "I feel like this is me getting back into the music industry." It's an industry that has completely transformed since Storer started out, teaching music and singing her own songs by the campfire at outback stations in the remote Northern Territory. When her first album Chasing Buffalo was released in 2001, listeners would hear Storer's tunes on the radio, she made money selling CDs, and her record label had money to spend. More than two decades later, the mother of four boys has to rely on touring to make a living. It's something she describes as a rollercoaster of variable ticket sales and festival slots that often don't eventuate. She wonders about the streaming playlists and radio stations that default to imported tunes, when she believes Australian music is top notch. "People can mock it and say we sound feral or put us down like we're second grade but I love the way Aussies sound," she says. She name checks John Williamson, Paul Kelly and Missy Higgins - each one an authentic storyteller, just like Storer. But a US sub-genre known as bro-country, with lyrics about women, whiskey, pick-up trucks and cowboy boots, is currently in vogue instead, she says. As she prepares to embark on a national tour in July, Storer hopes a more authentic brand of country will soon have a resurgence. "Especially older generations, they're not going to want to hear bro-country," she says. "They're going to be starved for someone singing Aussie stories." As for the future of the industry, Storer is putting her faith in the calibre and originality of Australian music. "At the end of the day it's about the quality of the songs, being true to yourself as an artist, because that's what really shines through," she says. "If you sound like everyone else, it's boring and you'll just get skipped." Making it onto a popular Spotify playlist is huge for country musician Sara Storer, who is releasing her eighth solo album. But she puts it down to sheer luck. "You just cross your fingers - you rely on someone to like your music, to get on a playlist that could be heard by millions," she says. This is the kind of scale musicians need to even start making money from recordings in the streaming era. Even solid numbers from Storer's mostly Australian audience don't translate to a viable income. A recent snapshot of the listening habits of Australian music fans show the shift to streaming has resulted in playlists that are dominated by pop from the US and Britain. While Australians say they love local music, only one in three fans will actively look for new songs by Australian artists, research by federal music development and funding agency Music Australia shows. And of the top 10,000 artists streamed in Australia during 2024, eight per cent were Australian while more than half were from the US, according to entertainment analytics firm Luminate. These are sobering figures but Darwin-based Storer has high hopes for her album titled Worth Your Love, which is being released at the end of June. "This album is a big deal for me," she says. "The songs on it, I just can't wait for everyone to hear the new music. "I feel like this is me getting back into the music industry." It's an industry that has completely transformed since Storer started out, teaching music and singing her own songs by the campfire at outback stations in the remote Northern Territory. When her first album Chasing Buffalo was released in 2001, listeners would hear Storer's tunes on the radio, she made money selling CDs, and her record label had money to spend. More than two decades later, the mother of four boys has to rely on touring to make a living. It's something she describes as a rollercoaster of variable ticket sales and festival slots that often don't eventuate. She wonders about the streaming playlists and radio stations that default to imported tunes, when she believes Australian music is top notch. "People can mock it and say we sound feral or put us down like we're second grade but I love the way Aussies sound," she says. She name checks John Williamson, Paul Kelly and Missy Higgins - each one an authentic storyteller, just like Storer. But a US sub-genre known as bro-country, with lyrics about women, whiskey, pick-up trucks and cowboy boots, is currently in vogue instead, she says. As she prepares to embark on a national tour in July, Storer hopes a more authentic brand of country will soon have a resurgence. "Especially older generations, they're not going to want to hear bro-country," she says. "They're going to be starved for someone singing Aussie stories." As for the future of the industry, Storer is putting her faith in the calibre and originality of Australian music. "At the end of the day it's about the quality of the songs, being true to yourself as an artist, because that's what really shines through," she says. "If you sound like everyone else, it's boring and you'll just get skipped."
Perth Now
4 hours ago
- Perth Now
Standing firm on Aussie talent in the streaming era
Making it onto a popular Spotify playlist is huge for country musician Sara Storer, who is releasing her eighth solo album. But she puts it down to sheer luck. "You just cross your fingers - you rely on someone to like your music, to get on a playlist that could be heard by millions," she says. This is the kind of scale musicians need to even start making money from recordings in the streaming era. Even solid numbers from Storer's mostly Australian audience don't translate to a viable income. A recent snapshot of the listening habits of Australian music fans show the shift to streaming has resulted in playlists that are dominated by pop from the US and Britain. While Australians say they love local music, only one in three fans will actively look for new songs by Australian artists, research by federal music development and funding agency Music Australia shows. And of the top 10,000 artists streamed in Australia during 2024, eight per cent were Australian while more than half were from the US, according to entertainment analytics firm Luminate. These are sobering figures but Darwin-based Storer has high hopes for her album titled Worth Your Love, which is being released at the end of June. "This album is a big deal for me," she says. "The songs on it, I just can't wait for everyone to hear the new music. "I feel like this is me getting back into the music industry." It's an industry that has completely transformed since Storer started out, teaching music and singing her own songs by the campfire at outback stations in the remote Northern Territory. When her first album Chasing Buffalo was released in 2001, listeners would hear Storer's tunes on the radio, she made money selling CDs, and her record label had money to spend. More than two decades later, the mother of four boys has to rely on touring to make a living. It's something she describes as a rollercoaster of variable ticket sales and festival slots that often don't eventuate. She wonders about the streaming playlists and radio stations that default to imported tunes, when she believes Australian music is top notch. "People can mock it and say we sound feral or put us down like we're second grade but I love the way Aussies sound," she says. She name checks John Williamson, Paul Kelly and Missy Higgins - each one an authentic storyteller, just like Storer. But a US sub-genre known as bro-country, with lyrics about women, whiskey, pick-up trucks and cowboy boots, is currently in vogue instead, she says. As she prepares to embark on a national tour in July, Storer hopes a more authentic brand of country will soon have a resurgence. "Especially older generations, they're not going to want to hear bro-country," she says. "They're going to be starved for someone singing Aussie stories." As for the future of the industry, Storer is putting her faith in the calibre and originality of Australian music. "At the end of the day it's about the quality of the songs, being true to yourself as an artist, because that's what really shines through," she says. "If you sound like everyone else, it's boring and you'll just get skipped."
Sydney Morning Herald
7 hours ago
- Sydney Morning Herald
He had run out of ideas and was running out of time. So he turned his problems into art.
Stieg Persson had run out of ideas and was quickly running out of time. The accomplished Melbourne-based artist had been offered a show and as he sat, facing the possibility of blank walls and blank canvases, he decided to take his dilemma and flip it on its head. Persson has work held in most of our major galleries as well as the Auckland Art Gallery and Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. This month, his latest exhibition, Black Swans, opened at Anna Schwartz Gallery – and all of the works come from having absolutely no ideas, he says. 'I'd been out of the studio for a while ... and I'd just lost the rhythm,' he explains. 'For a couple of weeks I had literally no ideas... I just couldn't see it. And then I thought, why don't I make work about having no ideas – deal with the problem.' As he gazed at Post-it notes stuck on the wall – featuring scribbled lines from texts that resonated with him – he realised he was not the first to face this predicament. Having read about 'black swan events' recently, and having painted swans in the past, he decided to get to work and combine the two. Originally used to describe an impossible event – prior to 1697, no European knew black swans existed – the term now refers to a highly improbable event that once it occurs, seems inevitable. Coined in the context of financial markets by US-based former options trader Nassim Taleb in 2007, the term 'black swan event' now has a broader cultural meaning. Persson's series takes quotes from some of our greatest artistic minds and makes them spout from the mouths of black swans. Some of the lines are amusing, some are poignant; all of them ring true. 'Once it happened, it came together rather quickly,' he says. 'I had this one little painting which was an abstract I had done in the '90s, that became the background. I thought about that heraldic space where animals talk, those medieval balloons.' Though most of the paintings were well underway before the second election of Donald Trump, as every day brings new black swan events, the works feel particularly prescient.
