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RTÉ News
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- RTÉ News
What might a modern Irish revival look like in today's world?
Noisín Co-founder Cian O'Connell introduces a new series of cultural events 'creating space for a new wave of expression rooted in tradition but alive to the present'. What does it mean to be Irish today? That's the question at the heart of Nóisin, a collective of Irish creatives based between Amsterdam and Dublin, inspired by the Celtic Revival and Irish Renaissance of the late 1800s. Founded by Mark Toal Lennon and Cian O'Connell, Nóisin began with impromptu music nights - evenings of tunes, stories and spontaneous connection that soon evolved into deeper conversations about identity, heritage and the future of Irish culture. In those early gatherings, a question emerged again and again: what might a modern Irish revival look like in today's world? For us, it's about more than nostalgia - it's about creating space for a new wave of expression rooted in tradition but alive to the present. We've found that Irish identity often reveals itself most vividly from a distance. Living abroad can sharpen your sense of home, giving shape to the stories, sounds and symbols that define us. Nóisin's mission is to connect the diaspora and offer a platform for open, collaborative exchange - reimagining Irishness not as something fixed, but as something evolving. We do this through creative projects, live performances, printed matter and public programmes - all designed to celebrate the richness of Irish heritage while making space for new voices and visions. Our ambition is big, but it's matched by the extraordinary talent we see rising across Ireland. A highlight from last year was our Listener's Club: Christmas Special, held at Hen's Teeth in December in support of Medical Aid for Palestinians (MAP). The night was a heartfelt mix of song, story and solidarity, with performances from Was Man and Áine Smyth on fiddle, followed by an impromptu trad session featuring John Francis Flynn. The evening ended on a high with DJ sets by Cian O'Connell, Mark Toal Lennon and artist-producer Sean Kobina, who reinterpreted traditional Irish music through an electronic lens. It was a proper knees-up - a joyous celebration for a vital cause. Now, we're getting ready to return to Hen's Teeth on Sunday, June 8th, with Rare Auld Times - an afternoon dedicated to Dublin's history and enduring character. Hosted by historian Donal Fallon and soundtracked by musician Phelim Drew, son of the legendary Ronnie Drew, this event will trace the gritty, vibrant soul of the city through story and song. It's a tribute to the people, places and spirit that make Dublin what it is — full of heart, humour and resilience. Listen to Noisín's Here Comes The Spring mix Looking ahead, we're expanding our work by platforming emerging Irish artists, curating new listening parties and publishing collaborative works. We're also investing in visual storytelling and design to explore fresh ways of expressing Irish heritage. Whether through zines, film, or sound, we're excited to keep asking — and answering — that central question: what does Irishness mean today? Our ambition is big, but it's matched by the extraordinary talent we see rising across Ireland. We're always open to collaborations, so if you've got an idea, let's talk. Grá mór,
The National
19-05-2025
- Entertainment
- The National
I taught classical music in working-class Scotland. Then cuts came
If you weren't doing the job or had outstayed your welcome after three or four years in the same town, you started to lose your audience and were moved on to fresh fields. It was the distinguished Scottish composer Tom Wilson (below) who encouraged me to take up work for his part of Glasgow University's extra-mural department, as it was then called. I had no experience, but my audiences taught me pdq. The lectures had a two-hour slot. Rule one: there shall be a tea-break of absolutely not less than 10 minutes and anything cutting short the normal 15 minutes was best requested kindly. An hour and three-quarters was still loads of time and the great thing for classical music was you had enough of it actually to listen to what was being studied. So we could study in depth. Deeper than regular university courses could manage, even at honours level. I gave several series of 20 lectures: 20 on Beethoven; 20 on Haydn; 20 on Mozart; 20 on Schubert. Brahms, Handel, Monteverdi and Bartok each got 10. And many others besides. Years after I had finished doing these, I got a phone call to my home in the Isle of Skye. 'Is that Mr Purser? This is Mr M******. Do you remember me?' Of course I did. Mr M had a strong middle-class Glasgow accent, pitched a little high. He was in his 30s or 40s, I guessed, and he lived in sheltered housing. He would never ask questions in front of the rest of the class but would come up to me in the tea break so we could talk quietly between the two of us. READ MORE: Bringing legend to life: John Purser on JD Fergusson and the Celtic Revival How he had got my telephone number since I had moved from Glasgow, I have no idea – but he had moved on to the reason for the call: 'Do you remember that Schubert Quintet – I don't mean the Trout – I mean the one with the two cellos?' 'Yes, the Great C major. It's a masterpiece.' 'Do you remember that passage where the cellos are in thirds and it modulates?' 'Ye-e-e-e-s.' 'It's beaut'ful!' I had no time to respond as his next remark was: 'That's ma doorbell.' And the phone was slammed down. If you are looking for an objective measure of your legacy in such a job, you can't do better. But before you think I am boasting, that measure can operate the opposite way. I used also to lecture for the Workers Educational Association and was one day assigned to a hospital/care home for patients in Renfrewshire. I had been warned it was not an easy one. It wasn't. I was placed in a gymnasium which was totally unusable by the residents but kept at a temperature of around 80F. There was one chair, no table and the LP player had to sit on the floor near an electric plug. My audience of a dozen was wheeled in: all in wheelchairs, many with colostomy bags and half of them asleep. The atmosphere was soon redolent of ammonia. Of those who were awake, two old ladies listened to my pathetic effusions on the sad life of Schubert and his beautiful music with apparent pleasure. Two others had joined the sleepers. Two old gentlemen were, from their expressions, never going to be on my side. And so it proved. Two-thirds of the way through my efforts, one turned to the other and, with a stage whisper worthy of a Lawrence Olivier, asked: 'Was I born to suffer this?' It's not done to assault old men in wheelchairs, and I have expunged from memory how I reacted. Suffice it to say the gentleman was back the following week (I suspect he had no option) and asked the same question of the powers above at more or less the same juncture. It was only then that I understood that this was probably one of the few occasions on which he could exercise a little of his own power over the lot fate had assigned him in his later years. I don't begrudge him his protest. Indeed I am grateful to him now for teaching me how to accept being put in my place. Dumfries railway station It could have happened more than once. I was giving a course on opera in Dumfries and was doing away fine, starting with Monteverdi, working through Rameau, Handel and Mozart and finishing up with Bartók and Stravinsky. In between, I deigned to include some Italian folk, such as Verdi, Donizetti, Bellini and Puccini. Among my audience were the station master and signal man from Dumfries railway station. It was not a busy station and they had amassed an unparalleled collection of 78s of great Italian opera and opera singers to which they listened in the signal box. They knew every aria, every recitative, every plot, every vocal star, every conductor. They knew the lot. Far, far more than did I. They would ask me searching questions in the tea break and I would squirm with evasive embarrassment trying not to admit my ignorance too frequently. They must have known, but these were kindly men who were never going to press their advantage and were happy to receive whatever I had to offer outside their chosen marshalling yard of delights. Extra-mural lectures involved travel. A highlight was the flight to Campbeltown. It was in a De Havilland Heron and on more than one occasion the right-hand row of single seats had been removed. There were just 11 of us. Campbeltown The flight was to Machrihanish, sometimes via Islay, Machrihanish being an air base from which a bus took you into Campbeltown. We had wonderful views from large windows and, flying low, we could see right down the funnels of the many ships docked or still being built on the Clyde. The approach to the Mull of Kintyre was spectacular – the aircraft swept round the cliffs of Davaar Island so close that the seabirds rose in protest. We then skimmed the top of Campbeltown's spires and landed in a kind of military no man's land. I had all day in Campbeltown, time to explore Davaar Island if the tide was out for long enough, or to drop in on textile designer Veronica Togneri's shop. She would come to the lectures. But the town itself was not a happy place. There were many unemployed people hanging about street corners or keeping warm with the newspapers in the library. Flying in and out after an overnight in the biggest hotel in town didn't feel right and still doesn't. All that came to an end. No more overnights. I had been able to stay in the Selkirk Arms Hotel where I was assigned the room in which it was thought Robert Burns used to sleep. But now I had to drive from Glasgow to Kirkcudbright and back that night and had to repeat the journey to deliver the same lecture in Dumfries the following night. In midwinter the return home on the A74 with huge lorries, blinding spray, buffeting winds and lousy visibility climbing up to Beattock at 11pm was an exhausting misery of concentration. The end was in sight when you could see the glow of the Bessemer convertors at Ravenscraig belching fire on to the underside of the grim cloud cover. It was like descending into the inner depths of Dante's Inferno. Now and again, I was able to stay overnight near Kirkcudbright with generous class members and with the remarkable poet and playwright Betty Clarke (also known as Joan Ure, below). It was one such late autumn night and I was readying myself at the end of my class for the dark drive to her remote farmhouse. But just as I was ready to leave and most of the class had gone, an elderly woman came up to me. She was easily as tall as myself and she took me by the elbows and looked me straight in the eye. I remember her well and wish I could remember her name. She was a strongly-built woman and a strong character. Whenever she asked a question, it was an interesting one. I learnt that, despite being unmarried, she had managed to adopt a daughter, which in those days was no mean feat, and the adoption was a great success. She had recently retired as a church organist but she had not come to me about anything to do with music. I knew she was dying of cancer and had not long left – we all knew – but that wasn't it either. She spoke very earnestly telling me to drive carefully that night; that there was some kind of devil in me and I must, must be careful. I was taken aback. This was a rational lady with no hint of being superstitious, and there was nothing superstitious about the way she spoke. She knew. READ MORE: John Purser explores the maths and secret symbols behind the Enlightenment She knew, and she was right. I was driving fast so as not to reach Betty's too late, but it was more than that. It was a spooky night. No wind, no rain, but dark as hell. My headlights could scarcely pick out the narrow twisty road between the hedges and gaps for gates. The only other light came from sudden flashes of distant car headlights reflected from the underside of a dense, low cloud cover. I was pushing it – driving far too fast for the conditions. There was indeed a devil in me and if it hadn't been for that strange warning, I would have gone faster still. But every now and again, her words and her penetrating look made me ease off and I made it – just. The following week she was not in the class. She was dead. People near death sometimes have strange insights. I think this was one such. I believe that night she saved my life.
Irish Examiner
26-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Examiner
Antiques: Rich pickings in Bandon, Newcastlewest and Waterford
From a finely crafted Celtic Revival silver tea/coffee pot to an advertisement for Rory Gallagher at the Carlton Cinema in Dublin in 1974 and from Boehm Porcelain handpainted plates to Waterford Crystal upcoming sales at Hegarty's in Bandon, O'Donovan's in Newcastlewest and Keighery's in Waterford respectively offer a wide array of choice in a post-Easter burst of auction activity. Jewellery, silver, art and collectibles will come under the hammer at Hegarty's online from 11am on Wednesday (April 30). Rory Gallagher poster at O'Donovan's. At O'Donovan's in Newcastlewest, a private collection of music memorabilia and contents from three pubs in an online-only sale from 6pm on Monday evening (April 28). One hour later, at 7pm, the timed sale of porcelain, Waterford Crystal and collectibles at Keighery's will draw to a close.
Irish Independent
25-04-2025
- Business
- Irish Independent
Prototype Liam MacCarthy Cup and more GAA collectables go under the hammer
The committee chose the other one, which became the Liam MacCarthy Cup. The second version, catalogued as a 'Prototype of the Liam MacCarthy Cup' (Lot 709: est. €5,000 to €7,000), is going under the hammer at Fonsie Mealy's Rare Books and Collectors' Sale, which takes place in The Avalon House Hotel, Castlecomer, Co Kilkenny, on April 30 and May 1. The story of the cup goes back to 1922, when Liam MacCarthy offered to commission a perpetual trophy to be presented to the winners of the All-Ireland Senior Hurling Championship. MacCarthy was an Irish nationalist and successful businessman, born in the UK to Irish parents. He was also a keen hurler who became heavily involved in the GAA in London. The Liam MacCarthy Cup, a silver cup modelled on a medieval drinking vessel known as a mether, was made to commission by Edmond Johnson, of Dublin, and cost £50. Ironically, the maker of this Irish cultural icon had once made jewellery for the British Crown. Johnson's replica of the 10th-century Ballyspellan brooch was purchased by Prince Albert for Queen Victoria in 1849. In 1890, Johnson also made a coronet made for the Countess of Granard. The trophy was first presented to Limerick in 1923 for the 1921 championship, which was delayed due to Civil War. The original silver cup was retired in 1992 and is now in the GAA Museum in Croke Park. Since then, a replica of the Liam MacCarthy Cup has been presented to annually to the All-Ireland hurling champions. It too is a Celtic Revival silver cup, modelled as a mether, with four carrying handles. It was made by Edmond Johnson of Dublin and is dated 1923 The prototype currently at Fonsie Mealy Auctioneers is similar to the original, but not identical. It too is a Celtic Revival silver cup, modelled as a mether, with four carrying handles. It was made by Edmond Johnson of Dublin and is dated 1923. Around 29cm high, the prototype is slightly smaller than the Liam MacCarthy Cup and the design is different. Both versions have embellishments based on Celtic knot work but the decoration of the prototype, based on the Book of Kells, is much more intricate. It's not known why one version was chosen over the other. The prototype would have been trickier to make and consequently more expensive but it's more likely that the committee preferred the simpler design. This variant was presumably retained by the jeweller for sale, purchases, and passed down to the vendor by descent. 'I'd be absolutely thrilled if it went to the GAA Museum,' George Fonsie Mealy says. 'It would be lovely to see the pair of them back together.' ADVERTISEMENT Learn more In 2021, an exact full-size replica of the Liam MacCarthy Cup in silver plate sold for €9,000 at Fonsie Mealy Auctioneers. The replica was an exact facsimile of the original in all respects except in the use of silver plate (the original is solid silver). The piece had been commissioned by a private collector in the 1980s. In the same sale, a 1903 All-Ireland Football Championship gold medal (Lot 702: est. €5,000 to €7,000) represents the first of Kerry's 38 All-Ireland Senior Football titles. The familiar 9ct gold Celtic Cross design has the words 'Eire' and 'Cumann Luith Cleas Gaedhail' on the front and '1903 - All Ireland Football Championship, won by Kerry' on the back. 'The first of anything is always the most desirable,' George Fonsie Mealy says. Kerry won the All-Ireland Football Championship again in 1904 and a gold medal from this match is also in the sale (Lot 703: est. €3,500 to €5,000). Both lots come from the same family, passed down from one of the players on the team. A rare gold medal awarded to the winners of the 1916-18 Kilkenny Senior Hurling Championship (Lot 707: est. €800 to €1,200) represents the historic win of Mooncoin against Tullaroan. Ireland, at the time, was in turmoil. The 1916 championship game was postponed because of political unrest and final played in Knocktopher in August 1919. More than 5,000 people attended the game, which ended in a draw. The replay also drew large crowds. The medal was classed as incorporating the years 1917 and 1918, when the sport was disrupted and games could not be played. The medal is being sold by a family member of one of the players. 'These are emotive pieces,' George Fonsie Mealy says. 'The families are passing them on before their significance gets lost.' See
