Cónal Creedon: Eurovision, the zeitgeist barometer
The Kalush Orchestra pose onstage with the winner's trophy and Ukraine's flags after winning last year's Eurovision Song contest. Picture: Marco Bertorello/AFP via Getty Images
Anyone with even a passing interest in Eurovision will have come across Will Ferrell’s on Netflix.
In a narrative fuelled by an obsession for the Icelandic nonsense-lyric, Ja Ja Ding Dong, the Eurovision Song Contest is exposed as a cliché-ridden parody of itself — a frivolous, evanescent, inconsequential popular music feast of glitz, glam and glitter.
But despite the perceived frivolity, Eurovision has always had its finger firmly pressed to the pulse of the raw throbbing, underbelly of the greater European project.
History regularly reminds us that Europe has long been at war with itself, arguably the most violent and volatile piece of real estate on the planet.
Staunch allies have slit each other’s throats, treaties of peace have been treacherously broken, and the soil has been soiled by the entrails of successive generations — cities levelled and rebuilt, walls constructed and knocked down again, and borders drawn and redrawn across the map in blood-red ink.
For millennia, the most powerful armies of the world have faced each other across some farmer’s field in a wet and boggy lowland to do battle for ground of such low yield it would keep neither snipe nor grouse. Yet, battle-hardened, they stood their ground and fought to the bitter end of total annihilation.
When Julius Caesar stepped out onto the steps of Rome in 58BC and uttered the immortal words “Omnia gallia in tres partes divisa est”, he identified the kernel of the problem. In his Commentarii de Bello Gallico, Caesar explains that the component territories of Europe “differ from each other substantially, in language, customs and laws".
With an eye to economic growth, Caesar set about a programme of unification through the crude mechanism of the Gallic Wars. To his credit, Pax Romani, which lasted almost 500 years, was probably the most successful attempted unification of Europe to date.
The union remained relatively intact until The Kingdom of Soissons, that contentious piece of ground between the rivers Somme and the Seine, fell to the Franks in 486 AD. From that day to this, reunification has been a work in progress, and the pockmarked fields of Flanders have become the blood clot of Europe, a weeping, seeping scab that is regularly picked raw by attempts at forced unity.
Many have set eyes on this elusive prize, and ultimately all have failed — Hannibal, Attila the Hun and Napoleon, to name but a few.
And when Queen Victoria of The House of Hanover married her cousin Albert of the Saxe Coburg-Gotha dynasty in 1840, Europe almost became unified beneath the crown and sceptre of an uber-royal Family. Historians speculate, and most agree, that Pax Victoria might have succeeded had it not been plagued by internal squabbles in Victoria’s nursery between the cousins — king, tzar and kaiser.
Alas, we are all too familiar with the most recent brutal and catastrophic attempt to unite Europe around the rallying call of: One People, One Realm, One Leader. The outcome was as divisive as it was tragic, and once again we buried ours and they buried theirs, and the red poppies raised their heads and danced a fandango across the green fields of France.
This never-ending cycle of bloodletting, death, gore and destruction, exposed the futility of employing warfare as a unifying force. Maybe that’s why in the aftermath of the Second World War, Winston Churchill came up with the inspired and challenging concept of unity by consent, and called for the formation of the Council of Europe.
This paved the way for a convening of the Union of European Federalists. The ensuing isolationism and polarisation of the Cold War seemed to galvanise the formation of the European Economic Community [EEC], which eventually became the European Union [EU].
So why the history lesson? Well, this is the genesis of Eurovision — a love child born into a maelstrom of pan-European projects aimed at healing millennia of hurt. And so, inspired by the Italian Festival di Sanremo, Concours Eurovision de la Chanson was first held in 1956.
Europe of the 1960s would be unrecognisable today. Not a lot had changed since Caesar’s observations of 58BC. From our perspective, perched out here on the western isles off the North Atlantic coast, the continent, as it was known then, was a faraway and exotic place, populated by distinct and sovereign nations, separated by incompatible language, culture and currency.
Back in those days before package holidays, continental travel was an obstacle course of border posts, passport control and visa restrictions, not to mention the required bulging wallet of foreign exchange: franc, lat, guilder, escudo, lira, peseta, Deutschmark and drachma — further complicated by localised fluctuating exchange rates.
It was precisely this regional diversity that gave rise to the often parodied Eurovision nonsense lyric, such as the now iconic La-la-la which sealed victory for Spain in 1968, followed by Boom Bang-a-Bang Boom for the UK in 1969. This gobbledegook seemed to bridge the chasm between competing cultures hungry to communicate with each other — or at least clap along and join in the chorus.
Despite commitment to a strict apolitical code, Eurovision is a blatant flag-waving extravaganza of nationalist triumphalism. But because the winners are selected by a democratic public vote, it has become a highly charged and invaluable platform for dissent. In 2022, the tsunami of public support for war-torn Ukraine’s winning entry sent out a clear and undeniable statement.
Likewise, in 1969, when Northern Ireland became consumed by spiralling sectarian violence, with thousands of Catholic refugees fleeing south of the border to the Republic, and the deployment of British troops onto the streets. It spoke volumes when Dana, a young Catholic schoolgirl from Derry chose to represent the South of Ireland in the 1970 Eurovision.
Her simple song of hope rose up from behind the barricades, cutting clean through the rhetoric, sabre-rattling and bloody racket of conflict. It was Ireland’s first victory in Europe. Within a year, Irish affairs had moved centre stage into the spotlight of European international politics when the Treaty of Accession was signed.
For a more overt expression of Eurovision sedition one need look no further than the 1974 Carnation Revolution in Portugal. Paulo de Carvalho's Eurovision song was used as the secret signal to overthrow the authoritarian Estado Novo Regime. And right on cue, at 10.55pm sharp on April 24, when the opening bars were broadcast on Emissores Associados de Lisboa, the revolution began. Democracy was established and the rest as they say, is history.
Ironically, that same year, Swedish pop sensation Abba won the Eurovision with a song celebrating the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo.
And maybe all is fair in love and war. That might explain why, at the height of the South Lebanon Conflict of 1978, Jordanian media decided to ignore the existence of the State of Israel, when they blocked the live Eurovision performance of Abanabi, the Israeli entry, and simply broadcast the fake news that runners-up Belgium had won.
Meanwhile, back where it all began, at the pit face of the Cold War. In 1989 the Western world jumped with joy when Mikhail Gorbachev’s policy of glasnost heralded the dismantling of the Berlin Wall. It signalled a rapid expansion eastward that opened the floodgates, releasing a deluge of Eastern Euro-techno-pop that has become so synonymous with Eurovision.
In recent years, contestants have taken a unilateral stand and seized the opportunity to address social issues. In 2009, Dutch semi-finalists The Toppers threatened to pull out of the contest in Moscow if authorities cracked down on a Gay Pride march. Protesters took to the streets highlighting Russia’s poor record on gay rights. Riots and arrests ensued, and the Moscow Eurovision copper-fastened the song contest as a platform to promote the LGBTQ+ cause, so much so that the Eurovision Commission demanded the rainbow flag should not become an emblem of provocation.
Again in 2013, Finland’s Krista Siegfrids made a stand for legalising same-sex marriage. Costumed in a wedding dress, Krista taunted conservative Europe when she kissed her female backing dancer during her performance of Marry Me. And in 2014, the call for acceptance and gender fluidity was highlighted, when a bearded Tom Neuwirth won Eurovision for Austria, performing as his stage persona, Conchita Wurst.
Once again, Eurovision led the way and Europe followed.
The Eurovision trajectory of Ireland is worthy of analysis. Back in the 1960s, as a fledgeling Republic, resources were tight. Consequently, Ireland seldom featured in international competition. For the most part, Irish national pride was achieved in the reflected glory of the Irish diaspora. Then along came Eurovision. Instinctively, the Irish national passion for singing songs seemed to level the playing pitch. The Irish embraced Eurovision as an opportunity to express national identity on an international stage.
Ireland holds the record of seven Eurovision wins and is the only country to have won the title three times consecutively. Even Ireland’s interval act from 1994, ‘Riverdance’, became a worldwide sensation, grossing box office receipts and introduced traditional Irish dance as a global phenomenon. But then, in 2008, just as the booming Celtic Tiger economy roared loudest, the unexpected happened.
Dustin the Turkey, a glove puppet in a shopping trolley, chanting “Irelande Douze Pointe!” was selected to represent Ireland in Eurovision. Euro-analysts suggest it was an expression of Ireland’s coming of age, an arrogance bred of the booming economy. This parody of parodies raised a feathered finger of superiority to the world. Some say it was genius, others say it was ghastly. Maybe it was Ireland’s crude way of stepping out of the spotlight, making way for the new Eastern European Republics to take centre stage.
Regardless of the subliminal intention, Dustin the Turkey will be remembered as Ireland’s Eurovision swansong.
The opening salvo of the most recent Russo-Ukrainian War ensured that Eurovision 2022 would not be without controversy. Alina Pash, the singer selected to represent Ukraine, was accused of illegally travelling to Russian-annexed Crimea, an allegation she vehemently denied. But to avoid a ‘virtual war and hatred’ Alina stepped down from the competition, and was replaced by Kalush Orchestra.
Had it been any other year, Europundits and músicos all agree that the sensational Sam Ryder, with his showstopping performance of Space Man, would achieve victory for the UK. But European opinion consolidated behind a campaign to secure a massive and unprecedented public vote for Ukraine. And when the final scores were tallied, Kalush Orchestra had leap frogged from a floundering fourth position to outright winners. The free and democratic voice of Europe stood shoulder to shoulder with Ukraine and had spoken as one.
Magnanimous in defeat, Sam Ryder’s integrity shone through in the true spirit of Eurovision, when he sent his love and support to the besieged people of Ukraine.
Due to the unabating conflict, Ukraine is unable to host this year’s contest. Call it a Eurovision solution to a European problem, but it seemed right, fair and appropriate when the BBC stepped up to the mark. And so, for the first time since 1998, Eurovision is coming home to the UK.
At its core, Eurovision is a pop music extravaganza. Boom Bang-a-Bang, and Ja Ja Ding Dong might rise a wry smile, but to dismiss it as trite would be an error of judgement. This is the soundtrack of Pax Europa.
Eurovision is lightning in a bottle — as elusive as Europe itself. Therein lies the secret of its success — that ability to renew, reinvent, react, has made Eurovision a zeitgeist barometer that thrives on the lifeblood, soul and marrow of what it means to be European at any snapshot moment in time.
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