Garth’s appeal eludes the arts elites

Opinion: The people who like popular entertainment pay their taxes too

Why the impulse to ignorantly dismiss, rather than explore, the phenomenon that is Garth Brooks? Photograph: AP

Why the impulse to ignorantly dismiss, rather than explore, the phenomenon that is Garth Brooks? Photograph: AP

Wed, Jul 16, 2014, 13:35

When her husband was back in their flea-ridden Parisian hotel sweating over Finnegans Wake, Nora Joyce entertained herself by going to music shops and listening to romantic music.

In 1997, Nuala O’Faolain was in HMV doing something similarly lowbrow, as she wrote at the time. Headphones on, she was having a “free listen” to Andrea Bocelli and Sara Brightman duetting on Time to Say Goodbye, from an album that had “gone gold” in three weeks.

“And why wouldn’t it,” she asked tartly. “It’s the last word in lush accompaniment and swelling manly voice. It’s gorgeous . . . He sings this ballad as if he means it with all his heart and that’s why it speaks to so many people.”

To those people, she said, that is art.

Her readers, she knew, would include the local high priests of culture, the ones who rolled their eyes at Bocelli’s sentimental balladry. But the people who loved Bocelli paid taxes too, money harnessed for the cool, young artists who still populated Temple Bar, the elders of Aosdána, the theatres, the orchestras.

That same year, Garth Brooks returned to Ireland and over three nights (sold out in hours), 120,000 fans whooped it up and bathed their souls in choruses of ruin and redemption, cigarette lighters flickering in the north city darkness, tears coursing down more than a few faces. I was there because I had got press tickets after an interview with him and because I was curious.

The backstory was of the permanently fat-fighting, marketing-graduate son of an oil company draughtsman, both of whom wanted to be cowboys and who finally got the ranch with the son’s first record contract; the likeable, Grammy-winning megastar who had apparently settled into domesticity with a hilariously wild woman (it didn’t last, alas), who called records “units”, who had featured on the cover of Forbes, and provided health insurance and a pension plan for the band.

You would have to be stone dead not to be curious about how this persona translated to the stage. I marvelled at how this mild, exquisitely courteous interviewee could morph into that rambunctious, crazy man up there, entrancing 40,000 people, belting out the chorus to You May be Right and reducing them to tears with The Dance. And managing to sound as if he meant it with all his heart. If that’s not art, there is surely an art in it, a quality given to very, very few.

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