The Cathedral Quarter Arts Festival has, as usual, been spending the last 12 months glancing over people’s shoulders and listening in on conversations; quietly taking note of what Belfast, as we find it in 2005, has to say for itself when it thinks no-one is paying attention. We’ve come to expect many things from this annual fortnight of big ideas and down-town fun – name acts, odd-ball curios, sore heads – but most importantly, six Festivals down the line, we know that, in the politest possible way, CQAF will try to deliver a few home truths.

This year, organisers let it be known that they had remained conscious of the upsurge in attacks against minority ethnic residents that has seen Belfast dubbed ‘the most racist city in the world’. In response, they delivered a programme determined to put the emphasis on ethnic diversity.
Which is just as well, because if you were expecting to find any other public discussion on the matter – good luck. Northern Ireland’s eagerness to embrace racism has provided the great blind spot of this year’s election campaign (joining those other perennial blind spots – voter apathy, health, education, economy, environment, world affairs etc) – and now that those champions of liberal-mindedness, the DUP, have ascended to Sith-like dominance, it’s difficult to see the political horizon becoming any more panoramic.
It’s a cheap gag, but surely, on the evidence of those hackneyed party political broadcasts and cotton-mouthed discussion shows, the most appropriate section of this year’s programme was The Festival Of Fools.
Or maybe not. Because at least the 100 or so clowns, tricksters, acrobats, stilt-walkers and magicians who invaded the streets around the city centre improved our quality of life. Belfast is no stranger to invasions of in-your-face hucksters; however, this lot weren’t after your bank details, eternal soul, or cross on a ballot paper. They seemed happy enough with a quick burst of applause and some giggles from the kids. They got my vote.
Joi de vivre is not a quality you would automatically associate with that Olympian sourpuss Van Morrison. Indeed, his lack of personal warmth is such that Johnny Rogan, in his new biography of the man, No Surrender, has claimed that Morrison shares a similar space in the public imagination as Ian Paisley. Rogan makes a few interesting points on this score – most notably regarding the influence of evangelical preaching on the pair, and their weird link with Cyprus Avenue – but I would urge caution. The ‘gruff Prod’ stuff is a road well, but not warily enough, travelled. And although, when done well, sourcing the roots of a personality in the religious and political stew of its community can lead to many enlightening insights, it can also see the perpetuation of unwelcome stereotypes.
Thankfully, on the launch night of the book, Rogan proves himself sensitive to these difficulties. I’m still not 100% convinced. But I will say that No Surrender is well worth reading for its evocation of the Belfast of the late ‘50s and early ‘60s. These years, in this place, have of late provided fertile creative ground for writers such as Glenn Patterson and Owen McCafferty (the author of Cold Comfort, which premiered during the festival), who – like Rogan – have been shaken at how, during this period, the vibrant and confident modernity of the city co-existed with much darker impulses warning of the imminent calamity.
The Belfast of the young Van Morrison was a changing town with a young population, hungry for all manner of underground experiences. It was also a place of casual violence and depressing political chauvinism.
During The Tears’ gig on election night Brett Anderson asks to see the hands of everyone in the crowd who voted. Visibly perplexed by the lack of response, he admonishes their lack of engagement.
Welcome to town Brett. How long have you got?