Whichever team wins the Six Nations, the Welsh fans will sing the best and the loudest
In the run-up to this year’s Six Nations rugby tournament, there was much discussion of the new scrummaging laws and whether Friday-night games are a good thing or not. But, perhaps disappointingly for the International Rugby Board, there has been almost no mention of its newly commissioned anthem, “Six Together.” According to the press release, it is meant to “encapsulate the sport’s stature and mood through this new sonic identity.”
That much is true, if only because this insipid tune perfectly captures the blandness and aesthetic conservatism that characterises all international sports bureaucracies. UEFA’s sub-“Ode to Joy” theme for the Champions League at least echoes the EU’s choice of anthem and speaks to the coherent, if contested, cultural unit of Europe. But to pretend that the Six Nations is a cultural zone of anything but professional rugby is nonsense. And the fusion of pre-fabricated Euro-dance beats with Italian mandolin, English cathedral choirs and Scottish bagpipes in “Six Together” is predictably awful.
If you’re looking for sonic identity, then listen to the tumultuous singing by the carnivalesque crowds—bearing in mind that the relationship between teams, anthems, nations and nation-states is complex.
France and Italy appear the most straightforward. They are nation-states with their own national rugby teams and anthems, “La Marseillaise” and “Il Canto degli Italiani.” Yet neither of these republican hymns has always represented its nation. “La Marseillaise” fell out of favour under the restored Bourbon monarchy and “Il Canto degli Italiani” was only adopted in 1946 as Umberto II, the last king of Italy, was shown the door.
Rugby’s relationship with the French nation is made more complex by the visibility of its super-diverse football teams. The sport was compromised by its relationship to the Vichy regime, remains overwhelmingly white, and is concentrated in the southwest of the country. It still symbolises la France Profonde, but that is steadily disappearing. As for Italy, it took rugby 50 years to disengage itself from the fascist regime’s embrace of its warrior manliness. Today, in contrast to the Machiavellian viper pits of football and politics, rugby has built its popularity by displaying the kind of sportsmanship and transparency that the Republic lost long ago.
Rugby Union, an overwhelmingly middle-class sport in early 20th-century Ireland, was one of the very few all-island institutions to survive partition in 1921. While the team may represent a cultural nation, not all of its members acknowledge such unity, combining as it does a nation-state (the Republic of Ireland) with a region of another (Northern Ireland). Although in Dublin they still sing the Republic’s anthem, “Amran na bhFiann” (“The Soldier’s Song”) the search for cross-border and community neutrality in the new Ireland also sees them sing “Ireland’s Call,” written in 1995. It may be a load of clichés with a lousy drunken melody, but everyone sings it—and that has just got to be a good thing in Ireland.
Things are no simpler across the water. Wales and Scotland are cultural nations with some political autonomy within another nation-state and both have found unofficial anthems: “Hen Wlad fy Nhadau” (“Land of my Fathers”) and “Flower of Scotland.” The Welsh sing the best and the loudest—but then they have most at stake.
“Land of my Fathers” was written in 1856: the words in a vestry, the tune in a pub. Embedded in the two key public institutions of Welsh urban life, the song rose in prominence and became the unofficial national anthem in 1905, after being sung by the crowd before Wales beat the mighty visiting All Black side: a moment that cemented the relationship between the song, Welsh identity and Rugby Union. The troubled Welsh Assembly would like to command a fraction of its allegiance.
Coming later to the anthem game, “Flower of Scotland” was penned in 1967. It’s a dirge, but hits the spot by having as its subject the Scottish annihilation of an English medieval army. Before the 1990s, football usually served the nation’s need to take the English on, but the poll tax experiment helped relaunch the nationalist project. “Flower of Scotland” made its debut at a Five Nations match in 1990. Scotland went on to win the grand slam, the song became unquestionably the nation’s tune, and the sometimes visceral anti-Englishness of working-class Scottish football made its way to middle-class Scottish rugby.
And dear old England? She sings a song that mentions neither England nor Britain, only the monarch. Perhaps that is why “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” is the fan’s real choice. First sung in praise of winger Chris Oti on his England debut by a group of Benedictine schoolboys, this gospel hymn hints at the ethnic diversity of the new England, but is cosily ensconced in choral cadences and communal drinking games.
When the singing is over the rugby will start and this year it looks very open; anyone can win the Six Nations. Yet it is just a European sideshow. The Rugby World Cup in the autumn is the most important prize this year, and it will be won by a team from south of the equator.
In the run-up to this year’s Six Nations rugby tournament, there was much discussion of the new scrummaging laws and whether Friday-night games are a good thing or not. But, perhaps disappointingly for the International Rugby Board, there has been almost no mention of its newly commissioned anthem, “Six Together.” According to the press release, it is meant to “encapsulate the sport’s stature and mood through this new sonic identity.”
That much is true, if only because this insipid tune perfectly captures the blandness and aesthetic conservatism that characterises all international sports bureaucracies. UEFA’s sub-“Ode to Joy” theme for the Champions League at least echoes the EU’s choice of anthem and speaks to the coherent, if contested, cultural unit of Europe. But to pretend that the Six Nations is a cultural zone of anything but professional rugby is nonsense. And the fusion of pre-fabricated Euro-dance beats with Italian mandolin, English cathedral choirs and Scottish bagpipes in “Six Together” is predictably awful.
If you’re looking for sonic identity, then listen to the tumultuous singing by the carnivalesque crowds—bearing in mind that the relationship between teams, anthems, nations and nation-states is complex.
France and Italy appear the most straightforward. They are nation-states with their own national rugby teams and anthems, “La Marseillaise” and “Il Canto degli Italiani.” Yet neither of these republican hymns has always represented its nation. “La Marseillaise” fell out of favour under the restored Bourbon monarchy and “Il Canto degli Italiani” was only adopted in 1946 as Umberto II, the last king of Italy, was shown the door.
Rugby’s relationship with the French nation is made more complex by the visibility of its super-diverse football teams. The sport was compromised by its relationship to the Vichy regime, remains overwhelmingly white, and is concentrated in the southwest of the country. It still symbolises la France Profonde, but that is steadily disappearing. As for Italy, it took rugby 50 years to disengage itself from the fascist regime’s embrace of its warrior manliness. Today, in contrast to the Machiavellian viper pits of football and politics, rugby has built its popularity by displaying the kind of sportsmanship and transparency that the Republic lost long ago.
Rugby Union, an overwhelmingly middle-class sport in early 20th-century Ireland, was one of the very few all-island institutions to survive partition in 1921. While the team may represent a cultural nation, not all of its members acknowledge such unity, combining as it does a nation-state (the Republic of Ireland) with a region of another (Northern Ireland). Although in Dublin they still sing the Republic’s anthem, “Amran na bhFiann” (“The Soldier’s Song”) the search for cross-border and community neutrality in the new Ireland also sees them sing “Ireland’s Call,” written in 1995. It may be a load of clichés with a lousy drunken melody, but everyone sings it—and that has just got to be a good thing in Ireland.
Things are no simpler across the water. Wales and Scotland are cultural nations with some political autonomy within another nation-state and both have found unofficial anthems: “Hen Wlad fy Nhadau” (“Land of my Fathers”) and “Flower of Scotland.” The Welsh sing the best and the loudest—but then they have most at stake.
“Land of my Fathers” was written in 1856: the words in a vestry, the tune in a pub. Embedded in the two key public institutions of Welsh urban life, the song rose in prominence and became the unofficial national anthem in 1905, after being sung by the crowd before Wales beat the mighty visiting All Black side: a moment that cemented the relationship between the song, Welsh identity and Rugby Union. The troubled Welsh Assembly would like to command a fraction of its allegiance.
Coming later to the anthem game, “Flower of Scotland” was penned in 1967. It’s a dirge, but hits the spot by having as its subject the Scottish annihilation of an English medieval army. Before the 1990s, football usually served the nation’s need to take the English on, but the poll tax experiment helped relaunch the nationalist project. “Flower of Scotland” made its debut at a Five Nations match in 1990. Scotland went on to win the grand slam, the song became unquestionably the nation’s tune, and the sometimes visceral anti-Englishness of working-class Scottish football made its way to middle-class Scottish rugby.
And dear old England? She sings a song that mentions neither England nor Britain, only the monarch. Perhaps that is why “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” is the fan’s real choice. First sung in praise of winger Chris Oti on his England debut by a group of Benedictine schoolboys, this gospel hymn hints at the ethnic diversity of the new England, but is cosily ensconced in choral cadences and communal drinking games.
When the singing is over the rugby will start and this year it looks very open; anyone can win the Six Nations. Yet it is just a European sideshow. The Rugby World Cup in the autumn is the most important prize this year, and it will be won by a team from south of the equator.
