An earworm, for those unfamiliar with the term, is not some icky larval parasite but, arguably, an even more insidious auditory-borne infection. As characterised by Dr Lauren Stewart of Goldsmiths University of London, it is a song that "seemingly against your wishes pops into your head and stays there". That this should be a topic on The John Murray Show (RTÉ Radio 1, weekdays) seems apposite, albeit unintentionally: like the infuriatingly catchy tunes under discussion, Murray's programme often comes across as irritating and inconsequential but nonetheless exerts a strangely mesmeric pull.
This is certainly true of the item on earworms, which toggles between psychological analysis of why songs lodge themselves in the mind and examples of such numbers, from Aqua's 1997 opus Barbie Girl to the Peppa Pig theme. Far from being annoying, the topic seems to strike a chord with the audience, who spend much of the week texting with other suggestions. Truth be told, the apparently frivolous nature of the topic masks Murray's playfully imaginative approach to his medium, utilising its aural qualities to diverting effect.
That this inventive streak can get overlooked is partly due to the presenter’s trademark Everyman bonhomie, which doesn’t always suggest earnest philosophical inquiry. It is also down to the presence of bizarre items such as Tuesday’s interview with the journalist Victoria White, who, in Murray’s (alas accurate) words, “talks about dog doo-doo on the River Dodder”. White organises an annual clean-up of the Dublin river with Dodder Action – a community group whose name sounds like an esoteric urban terrorist faction – and her experience has turned her into an implacable opponent of the practice of putting canine excrement into plastic bags, on the grounds that it damages the environment.
All of which sounds fair enough, but White insists on punctuating her thesis with detailed descriptions of disposing of her dog’s leavings in toilets, and references to their “loose consistency”. “Thanks for sharing that with us,” comes Murray’s laconic response. It is an eccentric feature but also oddly hypnotic.
The show's most evocative sequence this week does not involve the host but is a diptych of interviews, by the reporter John B Reilly, with Mayo-born expatriates in Chicago. Reilly's conversations with Henry Coyle, a boxer, and Martin McAndrew, a construction worker, are unvarnished yet poignant vignettes of the immigrant experience in the US. We hear about the opportunities on offer – a shot at a world title for recent arrival Coyle, lucrative work for long-time resident McAndrew – and its pitfalls. "Very, very lonely, truthfully," is Coyle's verdict.
Reilly’s sequence is a jolt from the jolly norm but adds another dimension to a programme that often uses the full spectrum of its loose remit to inveigle its way into the mind.
Another portrait of Irish-American life lies at the heart of There Is No Such Thing As a Bad Boy (Newstalk, Monday), Sorcha Glackin's enlightening documentary about Fr Edward Flanagan, the founder of the fabled Boys Town orphanage in Omaha, Nebraska. Flanagan might appear a rather arcane and even hokey subject: his story formed the basis of the 1938 movie Boys Town , for which Spencer Tracy won an Oscar. But as the documentary testifies, the Irish-born priest's legacy continues to this day – Boys Town is now a campus for troubled youth, with 500 residents – while his insights about clerical institutions in the land of his birth have an uncomfortably prescient ring.
A native of Co Roscommon, Flanagan emigrated to the US in 1904, moving to Nebraska after his ordination having been told that “they’re so desperate there they’ll take anyone”. Working with the state’s vagrant community, he “realised he was working at the wrong end of the men’s lives”, in the words of the charity’s community director, Tom Lynch, and turned his attention to helping boys from broken homes.
The home Flanagan set up in 1917 was, by any standards, pioneering and far-sighted. It encouraged education, recreation, social skills and civic values, allowing the young residents to elect a mayor from their numbers. Unusually for the era, the home took in boys of all races and creeds, treating them equally.
Underpinning all this was Flanagan’s belief, inspired as much by Dickens as by the nascent discipline of developmental psychology, that supposedly delinquent boys would become “worthwhile citizens” if raised in the right environment.
In 1946, two years before his death, he visited Ireland’s industrial homes, dubbing the borstals run by the Christian Brothers a disgrace, more interested in making money from their charges than in helping them. He also highlighted cases of brutality. For this Flanagan was rebuked by politicians from across the Dáil divide.
Ireland’s loss, it becomes clear, was the United States’ gain. The documentary is studded with the voices of the young men and women who still find stability thanks to Flanagan’s charity. In reminding us of this compelling character, the documentary lingers in the memory, proving that novelty hits aren’t the only earworms.
radioreview@irishtimes.com
