An Irish Summer

As we draw to the end of what in Ireland must be one of the cloudiest summers on record, I realize that I have not written a word on the site since I recorded a trip to Inishlacken in the sunshine of early June. It is true to say that the weather in the west of Ireland since then has been mostly grey and rainy. Gales have lashed the coast regularly, and flooding seems to have affected everywhere. Coupled with the transformation of the much-vaunted (but never quite credible) Celtic Tiger into a mangy alley-cat scavenging the bins around the crumbling mansions of the Western economy, our normal Irish joie-de-vivre has been taking something of a pasting. However, we have been here or hereabouts before, and as the sages of Limerick used to say when I was a kid - “We never died of a winter yet”. Despite the almost surreal non-debate around the Lisbon Treaty, when we decided to transform Kathleen Mavourneen into the girl who refused everyone at the dance – not because she didn’t want to, but because she was asked – we harbour a belief that things will be fine in the end.

The summer was not without its personal sadness though. As well as a bereavement in my family, last month also saw the passing of Ronnie Drew – a man who I had worked with on many occasions, and whose company I enjoyed over the years. I had the pleasure to produce the Dubliners “Prodigal Son” album, an experience that was somewhat like being caught in a washing machine with some Dadaists, Flann O’Brien, Frank Zappa and Jackson Pollock. The stories of Ronnie are legion, so I won’t add to them here other than to say that his passing sees the departure of a unique figure – the product of a very particular time in Irish folk music with its songs of boozing, working on English building-sites, political heroism and falling poetically in and out of love. Ronnie’s gravel was an essential part of that mix and will never be replaced. (I am attaching below John Sheahan’s affectionate “Ronnie’s Heaven”, written just after his long-time fellow band member died.)

Not to dwell too much on sad events, but I must mention Davy Hammond. At his funeral on last Thursday in Belfast, Seamus Heaney movingly declared that his longtime friend “will forever be accounted true brother of the company of the great imaginative spirits of his Irish time and place”. How true it was of this man whose gentle and roguish reach was gargantuan and whose influence on the lives and music of so many people will continue for generations to come. There are those who move in the glare of strong light, and those whose influence emanates from the quieter, subtler places. Davy was such a man, and the grief that was evident in the church last week, was only surpassed by the enormous love, affection and respect that rang around him as he departed. Go dtuga Dia suaimhneas dá anam uasal.

Finally, just a word about the Electric Picnic, which I attended on last Friday . It was my first experience of this event, and I don’t think I have been to an open-air music festival in quite some time. I think it is true to say that it is not about the music very often on these occasions, and more about the community experience. I remember (somewhat hazily I admit) Lisdoonvarna and Ballisodare in the 80s, but the Electric Picnic resembled these events only inasmuch as there were people, fields, music, alcohol and food. After that, it was was chalk and cheese. The EP combined music, theatre, cuisine, comedy, sculpture, and all things in between, set in a comfortable environment that was well organized, easy to navigate and spacious. I was delighted to hear (and I was able to hear her) Wallis Byrd who I had admired on recordings up to now. Her live set is engaging, energetic, musical and highly entertaining. This young singer/songwriter/guitarist is showing and growing her expertise as each year passes, and I will be surprised if she does not have a major international career in time.


I also saw, but wasn’t able to coherently hear, Goldfrapp. Somehow the big stage, with all its turbo decibels makes it difficult to engage musically, and you are just as well forget about that and mosh about to your hearts content. I couldn’t get within an ass’s roar of Christy Moore’s tent so I went over and enjoyed some of the theatre and comedy. Entering the mentally liquid world of Aindrias de Staic is a dangerous activity without some sanity life-jackets, and should only be undertaken under supervision. Hilarious in that unsettling way of his. (http://www.bebo.com/Profile.jsp?MemberId=2004815174 )


I also saw Lucent Dossier which was full of imaginative and arresting imagery, but didn’t seem to sustain after about 10 minutes. Elsewhere, I could have had a massage, reiki, drunk endless herb teas, chilled out, meditated and engaged in countless other pre- and post- hippie pursuits. As an antidote to the mangy Celtic Tiger, having an Electric Picnic was a wonderworld of a remedy.



More soon.

Bill


“Ronnie’s Heaven”
© 2008 John Sheahan

What’s it like Ronnie – your new life?
Is it the way the old masters painted it –
Floating on a damp cloud
In the company of winged creatures
Listening to non-stop music?

I could paint you in,
But not your expectations:
“Would somebody for Christ’s sake
Get me down from here and show me
The fountain of champagne –
I thought this
Was meant to be a celebration!”

I’ll paint a different picture instead:
I see your spirit, freed at last
From earthly shackles,
Soaring to a new consciousness –
Communicating with Kavanagh
Without the encumbrance of words;
Without the embarrassment of being barred
From four Baggot Street pubs.

All is clear now.
Ulysses simpler than the Lord’s Prayer,
Beckett no longer waiting for Godot,
And Joe O’Broin sidling over
With an impish grin:
“How’rya Ronnie, you brought me fame at last.
I heard Cliodhna and Phelim picked me poem
For the end of your mass,
But you needn’t have hurried…
There’s no closing time up here –
Just one continuous holy hour”

Now Deirdre comes into focus,
Bridging a painful gap of fourteen months.
Unhindered by bodies,
Your spirits embrace and entwine
In a never-ending spiral of joy,
Leaving behind the three great imponderables
That tortured you:
‘What is life?’; ‘What is art?’
And ‘Where the fuck is Barney?’!

On to Limerick (up Munster!)

It is barely a week since we left Bermuda, and the intervening period seems crammed with all kinds of activities - professional and social.

As a postscript to my Bermudian short adventure, I must say that despite the impression that the island is overwhelmingly dedicated to golfing and sporting pursuits, I was still left with a desire to return and discover more about the place. I do admit to some considerable antipathy towards the clubbishness of golfers, but I have no objection to locations dedicated to sport. However, one would like to experience some other activities when visiting new countries, and to learn something of the culture of a place. Sadly, it seems that Bermuda offers scant pickings here, and one is hard pressed to find a lively indigenous music or performance scene. I found that many Bermudians I met are quite up front about this. They bemoan the lack of activities for local people, and seem ready to get on a plane to the US or elsewhere at the smallest prompting – for short breaks, shopping or in the case of one taxi driver we met, for music.

We had one superb day in the company of Terry Mahoney of Dreamcatcher Boats (www.dreamcatcherboatrentals.com) who skippered us around the islands in one of his craft, and showed us parts of Bermuda that we would have missed had it not been for him. The day was glorious – the sea showing off with all that turquoise aquamarine display it puts on in those parts – and we flitted in and out among the islands, seeing some extraordinary homes, visiting shipwrecks sites with hulls and bows peeking out of the ocean, and wondering at the teeming marine life that pulses around these shores. I had forgotten that the Beatles shot part of “Help” in Bermuda – Leo McKern doing his “Kaili” rituals in the warm sea – and that John Lennon had spent a lot of time working on the “Double Fantasy” album there. We drifted past the house where he stayed after he had sailed there in his 65-foot yacht. It seems hard to imagine that it is 28 years since he fell on 72nd Street in New York. Hard to Imagine.

We returned to Ireland and I went straight into Windmill Lane to work on some tracks – more about these in a later blog. I also attended a superb Bobby McFerrin concert at the National Concert Hall, where he performed a wonderful set of improvisations, vocal gymnastics, choral direction, conversation, dance accompaniment and other delights. His guests were Liam O’Maonlai, whose new album, “Rian” is just released and is a great milestone in his musical journey; also Robbie Harris, who was such a sensitive presence on bodhrán with McFerrin, and who incidentally has just become a proud father (Congratulations to Breda and himself). I have been to two of Bobby’s concerts in recent weeks – the previous time with Chick Corea in Carnegie Hall, and the music just pours out of him. He has an untrammeled connection to the well of his inner music, and it can be breathtaking to experience it when it flows out.

I then headed to Limerick to attend the Testimonial Dinner for Anthony Foley who was retiring from his wonderful career as a player of rugby for Ireland and for Munster. His was the kind of mettle that powered Munster rugby and brought it to the condition it is in today. Peter Clohessy, Mick Galwey, Keith Wood, Shaun Payne and Frankie Sheahan were among the players who joined in saluting this human repository of power and commitment. Declan Kidney sat with Axel’s father and mother and Tony O’Reilly (“Sir Anthony” if you work for the Independent) gave the keynote speech. Anthony’s old colleagues from Munster (who were en route to New Zealand and couldn’t be there) all recorded a sometimes hilarious and affectionate tribute to their pal and occasional captain. Some of the guys seemed to be still a bit effervescent after the Munster victory over Toulouse, but that all added to the champagne feel of the evening which took place in the Hilton Hotel in Limerick, with the Heineken cup proudly plonked in the middle of the room. A great night.

I came on home to Connemara afterwards and have been spending the holiday weekend doing the kind of things that one does in this part of the world when the sun shines. Out on the ocean every day, we spent a heavenly Sunday on Inishlacken. There was hardly anyone on the island for much of the day, and the oystercatchers busied themselves on the silver beach while the terns wheeled overhead with their sharp cries and jerking flight. I’m back into the studio this morning, but just dashing off this quick note to keep up to date.

Bermuda

The green trees of Georgia recede as the 737 pushes into the upper air above Atlanta and we are en route to Bermuda. As I leave America, it is hard not to think that it is right now in the throes of a momentous decision. In some ways, it feels as if the real choice it must make is now, not in November, and that the issue is whether it will bet on the future or simply extend the past. It is an exciting time, a time for bravery, and one hopes that America will seize the day.

Atlanta brought back some memories. I recall in 1994 visiting the Ebenezer Baptist Church and the Martin Luther King memorial. I had come to Atlanta to search for a gospel choir for Riverdance and it was here that I was introduced to James Bignon’s Deliverance Ensemble, who were to eventually join the first production of the show at the Point Theatre in Dublin. I remember my friend Jim Flannery taking me around various communities in Atlanta, visiting church halls and watching gospel choirs going through their paces in rehearsal.

I recall one very memorable rehearsal we attended. We arrived to this large church when the singing had already begun, and we were ushered into a pew where we sat transfixed for an hour, two white Paddies in a room of African Americans - watching some of the most detailed choral direction. Sharp focus was brought to bear on expression, dynamics, tuning and blend. I have rarely seen a room of 80 people so unified in purpose and concentrated. At the end of the rehearsal, the director asked the choir if anyone wanted to share anything. For the next five minutes or so, several choir members told personal stories from their current lives. One woman had a nephew who was mixed up in a raid on a liquor store. Another had a brother in hospital, terminally ill. A man told of the birth of his new baby son. Throughout these very personal narratives, all around there came murmured expressions of sympathy, joy or support from the choir. Then everybody stood up. Jim Flannery and I were invited over as a large circle formed and we all joined hands. What followed was a prayer and then it was all over. Choir practice, Atlanta-style opened my eyes to the integrated role that music had in the lives of these people and that when they stood up to sing the next Sunday, they didn’t just display the results of the hard work done on the musical detail. They also brought with them the deep sense of each other, their joys and sadness, and their strong hope and faith and the comfort they got from their music and singing.

More, about Bermuda and other matters in my next blog.