There are definitive moments in your life, instances where you encounter something or someone for the first time and it will actually change your entire perspective, alter pre conceived ideas you may have previously held and make you feel incredibly humbled.
I have had a few of these moments and fortunately have the emotional wherewithal to appreciate what was happening. One night I experienced this very same feeling again, and though I had half expected to feel something for numerous reasons, I was both correct and miles from the truth at the same time.
I am not a theatre goer; I can’t claim an affinity with live music or pretend it has ever been a true passion of mine. I much prefer the comfort and pace of a good book, or even films, than the thought of watching a band perform somebody else’s hits. I have of the last year began to enjoy more off beat music, my love for chart music waning to the point I would much rather the debate of Radio 4 or the utter drivel and hype pumped out by Talk Sport. Music and I, we had lost our way.
Too many failed attempts at originality, or hyped up global superstars with the musical acumen of a tambourine rolling down a hill. I grew up in the 80’s when there was still room for invention, still room for entire movement of music genres that didn’t involve remixing original beats and songs. There are so many cover versions available on the scene these days it takes a true aficionado to remember who actually sang the original. For every Ed Shearon there are ten Beyonce Knowles or Olly Murs. Their songs are catchy, they sell well, but there is little to no insight or invention.
The art of song writing is dying. This is not a slight on those who admire the modern stars of today, I am certainly not precious about my music tastes and my MP3 playlist is as eclectic as they come. With a shuffle function it is possible to have classical orchestral movements followed by Eminem and then Madness before U2 takeover and set the pace for Beverley Craven. I guess I have been waiting to be wowed.
I have always loved to listen to a song or piece of music that can actually move me, make me think or that I can learn from. This is why I think my music taste has been so diverse. I prefer random compilations as opposed to the formulaic lay out of one particular artist, or one particular playlist. That was until a fatalistic Saturday, until my night with Christy Moore.
I had booked the tickets before Christmas gone, a treat for me and a friend. Their love of Christy Moore was far greater than mine. Two weeks previous to obtaining the tickets, I had never heard of him. In that two weeks I had heard but a few songs of his, Delirium Tremens being the one that struck me as comical whilst Ride On moved me. It may not prove to be my cup of tea to see a seventy year old Irishman sing, but I went with an open mind.
I am so glad that I did. There are some things in life that are beautiful because their simplicity belies their utter complexity. This was never more so the case than this evening. Before the lead act and his companions entered the stage, all you could see was the spread of musical instruments mostly guitars and what appeared to be drums, but drums from an era before I remember. All this was laid on a rug of huge proportions.
The immediate thought was that this was very low key compared with what I had imagined. I had done my reading on Christy, a reformed hell raiser, and expected something a little more ostentatious, not brash but something to suggest there would be more than a tired old crooner strumming a guitar.
I was so wrong, and delighted to be so. What was to follow was a feast for me, starved of emotional attachment to music for so long. Christy arrived on stage with his trio of companions and proceeded to both captivate and enthral me.
From the first chord that was struck through until the last I undertook a journey that will stay with me forever. Gone were the egotistical outpourings of today, with songs about self-worth and ego massage. Here was a nod to centuries gone by, a bard in the truest of senses. Harmonised lyrics that evoked an immediate effect on the imagination, the words both simple and spell binding. You could have been sat in the grandest of theatres or the most isolated of arboretums and their beauty could not be diminished. There is an art to storytelling, an art to poetry, but to have the ability to turn these forms of verbal skills into something more requires talent beyond my reasoning or understanding.
Of course, the accent helped, the softest Irish lilt interloping with a heavier brogue, but lending a deepened meaning to the telling of tales. There was a song, beautifully crafted about the migrant workers that drowned in Morecambe Bay, not your usual subject matter for a musical ensemble. Haunting, eerie and deeply, deeply moving. One line resonated with me so deeply I caught myself choking, ‘Such dreamless life is not worth dying for’. Prose at its simplest, yet hinting at a depth for you to explore at your own behest.
‘Ride On’, was so beautifully sang that the choking gave way to tears. I felt embarrassed until I saw that this was not the only eye to pour at the rendition. In hindsight, and had I realised the significance of this evening in the greater scheme of things, perhaps I would have rather not heard the song at all. The last few lines are as follows….
‘Ride on, see you, I could never go with you
No matter how I wanted to.
When you ride in to the night without a trace behind,
Run your claw along my gut one last time.
I turn to face an empty space where once you used to lie,
And look for a spark that lights the night
Through a teardrop in my eye’.
This song will serve as an epitaphic dirge for me now, and even writing the words pricks at me in a way that I would not wish.
There was more than just song to that night though. The link to the bardic past was evident in the choice of instruments. At one stage there was a minute or two of drum (it wasn’t a drum but the name of the instrument escapes me) that had a rhythm and tone that was embryonic, producing an almost trance like state in this old auditorium.
What shone through, whether in the telling of the tales of Merseyside woe or Mexican fighters laying down their lives in the Cuban revolution, was the emotion. Not just in the music, not just in the words but in the audience too. I’ve been part of massive crowds in my life, at football matches and concerts. There is a background hum, a noise that isn’t quite a noise but you can hear it anyway. Not here. There were no whispered conversations, no coughs or splutters. To do so would add insult to what was taking place. This was captivation, brain washing and sense numbing, cocooning the crowd in a bubble of awe.
One song that I pray to never hear again, for the same reason as ‘Ride On’ is, ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’. A song penned by Ewan McColl and sang down a transatlantic phone line to his wife. She caught the next plane home. I knew that these words, written by another, were simply perfect in describing what had run through my mind on so many occasions. The hand holding my mine at that moment squeezed that little bit tighter and in that moment I knew that no matter what words followed, no matter the recriminations and lies that could later change everything, this was a pure moment, a moment that can never be tarnished. A seminal moment in a n evening that, though now a haunting prelude to what was to be, will also serve as the best that was.
I cannot ever see this man, a Celtic hero and bard ever again, for the emotion he invoked has been surpassed by the painful memories he now brings. But you know what, for all of this, for all the angst even penning this has caused, it was worth it to know that just for that night, just for that seminal moment, I was there, and it was real.
My night with Christy, one I will never forget, no matter how I want to.
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