"Viva la Quinte Brigada" from "Christy Moore: Live at the Point 2006" is the latest song to send me into that magic state of public euphoria you remember forever—born out of that random chemistry between the song you've chosen and the place you happen to be.
Wednesday night around 8.30 I was standing around on that big fucker of a hill leading away from Meguro Station down past the Tavern and on into darkest God knows where, a crazed wall-to-wall grin on my face, fighting the urge to sing out loud or start dancing, out of consideration of the passers-by walking home after a long day.
I was listening to a song of a former bank clerk from County Kildare who balked at the mundanity and upped and left for England with his guitar, touring the pubs of the folk scene, often off his nut, for the best part of a decade, in pursuit of his own road, before finally making it and going on to become the national icon he is today—a Bono of simplicity, without the grand gestures.
I was standing in downtown Meguro because I'd had a craving for nashi goreng since the Asian place in Akasaka shut down. We'd found an Indonesian place with good reviews on Mixi out in further Meguro-ku. I was standing waiting for her, a simple, poetic song coming in through my new Shure earphones (great by the way), when the waves of euphoria—for euphoria is most definitely a wave—started coming over me. And random though it was, I knew immediately it was a moment I would remember for the rest of my life.
Happiness comes as a collection of moments, sometimes years apart, from that simple, random, uncontrollable combination of the right song and the right place.
Do you remember this song? These are the latest beautiful words running free in my head. They've been there since I saw Scorcese's documentary.
Of the singers of my youth, Bob Dylan had a natural gift for the lyric surpassed only by McGowan (and possibly Cohen, but he was too fixated on seducing martyrs, so he doesn't count -- and don't tell me the sincerity of the words or the integrity of their writer doesn't matter).
Don't laugh. In all seriousness, the Eagles wrote some good lyrics. Have you heard the Johnny Cash version? It's been stuck in my head for days.
It started as the great upbeat rousing tune it has remained to this day, but the lyrics were hardly inspirational. In those days of the U.S. Civil War, it was called John Brody's Body, and it was sung to inspire the troops of the North in their battle against the Confederate South.
It starts like this:
John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
But his soul goes marching on.
Later it gets down to its true message, that's it good and holy to die for the North in its battle to free the slaves. Even in death, they'd nothing to worry about, a message most Irish people will know well from their own history.
John Brown died that the slaves might be free,
John Brown died that the slaves might be free,
His soul goes marching on.
A great tune, which may well be in your head by now, but certainly lacking something in the lyrics department.
Then along came a woman by the name of Julia Ward Howe. In 1861, while visiting a Union soldiers' encampment on the banks of the Potomac river in Washington DC, she heard the song and was impressed by its tune, so impressed that she decided to rewrite the lyrics.
What resulted was one of the most famous hymns ever written, beautifully named the Battle Hymn of the Republic, but which often goes by its legendary, often quoted first line. Sung at the funerals of Winston Churchill and Robert Kennedy, the Battle Hymn of the Republic is a truly amazing feat of words complementing music. And I say that without a organized religious bone in my body.
Here's the famous and incredibly poetic opening verse:
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword
His truth is marching on.
And you can be carried away by the rest of it here. Julia Ward Howe certainly had a way with words, and though countless others have tried to rewrite this tune's lyrics, nobody has come near to matching the beauty of her words.
But as I said, many have tried.
Remember the white supremacist anthem in American History X?
Oh, mine eyes have seen the glory of the trampling of the zoo
We have washed ourselves in niggers' blood and all the mongrels too
We're tearing down the ZOG machine, Jew by Jew by Jew
The white man marches on!
And now most recently, and the reason I'm giving you the history of the transformation of an old marching tune, has come a new football version. This version is inspired by Liverpool's heroic deeds in Istanbul last May. And with this Sunday's game against United on my mind this Friday afternoon, I thought I'd quote it for you in full. Non Liverpool fans should probably stop reading now. Nothing to see here. And lovers of the beauty of words will recognize that Julia Ward Howe has nothing to worry about. However, Liverpool fans indulging in reveries of magic nights of the recent past might disagree.
(If you've actually read this little Friday afternoon ramble through to the end, good luck getting that tune out of your head anytime soon.)
An army amassed just like centuries before,An army of thousands in livery of red,
Liverbirds on their chests and a dream in their heads,
With smiles on their faces and songs in their hearts,
Of hope a new era was waiting to start.
Stood on the North Tribune I looked all around,
A sea of red swamping 3 sides of the ground,
Flags, scarves and banners that covered the crowd,
A show of red strength to make Chairman Mao proud.
I surveyed the scene in awe and in bliss,
How could we fail on a stage such as this?
I reckoned without an AC Milan team,
With the class to make nightmares out of our dreams.
And so it transpired in a half straight from hell,
A Maldini sucker punch straight from the bell
With 2 blows from Crespo 5 minutes apart,
Milan drove a dagger through Liverpool's heart,
We staggered and reached the refuge of half time,
Our worst fears were realised, 3-0 behind,
Ashen-faced Reds with their heads in their hands,
Slumped in despair on the steps of the stand.
An anger rose in me, but not with the team,
Where was the 12th man? Was Chelsea a dream?
We had to show pride, try to lift them somehow,
We'd come much too far to give up on them now.
Somebody somewhere had shared the same thought,
My faith was restored in our famous support.
YNWA grew in strength, as did I,
And I sang.. as if it was for the last time.
Looking back now I can't honestly say,
That as I sang, I thought we would find a way
To come back, but I wanted the whole world to see,
We still had pride, we were still Liverpool FC.
That chorus will live on in legend and lore,
Cruyff said he had heard nothing like it before,
Maradona said it made him convert to a Red,
Luis said it spurred them to rise from the dead.
Then came the reverse of our first half ordeal,
6 minutes of mayhem that didn't seem real
6 glorious minutes that none will forget,
When Stevie and Xabi and Vlad found the net.
Milan came again but at each turn were foiled,
Once more a siege played out on Istanbul soil,
As the seconds ticked down, the Redmen stood tall,
Though their muscles screamed "stop" they ploughed on through it all.
Then came the moment God's will became known,
The ball fell to Shevchenko with Dudek left prone,
With the goal at his mercy, our Pole somehow saved,
Someone from above must have smiled on the brave.
It was then that it suddenly all became clear,
Milan realised that this wasn't their year,
Alongside the Reds stood an ally too great,
There was no resisting the power of fate.
So when the game entered it's final test then,
They bore the demeanour of half-beaten men,
Defeat after so much no player deserved,
But while Milan's men wilted the Red's kept their nerve.
And when Andrei's nemesis foiled him once more,
The night air was pierced by a deafening roar,
Destiny fulfilled all that was prophesised,
And I hugged all around me with tears in my eyes
The Redmen all met us, celebrations they led,
Carra The Lionheart, Gerrard The Red,
Sami The Mighty, the sturdy Hamann,
Dudek and all, heroes to a man.
And Rafa, our Moses, by his guiding hand,
He led us all back here to this Promised Land,
When the road became hard no excuse did he use,
And when all seemed lost here his genius shone through.
Emotion flowed down from the stands like a shower,
As we watched Stevie lift that old trophy of ours,
You'll Never Walk Alone once again we did sing,
As we all heralded the return of the Kings.
Now on the bus back to Taksim I went,
My voice was in tatters, all energy spent,
Utterly drained but smiling ear to ear,
I thought back to the road that had led me to here.
As a boy I had watched all the legends parade,
As they conquered all Europe and history was made,
As the years passed, now no longer watching a screen,
I thought I'd never see what my elders had seen.
I wondered if my eyes would yet see the glory,
And whether in years to come I could tell stories,
Of great Anfield nights and of crusades abroad,
When the Mighty Reds put Europe's best to the sword.
2004 then turned into 05,
And finally all of my hopes came to life,
It seemed fate was there with us right from the start,
It happened as if it was written in the stars.
I watched from the Kop on that December night,
The pivotal moment when dark turned to light,
4 minutes from failure, then hope was restored,
We all dared to dream, when Stevie G scored.
Echoes of the past rang as clear as a bell,
The late Kop end goal, the same scoreline as well,
My generation loved tales about way back when,
But we now had our very own St Etienne.
I was there against Juve when ghosts of the past,
20 years in the waiting confronted at last,
The Kop spelled out friendship in red and in white,
And in silence we remembered the fallen that night.
The whistle it blew and the silence gave way,
To a whirlwind of noise that blew Juve away,
I saw a red tide almost swallow them whole,
And I saw Luis Garcia's 30 yard goal.
I saw Chelsea get their come-uppence at last,
On a night at Anfield that might not be surpassed,
The primeval force of The Kop in full cry,
For 96 minutes the noise wouldn't die.
96 minutes for 96 souls,
They surely were watching the drama unfold,
For something divine intervened on our side,
'Cos I can't explain how Gudjohnsen shot wide.
The Kop danced long after the players had gone,
The glory of years passed remembered in song,
And when we were thrown out we danced on outside,
Around Shankly's statue long into the night.
And now I had witnessed a moment so rare,
It's drama and splendour were beyond compare,
A moment in Sport we may not see again,
A moment I'd waited so long to attain.
Istanbul was for one night, Heaven on Earth,
So special you can't put a price on it's worth,
I give thanks I was one of the privileged few,
I was there and I saw all of our dreams come true.
A banner I'd seen and there saw it again,
"My Eyes Have Seen The Glory" it proudly proclaimed,
Four symbolic stars were emblazoned thereon,
I could now say "me too" when the 5th one was won.
I¡Çve seen the Kop's legacy upheld and enhanced,
And seen us win when no one gave us a chance,
I've seen us rise up and be crowned Europe's best
If it's the last match I see I'd still think myself blessed
I wrote before about Billy Bragg's song Tank Park Salute, which was his way to deal with the death of his father, who he watched die slowly of lung cancer, at a time in England when the medical establishment actively advised not to talk about these things. As a result, Bragg watched his father die, nobody saying anything. It's a moving song and reminds me of my relationship with my father and how I didn't get to know him or talk to him before his death.
Billy Bragg now has a new, related project. He's helping others to talk about their impending deaths. He visited a hospice where women with breast cancer were seeking palliative treatment ("Hospices are not places you go to die; they're places you go to fight"), and by talking with them, eventually encouraged them to write about their lives and coming deaths.
The outcome is a CD containing songs such as "We Laughed", songs penned by Bragg based on the writings of the hospice patients. "We Laughed" is the song of a single mother with breast cancer for her young daughter. It's a positive look back on the past as death approaches ("Death is not about you; it's about the people you leave behind"), encouraging people not to be afraid, to remember and celebrate good times, and to say simple things like "I love you" when you still can. Unlike in Bragg's case with his father, when things were left unspoken, "We Laughed" says what needs to be said, and perhaps encourages people in similar positions to do the same.
It's a brave thing for the patients and Bragg to do, in a project more worthwhile than all the political angling, points-scoring and soundbites that fill our televisions and newspapers, more important than all the shite and ranting that is the background noise of our lives. It's also about what art needs to do. It's an example of the reconnection of the artist and the world.
So how does this relate to me?
Well, I've been an emotional coward lately. I've been closing everyone out, pulling down the shutters and locking the door. I've been all but incommunicado from even my family and close friends. Except for the occasional mumbling about abstract inconsequences on this weblog, I've been saying nothing. Nothing at all.
You can become engulfed with sadness and choose not to live. You can worry about all the bad things that might (or eventually will) happen. You can let your guilt tell you to build walls, as your unconfined presence would just hurt others. If you self-indulge enough, you can even convince yourself the whole world is out to get you.
You can justify your gloom by talking about experiencing premature death and other bad endings. You can make excuses about your soul hardening in the impersonal world of the Japanese company or the transient realm of expatriate friendship. You can explain about your self-imposed expatriate distance from the ones you love at home, and your guilt about not being there for them when they need you. You can find any number of reasons to harden, and all range of people and circumstances to blame. You can blame the sorry state of the world. You can even blame your country of residence.
But in the end it's just cowardice and self-pity, and all you're doing is running ever further away.
How does it relate to me?
It helps me realize it's all a question of attitude. You can choose not to worry about life's problems before they arise.
Happiness and sadness, beginning and ending, love and loss, good and evil, past and future, and birth and death all come as packages. You can't have one without the other. And you can't opt out of both and still live.
Billy Bragg's new project, along with two much closer-to-home happenings not suitable for a public weblog (some of you might say I've already crossed the line with this post), were my little random triggers (for that's all they are, random triggers setting off something ready to happen anyway). Billy Bragg's project just happened to be one of the sounds in my wake-up call.
You'll have to excuse the stench of maudlin around here today folks. It's what comes out when emotionally-retarded peasant stock try to open the jar. It's also the scent of minor breakthrough. It could even, at a stretch, be taken as advice. But it's not meant to be. More than anything, it's an expression of return. Catharsis, as they say. If I was better at describing the important things, you'd be able to bottle the relief.
How does it relate to me?
I did something small but inherently difficult today. I sent an email to my mother and told her I loved her.
When I hear music, I hear the words, not the music. Maybe that's my handicap.
But it means I'm a big fan of people like Bob Dylan.
When you're feeling down in matters love, you need look no further than Tangled Up in Blue, and especially the mighty, all powerful, venomous and vicious Idiot Wind.
In good years, you spot the beauty of songs like Romance in Durango.
Poetry.
"You can take all the tea in china
Put it in a big brown bag for me
Sail right around the seven oceans
Drop it straight into the deep blue sea
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like honey from the bee"
Some days the song in your head is beautiful.
The Pogues and Me
On the evening of December 23 of last year a few of us had been playing pool and drinking a few relaxed, lazy Christmas pints in Dublin's swish new pool bar on Georges Street. It was coming up time to part for various evening arrangements. Some were going to work parties, others to meet up with friends or family. I was feeling the pull to the Point. The Pogues were back together for one gig.
But I was in two minds.
The Point Depot is Dublin's big music venue, where famous bands play. It's a massive converted warehouse down on the north docks, a good 15-minute walk from the city center. It's a cold walk through icy, cutting wind at the best of times, but not one you want to make in the depths of winter. Getting a taxi there is easy, getting one back almost impossible. And the venue itself is as unwelcoming as its transportation access. Queues and searches are followed by stampeding crowds if you want to be close to the band, and a need for binoculars if you don't fancy being stamped on. It's one of those big venues that make you yearn for the days when a band wasn't so famous and played in local pubs. The staff are pig ignorant, the toilet queues perennial. The drink is overpriced and slopped. And it's cold in there. If you've spent much time sober in the Point Depot, you know what I'm talking about.
But the venue itself wasn't even the main reason for hesitation. Like any Pogues fan, I'd been let down before. Once in Thurles, at Feile '91 I think it was, where Shane McGowan was so off his face that Kirsty McColl had to hold him up as they "danced" to Fairytale. If he remembered any of the words that evening, he wasn't letting on. Some of the band were embarrassed, others visibly angry. Most of the crowd laughed it off as typical McGowan. Expecting much more—too much maybe—I remember being very pissed off.
There were no signs this gig was going to be any different. A local music journalist with a head as big as his hair had interviewed McGowan in Dublin a week prior to the gig. Beyond the false superlatives—let's be clear from the outset that McGowan is not "Ireland's greatest living poet"—the message was clear: McGowan was still a prisoner to the drink and the drugs. You'd be forgiven for thinking he was just another polluted old has-been doing a reunion gig for the cash.
One of my clearest memories of childhood is self-affirming. Back in the days of Texaco radio watches and the first Walkmen, I was sitting on the swings in my back garden with another kid from the road. I was no more than eight. We were both ear-plugged in to the latest gadgetry, but we were dancing even then to very different tunes. He was listening to Michael Jackson or whoever was top of the charts that day, I to Paddy Reilly singing Spancil Hill on a tape I'd borrowed from my father's car. This kid—whose belief in himself far outweighed his originality—was being mean-spirited, as was his nature. In hindsight, he was one of those never destined to graduate beyond the small, small world of local gossip and ever-changing fashion. He was laughing at me for listening to old "Paddy Diddley" music. In his eyes, I was a disgrace to his coolness, an embarrassment. I didn't care: I knew even then I was listening to real music, something part of a tradition, something relevant to my life. And you don't need me to tell you the Pogues are firmly part of this tradition.
I suppose it was memories like this coming back as I walked down Georges Street—and a couple more pints to grease the nostalgia and take the edge off the very real possibility the gig would be a disaster—that finally settled the issue. After some persuading and the promise I'd buy his ticket, Speedy finally agreed to come along, and suddenly we were in a taxi on our way down the docks, and in a sense back into our past.
I hadn't been at the Point for at least 10 years. The last gigs I remember seeing there were the Waterboys—where I "shifted" a girl who later turned out to be in my class in college—and the Pixies—where I very nearly went down under the crowd. Both gigs were good memories. For all my moaning about it, the Point never treated me too badly.
We took our seats at in the small seating area at the back and waited silently. We both knew we'd know everything we needed to with the first song. I wasn't expecting McGowan to be demonstrating what he'd learned in recent elocution lessons. I just hoped for a modicum of coherency, enough compos mentis to stay in step with all the wonderful musicians that make up the rest of the band.
Because it's never been just about McGowan.
There's the energetic James Fearnley on accordion, who's been described as the heart-throb of the band. I remember listening to him describe how he was recruited. Something about it impressed me greatly. He said he'd locked himself into a room a London for six years, trying to write his novel, when suddenly there was a knock on his door. Spider Stacy had remembered James played accordion and wanted him to join his new band. The rest, as they say, is history.
There's the enigmatic Philip Chevron. When I was a 14-year-old lounge boy in Dublin, Chevron used to come into the pub where I worked and sit on his own in a table away from the crowds. Often I would take his order—always a double Bacardi and coke without a slice of lemon. If you got it right, he'd give a decent tip. If you didn't, he'd give you nothing. That's all I knew about Philip Chevron. Some of the older barmen told me he was in the Pogues, but it still didn't mean much to me then. It was only later, when I started getting into the Pogues and punk, that it started to become significant. If Barry Egan wants to claim McGowan is Ireland's greatest living poet, surely he'd claim Chevron is its second greatest. Chevron holds the distinction of being the first gay star of the punk rock movement. His band, the Radiators from Space, fused punk with the traditional from the outset, well before the Pogues ever did. It was the Radiators that first performed the haunting ballad, Faithful Departed, that Christy Moore would later make his own. It was Chevron who wrote the piercingly beautiful lyrics. He did it again and again when he joined the Pogues. Thousands are Sailing must be one of the most perfect emigration songs in Irish tradition or any other tradition for that matter. Lorelei still raises my spirit whenever I hear it. These are Chevron's songs. I see him now with his red acoustic guitar, rocking affably off to the side, unassuming as ever, one of the unsung heroes of modern Irish music.
There's little Jem Finer, whose quiet nature makes Chevron seem abrasive. Jem Finer wrote or contributed to so many of the Pogues' greatest songs. A multitalented musician, again Finer likes to blend into the background, but his love of and dedication to the music comes through in the songs that he wrote and the way that he played. It is his pain I feel when McGowan is so far fucked up he can't even stand.
There's the whisky-drinking, tweed-jacketed Terry Woods, who compared to Finer is a veritable extrovert. For me, and I've no concrete proof to back this up, Woods has something of the sinister about him. He's of a slightly older generation than the rest of the Pogues. He is their distinguished elder statesman. You wouldn't have found him hung out and strung out in London's punk dens in the late seventies. I think he was playing with Planxty then. Woods always struck me as something of a more militant nationalist than the rest. Or at least, if not militant, more firm in his convictions. You might have seen him before if you've seen Ken Loach's brilliant film on Northern Ireland, Hidden Agendas. He's one of the duo that play the rebel song in the IRA pub. "And you dare call me a terrorist down the barrel of your gun," he sings, fittingly to how I perceive him. Woods spent years struggling with McGowan. He wanted more input, more song-writing freedom. He, essentially, wanted to front some of the songs. In my book, there was good reason. If someone forced me to name just one favourite Pogues song, I would go for one that Woods wrote, Young Ned of the Hill. I wouldn't choose it for the strong nationalist sentiment, the venomous but predictable attack on Cromwell, but rather the power with which the song builds, the knowledge of the history and the old traditions, the urgency and passion of the music, and the complete mastery of old Irish poetic conventions on display in the earthy, rousing lyrics.
Have you ever walked the lonesome hills
And heard the curlews cry
Or seen the raven black as night
Upon a windswept sky
To walk the purple heather
And hear the westwind cry
To know that's where the rapparee must die
I'd give Woods the freedom of any city for that song.
(to be continued)
Rationally speaking, I respect Elvis Costello and his band for using their gig in Tokyo last night to play mostly new songs. My mind knows good musicians must constantly create anew.
In my heart, I'm disappointed. This is made worse by how well they played those new songs. What would it have been like to hear songs from Spike or This Year's Model played live? Judging from the stunning version of "I Want You" to finish the gig, "Pump It Up" or "Tramp the Dirt Down" would have been very special.
But don't worry, Elvis. My mind, at least, knows you did the right thing.
This morning over breakfast, the beautiful, unassuming November sun gently lighting the house, I left the TV off and put on Astral Weeks instead. Astral Weeks is an album best served in sunlight. As a reward, I have "The Way that Young Lovers Do" as the song in my head today.
Veteran songwriter and performer Elvis Costello either has a good sense of humor or he doesn't know his upcoming gig in Tokyo is in the Tokyo Welfare Pension Culture Service Center.
I don't think I was born in a bad mood. It probably happened about an hour later.
Being the wallowing misanthropist that I am, I've always maintained that the best chance at forcing happiness on any given day is that in that brief period in the morning before you must come into contact with the rest of the world. And the best way to bring it on is with some carefully chosen music.
I got the music right this morning, twice. The first was Pornography by The Cure over breakfast. Amazing album, even if you never did weird things with your hair. If I was a young music writer, I might say something about the trancelike, slowly building beat being primeval, or almost tribal. Listening to it reminds me I must go out and buy Faith again soon too.
Then on the train, where Tokyoites were doing their usual head-in-the-sands routines, I got it right again, with this song. How about these for lyrics to cheer you up on a crowded Tokyo train of a Thursday morning:
Soho's got the boots
Noho's got the crack
New England's got the foliage
but I ain't going back
Anybody know the band without googling? And if you do, do you remember the band before the band?
I'll give you one clue. It's not Jonathan Richman.
And I'll tell you one more song you could try the next time you're choosing the music: Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.
Three guaranteed fleeting-moment-of-morning-happiness catalysts all in the one post. That's a bargain. Feel free to add your own. If there's one thing I want from other people, it's recommendations for good music.
The genre doesn't matter as long as it's not something Pat listens to. (Note to grammar fiends: There's no way I'm writing "to which Pat listens." I sound too much like Jane Austen as it is.)
I've been starting every day with Al Green's Call Me recently. I haven't been as stuck on the one album since I first heard Nick Cave's only album with real heart, The Boatman's Call, back in 1997.
Call Me was chosen by Rolling Stone Magazine as the 289th best album of all time, but I think it's much, much better than that. This is one of those albums that lifts the soul. And that's as far as I'm prepared to go with the music cliches.
Listened to Galaxy 500 today for the first time in more than seven years, which reminded me I also needed to hunt down a Blue Airplanes album.
Got a copy of The Queen is Dead on Saturday, and Exile on Main Street is being bought for me probably as we speak. Pornography and Faith I'll pick up in Australia, because the Cure only seem to merit greatest hits albums in Japan's CD shops these days.
And I've Closer in mind for the way home, though I might go for Blood on the Tracks or some Badly Drawn Boy instead. Or some Wedding Present. Bizarro, maybe.
iPod is good for you. It makes you remember. And its church is ecumenical: it accepts Belgian crooners and bearded Irish folk singers/piss artists alike.